Creative Writing: "ScapeGoat"

The week had been rather uneventful for Ronald Jenkins.  He was a creature of routine, and he had perfected his to the minute over the past twenty years.

On Monday he had picked up the morning paper, delivered right on his doorstep at precisely 7:30 A.M.  On Tuesday he had gotten his cup of joe at the local stand across the street from his apartment complex at 8:00 A.M.  On Wednesday he took the train in to work and began his morning filing at 9:00 A.M. on the dot.  On Thursday he ordered his usual at his preferred bistro at 12:30 P.M.  And now, on Friday, it was 3:50 P.M., and he had precisely one hour and ten minutes until he left to catch the 5:30 P.M. evening train.

He was employed at one of those businesses where their only Business was to Make Money, and worked at one of those office desks that looked the same as every other.  Everything was Standard Issue: typewriter, stationary, phone line.  He had been there for two decades, and never bothered to put a single personal touch to what he considered his Professional Space.

He was writing up a report for the latest expenditures of the Company when Mr. Smith called him in from the interior of the Corner Office.  He had never been inside the coveted space.  The dark leather chair, low couch, and polished desk made Ronald idly think of entering into the maw of the Beast of Business.  And the Beast himself was Mr. Smith, a pale man just past his prime, with dark, slowly thinning hair.  He gave off the air of someone who had planned on dying in his office long ago.

"Mr. Jenkins," Mr. Smith gave him a curt nod, "Please, come in.  Have a seat."

A bead of sweat dripped down his forehead.  He wasn't nervous, exactly, but the diversion in his Friday pattern disagreed with his sensibilities.

"You have worked here as a faithful employee for twenty years this past Monday, correct?" Mr. Smith asked.

"Yes sir," Mr. Jenkins replied.

"So you consider us here at the Company like family, do you not?"

"Yes sir."

"And you've never moved out of the financial department, is that right?"

"Yes sir."

"So you would be aware of the proper procedure for filling our financial records?"

"Yes sir."

"And you are aware of whom you give our expense reports to at the end of the month?"

"Yes sir."

"And you are aware of the importance of keeping track of these sensitive documents?"

"Yes sir."

"Thank you, Mr. Jenkins.  Then you see why, effective immediately, I must terminate your position at the Company," Mr. Smith informed him, "You have until the end of the day to collect your personal items from your desk.  That is all."

Was the tie around his collar always so tight? He had tied it the same way every Monday through Friday since he was twenty-two years old, and it never felt like it was choking him before.

The rest of the day passed in a daze.  He had been speechless, so Mr. Smith had promptly dismissed him.  A creature of habit, he finished out his normal tasks before turning off his desk lamp at precisely 4:55 P.M.  The only memento he had from the years he spent at that small island was a letter of termination in his breast pocket.

It was only once the doorman held open the shiny brass doors to the Outside World that Mr. Jenkins awoke from his stupor and wondered why his body ached and his hair was grey.  Wasn't he only twenty? What had happened in the gleaming skyscraper was lost to him.

The next day at 7:30 A.M. for the first time since he started his subscription to the Times, the morning headlines remained on his front step.

EXTRA! EXTRA! COMPANY FINANCIAL SCANDAL EXPOSED! SVP RONALD JENKINS EXPOSED AS CORPORATE FRAUD! MILLIONS EMBEZZLED!