SERIES
My Name is Mr. Anger
Fiction — part 5
About series: This is the story of violence, a story so old it is in our very blood. And while a few of our sisters feel its pull, for many of us born to the Y chromosome, a violent act lies just beneath the surface, ready to hand like sword and shield. Read part one first.
10. SALES
“The novice cannot pass through these layers of increasing intensity of danger without sensing that here ideas are governed by other factors, that the light of reason is refracted in a quite different way from that which is normal in academic speculation” (Carl von Clausewitz, On War, 1832)
“I don’t trust a word out of that Henry Clarke,” said Heather, shaking her head at the screen.
Heather like many others had tuned in after dinner for the Today/Tonight show to hear the discussion on the government’s controversial STOP pilot. Some of the things she’d read about it in her feed on Facebook were getting downright worrying.
“Why watch it then,” said Brandon sitting on the couch beside his wife, feet up on the leather pouf, staring at his laptop.
“Aren’t you worried about STOP?” Heather turned to her husband, reaching for her cup of tea.
“What’s STOP?” Brandon asked but didn’t look up, continuing to skim-read the report he was trying to wrap his head around.
“You’re kidding right?”
Brandon turned to look at his wife, quickly eyeballing the TV opposite them — clocked the show — and turned to look back at Heather. She was wearing that who am I married to? look. And he thought but didn’t say, the one who pays the bills, love.
“I don’t watch the news, you know that,” he replied. Smiling he closed his laptop adding “OK, what is it?”
“Well STOP stands for Stronger Together Outreach Plan–”
“That doesn’t even mean anything. So why is it important?” cut in Brandon.
“They say that it will stop violence in society–”
“Stop the violence!” Brandon cut in again. “Ha! And what evidence are they touting?”
Heather placed her tea cup back down on the side table, and stared hard at Brandon “Are you going to let me answer you? You never let me finish. Its–”
“That’s not true!” Brandon added.
“You just did it!”
At that moment, Brandon’s mobile, perched on the arm of the sofa began to ring. Brandon instinctively picked it up and then showed the screen to Heather. It said Jerry (Boss), the mobile ring tone becoming insistent.
Heather slouched, twisting to her side, and turned back to the television.
Brandon sighed, heaved himself up, and answered the call.
“Evening Jerry” he started, exiting the room and stepping into their cluttered kitchen. He could well imagine why his boss was calling him.
Jerry ‘The Rocket’ Henderson, was Head of Business Development in Defence Solutions at EAB Securities where Brandon worked. And while Brandon fulfilled a range of roles in his job, right now he was going to be, a PowerPoint designer again.
“It’s Heather Jerry. But yes, she’s well.” Yep, he wants something, thought Brandon. Jerry always asked about people’s partners before he asked for something. Or sold them something. He was at least predictable.
“I thought you were going Thursday?” And then after a pause, “You’re at the airport now?”
Brandon opened up his laptop and started firing up the presentation he’d been working on with the team. He knew where this was going.
“Which slides Jerry?”
“Jerry it’s OK,” Brandon gave a forced and practiced chuckle. “You’re the one who’s going to have to play golf with them.” Brandon thanked the Gods again he didn’t play golf.
Jerry would do anything to move the sales pitch out of the office and into just about anywhere else: golf course, squash court, or airport first-class lounge. Jerry was old school through and through. He’d been selling military hardware all over the world for twenty-plus years and he brought in the deals. EAB loved him. He was solid gold to the bigwigs.
“What? When you say you want it bigger, d’you mean–” Jerry stared hard at the flat graphic of the stats he’d spent hours working up in Tableau.
“I can’t just make it–”
“No, I understand that Jerry. It’s just that the ballistic error modeling is that.” Brandon pushed the mute button. “Fuck!” Brandon couldn’t believe where Jerry was going.
“What?” Heather called out from the living room.
“Nothing hun,” and he unmuted the phone after a long slow breath. “Jerry” Brandon began and spoke slowly so Jerry could follow him, “I can’t just change the lethality numbers like that. The AMPVs are firing 120 mm mortar rounds in a suburban domain Jerry. It’s not a tank but they are still civilians!”
I have a Ph.D. in bloody Middle Eastern Economics, Brandon reminded himself. And he wants me to–
Brandon paused, listening to Jerry.
“Oh, OK, you don’t mean to change the actual numbers, just the size they appear on the slide.”
Brandon felt a little foolish.
“Well yes it is a screenshot from Tableau” he began. “But, but no, you can’t just cut and paste the numbers, its, PowerPoint and….No, no, Jerry it’s fine. I can sort this.”
OK I can do that, thought Brandon. It’ll be a right pain, but fuck it. Brandon thought he’d wanted him to change the actual numbers. It was Jerry after all.
“No worries Jerry. By the time you land, it’ll be sorted. What? You want…?”
Brandon tilted his head at the screen and flicked through the slides of the presentation. “Pictures of women? Not soldiers, but civilian women. Well, how many? I guess so. OK, go get on your flight. Bye.”
Brandon hung up and stared at the presentation slide on his screen. A bit bloody odd at the end there.
“Er, Brandon, you really should come and look at this!”
“I gotta work hun. It’s a–” he trailed off. He began to copy and paste numbers one at a time from one piece of software to the other on the screen. This will take bloody hours! I need a beer.
Brandon stood and stretched, and put his head round the door to the living room.
“I’m getting myself a beer. Do you want–”
Brandon paused, staring at the television. “What the hell are they doing?!”
Heather was sitting up on the couch, hunched over her legs, staring intently. She reached out a hand and gripped Brandon’s arm.
“That’s what I was telling you!” Heather replied, her voice breathless. “Look at them. Everyone is fighting! They’re all going nuts.”
On the screen, two men in suits rolled across the floor, and several other men kicked at them. Again and again.
END
Author’s notes: whatever you are going through, there’s someone willing to listen. If not a friend or family member, then a local organization. In the UK, we have the Samaritans.
My Name is Mr. Anger series parts:
Part 1 — boys will be boys
Part 2 — Professor Barbara Tuesday offers a solution
Part 3 — a not-so-chance encounter
Part 4 — a TV panel show makes fireworks
Part 5 — presenting the facts
