Fiction
On the Edge

By Gregg E. Brickman

I sit in my living room, listening to my dog barking in the yard, wondering what will become of him.  Will he meet an end similar to mine?  I hope it will be better, gentler.  The placement of my beloved dog won’t be my decision to make.  At least that much I’ve decided.  I know it sounds cruel, but one product of powerlessness, I believe, is indecision—the other is rage.

Thinking back, even that day at the gun show I was indecisive.  I’m sure the salesman wondered what I wanted with such a gun.  When I entered the Super Marksman booth at the Convention Center, I said, “I’ve come to buy something inexpensive, efficient, effective.”  Words often used to describe me.

“To protect myself,” I said.  “You know how the world is.”  The exquisite lines of the small gun caught my eye and I pointed to it.

The salesman sold me on the power of the 351PD.  I thought it fitting.  Expensive, yes.  I’m worth it, I thought.

For now, the revolver isn’t loaded, though an unopened box of .22 Magnum cartridges sits on the glass-topped end table next to a crystal candy dish.  I pick up the soft cloth from the cleaning kit the salesman included as a bonus, take my time removing the smudges from the smooth black finish, then lay the gun next to the ammunition.

The first day I started my new job, I was filled with hope, drunk on the possibilities.  Though the position wasn’t what I wanted or deserved, I was sure things would work out.

Arthur, my supervisor, said, “Start here, Nick.  When the time is right, we’ll move you into a permanent position.  You know how it is.  We have quotas.  You’ve been selling for us as an independent for a long time, and we know you’re a good man.  Eventually, we’ll work you in.  You’ll get that insurance you need immediately.”

And work me in, they did.  Even as I struggled to learn the system, Arthur gave me an expanded territory and longer hours.  I did get insurance benefits for my wife and me and a regular paycheck—at least for a while.

Late one afternoon about six months into my employment, I stopped by the office to upload my orders.  “Arthur,” I said, “when do you think my position will come through?  I met the new salesman in the South district.  She was telling me about all the great benefits she gets as a regular employee.”

Arthur frowned.  “I told you we have to fit you in.  You have all the benefits of a permanent employee, all but travel reimbursement and pension.”

“And that raise everyone got but me?”

“I’m working on that.”  Arthur turned to his pile of paperwork.  “When I hired you, I explained how it is.”

“Sure thing,” I said.  “I don’t think I understand this whole quota system.  Maybe you can speed things up for me.”

He looked up from his green bar paper.  “I’ll try.  I appreciate the job you’re doing.  Everyone does.  The customers like you.  Everyone likes you.”

“Thanks.”  I disconnected my handheld computer from the sync station and stuffed it into my brief case.  Tomorrow, I would transmit my orders by modem and save myself the frustration of coming to the office.  Funny, I thought, I’ve never seen Arthur doing anything on my behalf.

When I got home, my lovely wife, Diane, met me at the door.  “Sweetie,” she said in her throaty voice, made deeper by her illness, “what did Arthur say about the raise?”

“He didn’t say anything except that he’s working on it.”  I wrapped my arms around her thin shoulders, burying my face in her hair.

“Did he say if you’d get your raise retroactively?  That’s what they did at my job.”

I had once been a highly paid and successful sales manager in a company similar to Coopersmith Enterprises, Inc., but the competition bought out the business, and my position disappeared.  Our changed circumstances forced Diane to take a position as a legal secretary for a large firm downtown.  They provided generous benefits, making it possible for me to be self-employed without the cost of insurance.  It helped me to maintain my dignity—being self-employed.

When Diane could no longer tolerate the long days, they reduced her schedule but maintained her coverage.  Later, she was unable to keep regular hours and had to quit.  That was what provoked my approaching Coopersmith about going on the payroll.  Money was tight.  We lived on one income from which high deductions were taken.

I guided Diane to the sofa and sat down beside her.  “This isn’t like your job, honey.  Coopersmith has been in big trouble for discrimination.  They have to be proactive in finding and hiring women.”

“Nick, it sounds like you’re quoting a management memo.  What does it mean?”

“Arthur said that if a woman meets the minimum qualifications, she’s in.”

“That’s not fair.”  Tears welled in her eyes.  “You have years of experience.  With your background, you could easily do Arthur’s job.  A woman should only have preferred status if she’s equally qualified.”

“I suppose.  But the feeling is—Arthur says—that women haven’t had the chance to get the experience.  He claims he can’t do anything about it.  The decisions are made in Nashville.”

“Maybe you should look for something else.”

“Yes, I’ll do that.”

I started a job search the next day, but we couldn’t relocate.  When we started with the company insurance program, I learned that as a temporary employee only the HMO benefits were available to me.  I didn’t have the option of converting to the more flexible plan.  Diane had changed physicians once, interrupting her chemotherapy and setting back her treatment.  I didn’t want that to happen again.  I buckled down and accepted a larger workload in hopes of garnering the admiration of higher-ups.

As my first anniversary came and went with the same working-on-it promises, I had lunch with one of the men from the South district.  He was ecstatic about his new permanent status.

After he regaled me with the details of his new company car, notebook computer, and sales contest trip, he slapped me on the shoulder and said, “Hang in there, Nick.  You’ll be permanent.  Everyone says you’re doing a wonderful job.  It’s just that Arthur never takes a stand.”

I made it a point of stopping by the sales office that evening to link into the mainframe.  As usual, Arthur was peering at a stack of reports, brows knitted, and beefy cheeks puffed out.  I decided to approach him anyway.

After I repeated some of the luncheon conversation, Arthur interrupted me.  “I’m working on it.  The sales manager from South has an in with Nashville, and he’s pushy.  Besides that, he already has over fifty-percent women on his sales force.”

“Maybe I can transfer.”

“No, I couldn’t approve that.  You’re my best salesman.  You have the highest sales volume.”

“Then why didn’t I get the sales award for the Central district?  It went to Sarah Walsh,” I said, struggling to contain my anger.

“Temporary salesmen aren’t eligible for the award.  You know how it is—policy.  I have no control.  Really.”

In the back of my mind, I heard my mother’s voice telling me to restrain myself.  I retreated to one of the cubicles temporary salespeople share.  There I sat with frustration boiling inside of me.  After I simmered down, I slipped out the back stairs.  I stopped by the Gun Show International on the way home and bought the 351PD.

The next morning as I logged onto my notebook computer, I saw a message from Arthur.  The email explained that Sarah Walsh was having a problem, and could I, please, pick up the loose ends and see three of her customers.

I slammed my fist into my desk, sending the dog scurrying from the room.  That’s a fine recommendation for the top salesperson, I thought, asking the lowly temp to cover her job.  Rubbing my fist to soothe the sting, I picked up my schedule and jotted the extra commissions in the margin.  At least Arthur was good about giving me a chance to make extra money.  I added the customers to my route.

When I bent down to kiss Diane goodbye, I said, “I’ll be a little late today, baby.  New clients.”

“That’s good.  We need the money.”  She reached for my hand and pulled herself up.

Diane patted the bed, and I sat down beside her, covering her hand with mine.

“As soon as I get the energy to get out of this bed, I’ll give Jillian a call.  She said she‘d take me for my chemo so I don’t have to drive when I’m feeling sick.  I’ll probably be sleeping by the time you get home.” 

“I’ll hurry.  I don’t like it when you’re sick and alone.”

Jillian called me on my cell phone as I finished my last appointment.  “Diane is in the hospital.  She had a reaction to the therapy.”

“What happened?”

“She was going into shock, but the doctor gave her a bunch of medicine and a sedative.  She’s comfortable.”

I put the key in the ignition of my three-year-old Toyota and glanced at the 150,416 miles on the odometer.  “I’m about an hour away.  I’ll go directly to the hospital.”

“Nick, there is something else you need to know.”

“What’s that?”

“Diane doesn’t have any insurance coverage.  When we gave the admissions clerk the card, she came back and said the coverage expired a few days ago.”

“Lord help me,” I said.  “I’m on my way.  Tell her I’m coming, and I’ll fix it.”

I punched the office number into my cell phone, hoping to get Arthur at his desk.  When he didn’t answer, I left a curt message and then called his cell.

Arthur answered with, “Nick, what’s happening?”

“A lot,” I snapped.  “Where are you?”

“At dinner with my wife and kids.  Did you see those new customers?”

“I did.”  I paused.  “We need to talk.  Diane is in the hospital.  While she was being admitted, she found out we don’t have any insurance coverage.”

“That’s odd.  I know I sent the papers through last month.  We have to resubmit our temporary sales force every six months.  I’ll check tomorrow.  You’d better call the benefits office first thing in the morning and see what you can find out.”

Several days later—it took that long for someone at headquarters to return my urgent calls—I sat next to my beloved wife’s bed in the ICU, holding her motionless hand and willing her to awaken one more time from her coma.

A cheerless sounding young lady from the benefits office said, “Gee, Mr. Steed, it’s not our fault, you know.  The district sales managers are suppose to get those papers in earlier.  You know, your action form sat on the VP’s desk during vacation, and we didn’t get it into the system.  You temporary folks should really check on your benefits at each renewal period, you know.”

“No, I don’t know.  No one ever told me that—or that life begins anew every six months.”

“You know, Mr. Steed, that’s not our fault.  You’ll need to talk to your sales manager, ah, Arthur Cransome.”

“Can I be reinstated today?  My wife is in the hospital.  I need the insurance.”

“Hold on.”  I heard the smacking of gum and then her hand covering the mouthpiece.  After a few seconds of mumbling, a click left me in silence.

I waited, afraid to hang up.  Ten minutes later, a voice came on the line.  “This is Kimberly Johnson.  I’m the benefits manager.  How can I help you, Mr. Steed?”

“By reinstating my benefits retroactively to when they were cut off.  I have been continuously employed.”

“Oh, I can’t do that, sir.  The premiums haven’t been deducted.  You should have noticed that and called us sooner.  Since you’re a temp, when we didn’t get the renewal forms, we deleted you from the system.  You’ll be picked up again on the first of the month. 

“My wife is in ICU now.  I can only imagine the cost.  This is wrong, all wrong,” I yelled at the corporate puppet.  “Our savings will be gone.”

“Mr. Steed, please quit yelling, or I won’t continue this conversation.  It isn’t our fault.  The policy is that we don’t make insurance retroactive.  You need to take up the issue with your sales manager.”

“Can he do something—get special approval to have me reinstated?” I asked, struggling to control my anger, trying to sound reasonable.

She continued, “Also, you need to know that when you drop the coverage and then restart it, the preexisting clause applies.  I don’t think your wife’s illness will be covered in any event.”

I pushed the disconnect button without saying anything more.  Tears of frustration, exhaustion, and rage filled my eyes.  A kind nurse laid a comforting hand on my shoulder.

Diane died without waking up, without knowing that we were financially devastated or that I was powerless to prevent it.

I look around my living room and think about Arthur, the company drudge, and about the policy makers, safely hidden away in a glass and steel fortress in Nashville.  Enraged at the unfairness of it all and indecisive about what to do next, I pick up the Smith & Wesson and reach for the ammunition.

Author Bio
Gregg E. Brickman was born the daughter of a North Dakota newspaperman.  After moving to Florida, she pursued a nursing career that keeps her in intimate contact with life's most personal dramas and gives her a somewhat cynical view of the human condition.  She is active in the Mystery Writers of America – Florida.  Credits include Illegally Dead (Pendulum Press, Fall, 2004) and Chapter 14 of Naked Came the Flamingo, a Murder on the Beach progressive novella edited by Barbara Parker and Joan Mickelson (March, 2004).  Gregg lives in Coral Springs with her husband and teaches nursing at Broward Community College.