A Matter of Trust

1 - Meeting Gretta

Arnold Wainright unwrapped the plastic wrap from his sandwich and stared glumly at the bland concoction in his hand. Arnold's life was like his sandwich, or so it seemed to him; a dull, undefined mix of generic components squeezed together, signifying nothing. There was nothing redeeming in the existence he maintained; Arnold was a zero on the scale of those in whose social eddy he swirled away his life. He bit into his sandwich and chewed morosely.

Today was his birthday, and who knew . . . who cared? His parents lived a thousand miles away in a retirement community, having waved goodbye to their only son, leaving him with the parting admonition that he should take his high school education and make something of himself. His father had succeeded on less, and now they were going to enjoy a responsibility free retirement. Unless Arnold made the effort to call them, there was little or no contact. He was a man on his own.

A fusion of plastic meat and pasty bread was washed down with a swallow of two-percent milk and the balance of the sandwich tossed into the wastebasket beneath his desk. The rest of the staff, three women and two men, had gone off to Ginty's Bar as usual; the halfhearted invitation for him to join them no longer observed.

He went to the sink in the corner of the office and rinsed his hands, drying them on a piece of paper towel while he stared out the window. The tinted glass gave back a reflection of a thin figure (he preferred lean), average height (he insisted almost six feet), topped by a longish mop of bedraggled, brown hair that matched the sad brown eyes examining the reflection.

Sighing hugely, he wandered back to his desk and stared vacantly at the copy on his computer screen. A telephone jangled, interrupting the ruminations over his sorry lot, and he walked to his co-worker's desk and answered.

"Cutter and Glimb, may I help you?"

"Gretta Howard."

"I'm sorry she's not in the office at the moment, can I take a message?"

"Is she in the building?"

"I don't believe so, she's at lunch."

"Where does she eat?"

"May I ask who's calling please? She should be back in about an hour,I'd be glad to take a message."

"If I wanted to leave a message, Jack, I would. What I want is for you to tell me where she eats."

Arnold's face pinched, and he waited a beat before replying. "That's something you'll have to ask her-Jack. This is a busy office, so if you don't want to leave a message, call back." He slammed the phone down and stared menacingly at the receiver. "Asshole."

He stalked back to his desk and sat down angrily, frowning at the computer screen, playing the conversation over in his mind, substituting a more barbed retort. The telephone rang again, and he sailed on his chair over to the desk, snatching it up and snapping out a nasty greeting.

"Who's this?"

"Who want's to know?" Arnold was losing control over his annoyance.

"This is Jeffery Glimb, president of the company you seem to have little interest in being employed with."

Arnold choked, his face flaming, "M-Mr. Glimb, I'm terribly sorry. I just- I just got off the phone with- with a very- sir, what can I do sir?"

"You can tell me to whom I am speaking."

"Wainright, sir, Arnold Wainright."

"The copywriter."

"Yessir and may I say-"

"I've just been talking to Harry Starbuck at Reynolds, they want to meet with the ad staff tomorrow first thing to finalize the format . . . they were very pleased with text in the advertisement. That was yours, I presume."

"Uh- uh yes. Yes sir, it was."

"Nice job, Wainright, try to introduce some of that talent into your receptionist skills . . . and by the way, happy birthday." The phone clicked off leaving Arnold talking into dead air, his eyes widening and his mouth dropping in stunned surprise.

Happy birthday! The president of the company wished him a happy birthday! I am noticed, he marveled, dragging his chair back to his desk-and by the president of the company no less. Suddenly the computer screen took on a warm glow, his chest swelled with renewed energy and self esteem, and he attacked the keyboard in a creative frenzy.

******

"What else did he say?" Gretta stood over him, having returned from lunch, her face taught with concern.

"Nothing, I told you. And his delivery was exceptionally rude." Reluctantly, Arnold shifted his eyes from Gretta's trim waist to her face, noticing the strain lines about the corners of her mouth.

"I wish you'd learned his name," she muttered, turning and walking away to her own desk.

"I tried, he just wouldn't say . . ." The statement trailed off as he watched her depart, the flush of his earlier experience compounding with each seductive scissor of her long legs.

"Arny? Hey, Arny boy, too much o' that'll give you high cholesterol." Brad Simms watched him, watching Gretta, with a huge grin.

"I wasn't- I just-"

"Relax pal, our Miss Howard gives all the guys the glug glugs."

"Where the hell did she come from anyway?"

"Heaven?"

"Seriously, stupid. She's been here about a month and she already heads a team doing the Spanish advertising promotion."

"That's why I guess. She's fluent in Spanish and a few other European languages as well, I hear."

"Yeah but where did she come from? What does anyone know about her?"

"I know almost all I want to know," Brad leered.

"Well I don't."

"Arnold, you old lech!"

"It wasn't-"

"Forget it. What's this message about meeting with the Reynolds people?"

"Exactly what it says. Tomorrow morning, first thing, which I presume translates to eighty-thirty."

"What do you think they want?"

It was petty, Arnold knew, but he was going to keep the good news to himself, and tomorrow, take his bows in front of the whole team. They may not be interested in him socially, but they sure couldn't do without his copy writing skills.

"Guess we'll just have to wait and see, Brad."

"Hmmm. Maybe Carolyne knows something about it."

"I doubt it, but you can ask." Arnold smiled inwardly.

© 2004 - lyttlejoe