Short Stories 

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79.

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Bill Bailey registered the number and could have wet himself with happiness. In fact, if he hadn’t practically traded his soul in order to be mind-numbingly perfect at work for the past quarter of the year, he may well have indulged.

The numbers blipped at him in cool green digits from a sleek black indicator on his wrist. 79 points left in his tank and still three hours left in the work day.

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It was a feat unheard of.

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If he did everything right in these last few hours then there was no way Cheryl Daws was going to pip him at the post. Not like Gregor Chimelski did last Quarter. He risked a glance at Cheryl’s cubicle and saw her hunched over the keyboard like a sapling in a gale, obnoxiously punching at it as if there was some sort of correlation between the volume that her fingers stabbed at each letter and her chance of beating him. For a moment he closed his eyes and listened with glee.

Ten minutes ago he’d been less sure of his chances, but five minutes ago she’d made a trip to the bathroom and he’d caught a glimpse of her own indicator on her wrist.

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50 points.

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He’d really tried for a minute or so to not feel quite so smug about it. He remembered the days when he’d also believed that being at work at the end of the Quarter with a tank of 50 points was enough to succeed.

That’s what you get for being young, he thought. Might still have energy and vitality on your side. But what you don’t have is discipline, or a refined sense of effort verses reward.

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Bill had straddled that fine line for most of his life, and had always seemed to come up short when it mattered. He was naturally a hesitant and concerned man, not quite cowardly but also not quite brave. Well, at fifty years old he’d decided he was truly sick of living in the grey. This Quarter his desperation for recognition and reward had seen him finally take the plunge of reckless point allocation. Ninety percent of his daily energy ration had gone into work this Quarter, leaving only ten percent for everything else, and by everything else he meant literally everything else. His relationships, his household obligations, his health. All of it had suffered, but did anyone at Tinsdale’s Corporation of Management Excellence know any of that? Of course not, maybe other than a passing observation that he’d gained a little weight and had a little less hair on his head. He’d taken great pains to ensure they did not know anything of his personal life – that was the whole point (pun intended).

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He’d done his research beforehand of course, absorbing all the articles and podcasts with titles such as; ’10 easy ways to save 10 points each day’, and ‘How to have it all – within your point budget’. Some of these had offered a few helpful tips, such as investing in a meal kit delivery service. Implementing that one had cost a lot of points (and dollars) upfront, but the investment had been worth it when he’d calculated how many points he’d saved by not having to battle the crowds at the supermarket after work, or allocate points towards thinking about what to cook for dinner, let alone the points involved in doing the actual cooking and cleaning up. In fairness, that part still had to be done but Maire had assumed that chore. God Bless her.

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Other tips hadn’t been as useful. PointLife Weekly’s tip of; ‘Catch public transport instead of driving to save up to 3 points worth of concentration a day’ was only true if you weren’t naturally an introvert and didn’t burn points like kindling just by sitting in close proximity to strangers. For Bill, being forced to endure the inane rattle about someone’s new cat, or a grandmother with dementia or whateverelse people astonishingly chose to share in public spaces was far more taxing on him. Not only did he much prefer sitting in traffic in his 1998 Holden Commodore and listening to Vivaldi on his drive in and out every day, but this choice only burned 2 points each day. Over the course of an entire Quarter every single point made a difference and this was something Cheryl clearly didn’t understand.

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He considered his rival and wondered what she’d sacrificed to still have 50 points left at this late stage in the Quarter. He also wondered what she’d been unable to say no to. It was probably something she felt guilty about, or emotional about. She probably had a really exhausting friend who had called her at odd hours and demanded attention and comfort once in a week. Bill had worked hard to cut all those obligations out this Quarter, which had been difficult and unexpectedly emotional, but he’d also worked hard on pushing those emotions away. He could consider them next Quarter. For this Quarter at least he could not be undermined by the energy it cost to feel guilty all the time. It was probably this pragmatism that set him apart from Cheryl right now. Every little point counted.

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Everyone received 1000 points at the start of each Quarter and that was usually enough for most people if your goals were to have average health, an average job and average relationships. It was quite standard for most people to peter into the last evening of the Quarter on 5 or so points and hunker down at home. Food delivery services made a motza and all the best binge-worthy tv shows were made available exclusively on the last night of every Quarter, because everyone was aware that the remaining points were vital for life functions and last minute emergencies. Some thrill seekers were known to hold parties on the last night, trying to time their last point to midnight, just before the top up. It was a stupid thing to do, and people were known to accidentally die at those parties, but there was also no point trying to horde points. If you didn’t use them they didn’t tick over into your bank for the next Quarter.

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Use it or lose it

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Well, the time had now come for Bill to use it.

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He returned to his computer, determined to finish strong today. He couldn’t get distracted now, not when the winner of the raise was being announced tomorrow. He looked at his screen and reviewed the new problem that had just arrived in his inbox. After a moment of consideration he decided to apply fifteen points from his tank towards devising the most intelligent solution. An expensive decision – but an investment. If he started this final problem strong then it would pay dividends later down the track.

He felt the corresponding rush of energy as he watched his indicator tick backwards. 15 points was a lot to expend in one go. He felt his brain sharpen to a fine point, his thoughts were clear and the problem before him suddenly seemed as simple as a child’s block puzzle.

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All he had to do was break it down into four distinct parts. From there he could delegate each part to one of the experts within his team and set three key performance indicators to ensure that the overall objective would be met. Simple. So simple. He knew in his heart that Cheryl would not have been able to come up with a solution like this. Or at least not half so fast.

The rest of the afternoon he spent on his feet. He designated five points to key conversations with each specialist, ensuring he toned the language and delivery of his direction to achieve maximum enthusiasm and responsiveness from each person. He allocated 7 points to the backbrief he gave to his manager, ensuring that he presented himself as focussed, confident and competent. By the afternoon he had a team that was buzzing with enthusiasm for the challenge that lay ahead. As he supervised them he continually reached into his pool of points, drip feeding them into the collaborative space. He was jovial, witty, a wonderful listener and able to clearly give directions and receive feedback. He felt like he was high. 57 points expended within two hours. It was a feat almost unheard of. It was more than most people spent in three days, absolute point gluttony. But Bill had done the maths at the start of the Quarter to enable this last push to the finish line.

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None of this was luck.

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The day drew to a close and Bill used one point to ensure he said goodbye to everyone in a meaningful way and he also made some small talk to the receptionist on night duty, ensuring he was seen doing so by the Executives as they were leaving. He had 22 points left. It would take at least 2 to drive home safely, but 20 points in the bank were surely enough to both appease Maire and the kids for the evening. In fact, compared to the few months he’d just spent giving his family not a single point more than absolutely necessary, this would feel like Christmas had come early. Perhaps he’d even cook tonight, give Maire the night off!

Maire. His long suffering wife. She hadn’t wanted him to do this, had claimed she was content with their lives as they were. In fact, she’d begged him not to do it. But for once in his life, he’d ignored her. He’d needed this. Needed to prove to himself, to everyone that for once in his life he could beat the rat race, that it wouldn’t always feel like he was walking around with its claws in his back, forcing him back day after day into this cubicle shaped prison just so that Ella and Jesse could have the latest iphones and people like Cheryl Daws could smile at him with condescension when they saw his car.

His phone suddenly vibrated in his pocket and he pulled it out, smiling when he saw the name and message flash upon the screen. It was as if Maire had known he was thinking about her – for the first time in eighteen weeks.

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“I can’t wait. I love you. I’ll see you tonight”.

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What did that mean?

He opened the app to ask her when suddenly, the message disappeared and was replaced with a notice that said, ‘This message has been deleted by the sender’.

Bill frowned in confusion but waited as he watched the three blue dots bouncing on his screen. Maire was typing something new.

‘Sorry, sent it to the wrong person’.

‘No worries’.

It was a lie. He had worries.

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‘I’ll see you tonight,’ the text had said. ‘I love you,’ the text had said.

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A creeping finger of cold slowly drew an icy line down his spine as the deleted words spun around and around in his mind. He didn’t know exactly what they meant, or the implication, but he suddenly knew with striking clarity that he had to get home – immediately.

He charged to the elevator and frantically smashed the ground floor button, his car tyres screeching like violins as he sped out the company garage that he paid $46 a day to park in for the privilege of arriving without a drop of weather or sweat upon his immaculate collar each morning.

He ransacked his memory as he drove, replaying the morning in his mind, searching for clues, but it ran like a stuttering VHS, and was more frustrating than useful.

‘BONG, BONG, BONG’ his obnoxious alarm clock had honked in the morning while it was still dark outside. He couldn’t remember if Maire had been in bed with him. Hadn’t thought to look, to check on her, or even to turn the alarm off quickly and let her sleep… ‘BONG, BONG, BONG’. He’d rolled into his neatly pressed shirt and trousers. Breakfast and coffee had been on the table for him. Or at least, a cereal bowl and a coffee mug had sat on the wooden table in the kitchen. Had anything been in them? He couldn’t remember the taste. He couldn’t remember.

Had Maire been around? He didn’t remember seeing her, didn’t remember talking to her. Had she even been there? His sole focus had been on not expending a single point in the slog that was the morning routine.

‘BONG, BONG, BONG’. That blasted alarm, hadn’t someone turned it off?

 He remembered hearing the kids when they got up. Remembered them being so loud, possibly one of them had been crying? Wait. Had that been today? Or yesterday? Or maybe it was a memory from last week? It was infuriating. Trying to pinpoint the memory of this morning was like trying to peer through a thick hedge to see images on the other side. He could see glimpses but the whole picture illuded him. He hadn’t paid the points to have attention at the time, so his brain didn’t have the answers for him now.

Something had happened though. He dimly remembered there had been a loud noise. Was it a dropped pan? A slammed door? A scream? Why was there another murky figure forming in the deep recesses of his subconscious? The shadow of a man lurking in the corner of the hallway, trying to blend in with the coat rack? Or perhaps merely a coat? He shook his head in frustration. His mind refused to provide the answers he needed. He pushed his foot down on the accelerator. Something was wrong at home, wrong with Maire, perhaps an intruder in their house, and he finally had the points left in his tank to allow himself to care.

When he arrived on the front porch at dusk, the house sat quiet before him like a tomb. Lightless and lifeless. How many evenings had he come home this Quarter and it had been like this?

He didn’t know. It could have been weeks, months even.

Where were the kids? Where was Maire?

He looked down at his tank.

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11.

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His heart almost skipped a beat. The stress of his ruminating brain had caused his tank to deplete exponentially fast. Only 11 points left.

He pushed open the front door. Inside the air was still and stale, as though no one had disturbed it in a very long time.

He decided to try call Maire but the call went through to voice mail twice. He did not leave a message.

There was dust on everything, all over the kitchen table where an empty cereal bowl and coffee mug sat, the tv, his toothbrush... The house looked like it had been abandoned for months. Impossible. He’d been here this morning. They’d all been here this morning. Hadn’t they?

His heart was pounding, his brow brimming with sweat and he ran up the stairs to the second floor searching for anyone, anything that would explain why all his children’s clothes were missing and the dog was lying dead in the backyard – ribs poking through his thin skin.

 

10 points.

 

No one had been here in… months. Was this even his house?

In the master bedroom, on his side of the bed was a small folded note. He reached for it with a trembling hand.

‘Bill,’ it read. ‘In part it’s my fault, but it’s more yours. We’re going. Please feed the dog’.

 

5 points.

 

Not enough to go looking for her, barely even enough to indulge himself in worrying or being angry at her all night. That would have to wait until tomorrow. Tomorrow…when he got his raise.

He barely had enough energy left to go downstairs and flop himself onto the couch. A puff of dust rose. How was that possible? Had he literally come home every night and touched nothing? Done nothing but sleep and eat…for months?

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3

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He turned on the t.v. in a desperate effort to turn off his brain, deliberately focussing inwards and trying to slow his racing heart. He may not even make it to the bed at this point.

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2

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May not even make it to tomorrow at this point.

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1

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He thought of Cheryl Daws’ grinning face.