SOB

By Wayne Scheer

Samuel Oscar Billings III took pleasure in initialing memos — SOB. Deep lines starting just below both sides of his bottom lip ran down to his chin, creating a frown that looked chiseled. His drooping eyes appeared fortified with heavy sandbags, and the extra twenty pounds in his midsection made him look slightly stooped, like a man considerably older than his forty years. At precisely 7:30 in the morning, he pushed open the front door of the Rinehart Building, ignoring the slow-moving revolving doors. A chill from the blustery December winds followed him as he entered the lobby.

"Cold enough for you this morning?" Luis asked, pushing his floor buffer towards the janitor's closet.

Billings sneered. No time for small talk.

"Be careful, Mr. Billings. The floor might be slippery." What Luis really wanted to say was, "I hope you fall and bust your ass, you fat bastard." Instead, he offered Billings a smile, feeling blood rush to his face.

Billings turned towards the elevators where he poked the "up" button and stood back, expecting the doors to open. When they didn't he punched it twice more and checked his watch. He hated wasting time waiting for a damn elevator.

When the doors finally opened, he stabbed at the button numbered 17 and watched the doors close as two women hurried towards him. A smile almost formed on his lips.

Stepping out of the elevator, he ignored the friendly receptionist, a pretty blond barely out of high school.

"Morning, sir," employees chirped, as they sped by him on the way to their cubicles. He glared until they passed. A young man wearing a blue shirt, red tie and suspenders sipped coffee while reading a cartoon pasted on the outside of a cubicle.

"You work here?" Billings asked.

"Yes, sir," the young man answered. "Steve Collins, Accounting."

"Then get to work," he shouted. The sound reverberated throughout the floor like a stereo suddenly turned on at full volume. Billings ripped the cartoon off the wall and tossed it into a nearby trash can without reading it.

Marching to his office, he rapped three times on Mrs. Cathay's desk to signal his arrival and his morning demand for coffee. The sixty-five year-old woman, looked up from her computer. She saw him as the splitting image of his father, although heavier and twice as mean. When the old man retired, she had agreed to stay on two more years to help the son make the adjustment to CEO. Her time nearly up, she had already made sure her papers were in order with Human Resources. She pitied Molly Pulham, hand-picked by Billings as her replacement. So young and inexperienced.

Where was Molly this morning? She worried the young woman might have quit, although she couldn't blame her.

Mrs. Cathay pushed herself from her desk, poured from the pot labeled "Decaf", added two packets of sugar and enough cream to turn the coffee paper-bag brown. For the past few months, she had been weaning him off caffeine by adding a little decaf to his coffee each morning. He didn't need caffeine, she had decided, and with the sugar and cream, he didn't know the difference. She had to remember to tell Molly her trick.