Mr. Jones

The picture of his wife still hung from the drab grey pseudo-carpeted wall of his 6x6 cubicle. If only he had a shred of pride he would have taken it down when she left him, but he didn’t. And the familiar face of the one to whom he had devoted what he considered the best years of his life gave him comfort, reassured him that even he once had dreams, ambitions; that life wasn’t always for naught.

Anyway, the busy season had covered her with post-its and flow charts. She was out of sight, out of mind. Funny that he should have stumbled upon her right then, as he slowly removed the colorful, piercing tacks from the papers which had come to define his life, dropping them carelessly into the trash, each one taking with it another layer of his imagined purpose. And then the walls were bare and he found himself staring at the smiling face of his beloved (ex) wife.

The picture was taken on their honeymoon; a secluded beach on the southern shores of the Dominican Republic. She was so young, they both were. Children, really. No sign of the crow’s feet that would later grow from the edges of her eyes or the cracked lips from years of nervous biting. Just that spontaneous, infectious smile. She never lost the smile. Sure, years of worry ravaged most of her poor face, but not that smile.

Since the divorce he realized that the worry was mostly his doing, and was mostly unnecessary. They had plenty of money, a nice home, new cars, but he couldn’t keep himself from imagining that it would one day all come crashing down. He had grown up in a small trailer on the outskirts of a mega-farm; corporately owned and mass-producing. His mother and father both worked as corn huskers, coming home ragged and dirty at the end of long days. They worked themselves to death and never escaped the clutches of poverty. In his heart he believed this was his destiny.

He looked down at his watch and realized he was out of time. He had devoted his entire life to this company and they couldn’t even leave him his dignity. “You’re work has been sub-par, and we have to let you go. You have ten minutes to pack up your belongings.” Sure, he had been a little down since the divorce. And then there was the incident, but it was isolated, and that guy should never have said those things about his (ex) wife. Was it really necessary to have security escort him out?

But it was too late;

“Mr. Jones, it’s time to go.”