12.07.05

In Toronto, Chuck’s day was simply getting worse. He returned to the sparse, ascetic condo he shared with his girlfriend after grabbing some beer. The white, plain vista of his living room offered no comfort. The couch was not a place to lie down on, but a piece to be admired. The chairs were equally uncomfortable, and besides, there was little on the television of interest. He looked guiltily at his computer, knowing that it was a direct line to another job, and forced himself to get up and get a move on. Right after grabbing himself a beer. He broke two bottles of beer, before finally getting one open. Upon opening that bottle, he promptly spilled it on his computer keyboard. It was still slightly usable, if one didn’t need to use the letters E and C, any numbers, or the enter button. He was still able to use his mouse effectively, if futilely. No amount of searching would uncover jobs that were applicable to his field. It was not a good time for marketers. He tried to cheer himself with the thought that even if he found anything, he couldn’t apply using his computer the way it was, so perhaps it was a blessing. He resigned himself to a long day spent at the E.I. office tomorrow, and swallowed the last of his fourth bottle but first beer. Then Melissa came home.

The first words out of her mouth as she crashed through the door was “Shit, what happened in here? It smells like a brewery. Why are you drinking on a Wednesday anyhow?” Melissa was tall, almost recklessly so. Her jet black hair framed her proud Balkan features, the centerpiece of which was a shocking red well formed pair of lips. She was smashing, and knew it. Dressed in layers of black she moved not so much like a person as a hurricane, disrupting everything in her path, noticing nothing.

“Hey baby.” Chuck got up from the desk. “I thought I would have a celebratory drink.” He smiled sheepishly.
Melissa eyed him suspiciously. “What are you celebrating? What happened?”

Chuck glanced around the room, not making eye contact. “Well, the great news is, you see, I am freed from that stupid job. I can do something better with my time now.” He forced both a smile and glance in her direction. “I was fired today.”

“What?” Melissa frowned at him, not fully comprehending.

“I was fired today. I lost my job. I fucked up one too many times. But it totally wasn’t my fault. You know that dick Phil McNeil? He totally screwed me.”

“You lost your job.” Melissa looked at him blankly.

“Yes.”

“You are unemployed?”

“For the time being.”

“You have no job, you are without gainful employment? You are no longer working? This is what I am supposed to understand from you? This is your meaning to me?”

Chuck walked over to the fridge and pulled out another beer. This one opened without incident. He arranged his face into a semblance of a smile.

“Yes. I am not working. I was fired by McBride himself.” Chuck was not sure if that constituted good news or not, but he was nevertheless happy that it was not an underling that fired him. That was of some comfort to him. Small, small comfort.

“What will you do now?” asked Melissa. “How will you live?”

“Well, we have some money saved, and I have enough time at the job that I can go on Employment Insurance. I have already started to look for a new job.” Chuck sounded upbeat. “Besides, I hated that place! Working for The Reverberations Group was such a dead end for me. I should be at a Fortune 500 company, something like that.” Melissa considered his words, the traces of a frown still lining her face. She threw off her coat, and crossed the room with few steps. She stroked Chuck’s face, almost gently.

“You do deserve a better job. I never understood what kept you there.” She kicked off her boots, sending them crashing back against the doorway. “Get me a beer, and we will order some dinner. Tomorrow you shall find work again. There will be no problems. Will there, Chuck?” She smiled sweetly at him. Chuck smiled back, confidently.
“No problems at all, Melissa. No problems at all.”

Robert was not having a very good day either. While Charlie had kept the park immaculate in every way, his fastidiousness apparently did not extend to his filing system. His small trailer was simple and neat, with few decorations adorning the walls, and plain wooden furniture. The only nod to comfort and style were Charlie’s overstuffed Lay-Z-Boy chair, and antique radio. While most people would have set up their chairs to face a television, Charlie’s looked out of his back window, the southerly exposure facing a woodlot that abutted the trailer park. The small forest still was glorious in the late fall, oak, maple and elm trees competing with one another to discover which of them could display the richest red, the most vibrant yellow, or the most astonishing orange. The conifers looked on stoically, their dark greens providing a somber contrast to their more flamboyant deciduous kin. A reach away from Charlie’s chair was his radio, a beautiful wooden antique that would have sold for a small fortune on eBay. Robert leaned over and flipped it on. The hum of ancient tubes warming up filled the trailer, replaced quickly by the unmistakable sonic texture of CBC radio, reporting on the daily lives of small to medium town Canada. Robert looked around the trailer and set to work, looking for a will. On aching bended knee, Robert pulled box after box out from under Charlie’s sagging single bed. Hours passed, a flurry of dusty paper passed through Robert’s hands, his eyes read thousands of words, numbers, and combinations thereof. He had sorted through boxes of files, receipts, papers, and the assorted accumulation of a life, without finding anything remotely resembling a will. No documents existed that indicated what Charlie’s last wishes were. Nothing pointed to any lawyer, notary, safety deposit box, or numbered account that might contain some clue. Robert pulled box after dusty box from under Charlie’s bed, and found not a single scrap of paper that was useful to him. He was ready to give up, when he decided to sort through the closet.

Although mostly filled with Charlie’s comfortable, well worn clothing, the upper shelf had some papers, receipts mostly. On the top shelf was a shoebox wrapped in duct tape, marked “Charles Mitchell”. Robert pulled it down, and carefully cut the tape off with his pen knife. Robert was not at all prepared for what he found there. On top was a birth announcement from the early 70’s, indicating the birth of a baby boy in Toronto. Further digging by Robert uncovered photos, cards, and a photocopy of the Registration of Birth. Robert was amazed to see Charlie’s name listed as the father. Apparently, Charlie had a son. He had a son who, according to the most recent card, lived in Toronto. Robert was puzzled.

Why on earth had Charlie never mentioned a son? Robert considered sadly that he was getting to know his friend better in death than he had in life. Still, this was could be good news. Even if Charlie had died intestate, the property he owned would probably go directly to his child. That was worth smiling about. Malcolm would not be able to sink his claws into this land. Robert dusted off his hands, and went in search of a Toronto area phone book.