In Laymon's Terms

Then he got up and stumbled to the bathroom. The dawn streaked the sky with pink and purple bands of light. He flipped the light switch, and the harsh fluorescent bulbs popped and hummed before they flared with their greenish white light. A thirtyish, balding man with a nondescript face stared back at him from the mirror. His skin was gray and his eyes ringed with shadows—a side effect of stress-induced insomnia. His body was soft and paunchy. He saw a corporate drone that worked twelve-hour days for a soulless conglomerate that barely knew he existed, and did slave labor for a supervisor who chewed on his ass just for fun. He hadn’t had a date in eight months, and the woman of his dreams barely acknowledged his existence.

“What the hell have I got to lose?” he said to himself, frowning at his reflection. “Man, I am fucking sick and tired of waking up at three in the goddamn a.m. I am sick of chewing antacids like they’re breath mints. I’m sick of that asswipe Witkowski. And most of all I want Beth to...” He sighed. “I just want Beth.”

He wandered out into his dreary apartment and rummaged around until he found a pen and a legal pad. He put them on the kitchen table, poured himself a bowl of cornflakes, and began to write.

“Okay, Mr. Preacher Man, let’s see what you can do.” He wrote down everything he wanted—from the material to the carnal—and wrote out a check to Paul Swann, Inc. for a thousand dollars. Then, before he could think too much about it, he showered, shaved and dressed, and dropped the letter and the check into the mailbox on his way to work.

“Well, Davis, there goes your hard-earned money. Might as well have bought beer with it—then you’d have at least enjoyed pissing it away.” He shook his head at his own idiocy. Still, a sense of expectation filled him. He got into his ten-year-old Honda Civic and turned up the radio. “Hotel California” was playing, and Ernie sang along with Don Henley:

“You can check out anytime you like

But you can never leave.”

In spite of his early start, the morning’s commute was even worse than usual. Along with the roads choked with trucks and school buses picking up kids, there was the added attraction of an accident on the expressway. Ernie was ten minutes late for work by the time he pulled into the parking lot of Bardwell Foods Corporation. He had to park at the far end of the lot and sprint through the rows and rows of cars toward the employees’ entrance. The security guard didn’t even look at him as he threw the door open and ran, gasping as he took the stairs up to the Customer Service Department.

He pushed open the door, hoping to slide unnoticed into his cubicle. But Witkowski was waiting for him.

“Glad you could join us, Davis,” he said with a sneer.

The Reverend’s voice echoed in Ernie’s head. You can have it all, right now, Ernie...

Two weeks passed, and nothing much changed. Witkowski was still an asshole, and Ernie still went home alone every night to his ugly little apartment. He searched for the Reverend Swann on early morning TV once or twice when he couldn’t sleep but never found the program again. He told himself he’d been monumentally stupid and tried to forget the whole thing. Yet, the feeling that something was about to change persisted.

One morning, late again, he tiptoed through the maze of beige cloth cubicles that made up the Customer Service Department, expecting to hear Witkowski bellowing for him at any moment. As he approached his own cramped cube, he saw the CEO of Bardwell Foods—Walter E. Bardwell himself—standing by his cubicle. Ernie had never seen Bardwell and recognized him only by photos he’d seen in the glossy business magazines. Witkowski stood next to Bardwell. Ernie noticed that Witkowski looked very unhappy. His face was pasty, nearly green, and he was sweating profusely.

Oh God, I’m fired, Ernie thought. I must have screwed up totally and now I’m roadkill.

“Can I help you with something, sirs?” he asked, his voice trembling.

“Ernest Davis? Walt Bardwell.” Walter extended his hand, and a dumbfounded Ernie shook it. “I’ve been hearing about what a great job you’ve been doing for the company, so I decided to come and congratulate you personally.”

“Thank you, sir. Congratulate me for what, sir?”

Bardwell grinned, his teeth large and white. He reminded Ernie of a shark, pitiless and cold-blooded. “Why, Ernie, we’ve decided to offer you the position of Customer Service Manager for the Northeast.” Bardwell gave Witkowski a look that could have withered a saguaro. “It was brought to my attention that Witkowski here has been taking credit for your hard work and brilliant ideas, Ernie—may I call you Ernie?”

Witkowski’s face crumpled like a baby’s. Ernie nodded, too stunned to speak. Bardwell handed him an envelope.