A Sorry Episode

The phone had been ringing for some time in the spacious, immaculately designed riverside offices of Edgar James Johnston Esq. The silver-haired, self-proclaimed prophet of modern conceptual architecture was himself nowhere to be seen, and the receptionist, a young woman with a serious face hidden behind thick prescription glasses, was finishing her cigarette out on the balcony. She quickly ran back inside to answer it.

- Edgar James Johnson’s, Ellen speaking.

Ellen was a little overqualified for her position, having recently completed her PhD in structural engineering, but she had turned down more prestigious, better paid offers to work there. Her apprenticeship at E.J’s was all part of a carefully conceived master plan, an invisible blueprint of a life she had already mapped out for herself in perfect detail. Like everyone around her, she had arrived hoping that some of E.J’s talent would rub off on her, and even if that meant he bawled her out occasionally, it would be worth it. That, at least, had been the plan. The reality was proving depressingly different.

- Ellen? Give me E.J. And don’t dick me around. I want to talk to him, okay?

The voice was angry, impatient, and American. She recognised it immediately.

- He’s in a meeting at present. Who may I say is calling?

- You know who it is, Ellen. It’s me. Larry. Fox. I’m at the airport. Tell him I’m coming over. That oughta shake him up a bit.

- Hold please.

- That’s right.

Ellen punched a button, took a deep breath, and held it, unsure of what to do next. She had brushed Larry off many times before, but now it seemed things were coming to a head. In a way, it was inevitable. Everyone working there knew that Larry was waiting for designs E.J. was supposed to have finished months ago, and everyone also knew that E.J. hadn’t even started them yet. They were under strict orders to keep silent about the whole affair in the vain hope that it would, miraculously, just go away.

The whispers had spread through the office like wildfire. E.J. was finished. Lost in the throes of an ugly divorce, he hadn’t produced a workable design in months. Privately he told friends he believed his most treasured gift from the great funky Lord, his creativity, to be irrevocably shattered. He had fallen hard into a black funk, and there seemed to be no coming back. Although he still reported for work, he refused to take part in any business, wouldn’t take phone calls, and spent most of his time locked in his office, drinking beer and watching the Discovery channel, reeking of indignant defeat.

And now Larry had had enough. Ellen was already thinking about writing back to some of the companies she had so flippantly disregarded only a few months earlier, as she dialled through to E.J. and nervously waited for him to pick up. After several rings he was at her ear, growling in a voice of leavened granite, bored and irritated.

- Yeah? What’s the problem?

- You might want to take this, E.J. It’s Larry. Fox. I -

- Jesus Christ. Are you out of your mind? Why the hell would I want talk to that bastard?

- He’s at the airport, E.J. He says he’s coming over.

E.J. was silent for a moment, measuring his response to this new piece of information. Again, Ellen held her breath. Now E.J. spoke with an eerie calmness.

- Well what are you waiting for? Put him through.

She couldn’t help herself. With her hand covering the mouthpiece, she listened in on the conversation, fascinated to hear how he was going to get out of this one.

- Larry, she heard E.J. say, with badly affected jollity. So I hear you’re in town.

- Yeah, thought that might get your attention. I’m going to make this very simple, E.J. I’ll be there in one hour. I want my designs, or I want my money back. You hear me, you asshat?

There was a long pause, as E.J. decided the fate of the whole sorry episode.

- Sure thing, Larry. You know how to get here now don’t you?

Ellen had to admire E.J’s bluffing technique. Still razor sharp.

- Yeah, I know.

- Great. See you soon.

Ellen replaced the receiver. A moment later she heard E.J. smash something expensive. Nothing in E.J’s office was cheap.

The internal phone rang, and she picked it up.

- Ellen? Get in here. Now.

Gingerly, she stepped into his office. There was a whiff of sulphur in the air. E.J. was sitting behind his desk, a bunch of empty beer cans before him. For some reason he was wearing a kaftan. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days.

- Alright. I need some work done and it needs to be done fast. Who have we got? Is Jerome here?

- Jerome quit, E.J, remember?

- Shit. Right. He was dead weight anyway. What about Phil?

- You fired Phil three weeks ago.

- Jesus. I wasn’t serious. Can’t he take a joke? Okay. How about Greggy Mohawk? Nigel Breem?

She shook her head, sadly. She’d liked Nigel Breem.

- Fat Sally?

- She’s suing you for defamation. I’m the only one here today, E.J.

Everyone else has given up on you, she almost said.

- Shit. Right. This requires some thought. Take a seat, will you? You’re making me nervous standing there, hovering. I need to think.

She sat down. He looked at her for a few moments, sizing her up.

- How’s your draughtsmanship, Ellen?

- Pretty good, E.J.

- Okay. Good. That’s a start. What we need to do, Ellen, you and me, is we’ve got to pull the fucking bunny out of the hat here, or we’re in serious, serious trouble. Are you with me?

- I think so, E.J.

- Good. So here’s the deal.

He rifled through his desk, finally finding a pad with some crazed, jumbled drawings which he tentatively pushed before her.

- Larry is expecting me to have designed a house for his ridiculously young new wife. I think her name is Barbara. He has paid me fifty thousand pounds, all of which I have spent on Coronas and painkillers, both of which I am now immune to, the fuckers. All I’ve got to show for it is this. What do you think?

He held up the pad. Drawn in biro was a design for a house that while probably brilliant in design, concept and draughtsmanship, very much resembled the work of a crazed four year old child.

She looked him directly in the eye.

- I think if we don’t come up with something right now, we’re both out of a job.

- Right. Good thinking.

Ellen opened the windows, letting in some badly needed fresh air, found a pen, some fresh paper, and sat down again. This was it, she thought. Her big break. Despite his badly careening mental state, E.J. still remained a well-respected pillar of the community, and now here he was, asking her to collaborate with him on a design. This was what she had been waiting for all her life. Her friends from college would be so jealous.

- It doesn’t have to be perfect. But it has got to look like…something. Something expensive. You may not have noticed, but I’ve been going through kind of a dry patch lately, so I’d appreciate your input. Beer?

- No thanks, E.J.

- Mm.

He cracked a fresh one for himself.

Ellen thought about it, and slowly she began to draw. Elevations. Balconies. Oblongs. Rooms with extended corridors. Anything she could think of. Expansions on her college thesis. Stuff she had noodled with.

Half an hour passed.

Finally she stopped, exhausted, and passed over the paper to him. He took a long, hard look at it.

- Okay, that’s a start. Actually, it’s not bad. You’ve done this before.

Ellen beamed. She had passed the first test.

- Now all we have to do is give it the E.J. touch.

He grabbed a pen and started scribbling. Ellen’s heart fluttered. She was collaborating with the master. This was what it felt like to really be involved.

She risked a look over his shoulder. Her heart stopped fluttering, and began to sink. Her careful design, a version of which she had used for her master’s, was now covered in random lines, arrows, measurements and elevations which didn’t make a lick of sense. She looked up at E.J., who was smiling back at her, ecstatically.

- Well? What do you think?

She had no choice. She lied beautifully.

- It’s great, E.J.

- Well, what do you know? We did it! I mean, sure, it’ll need some work, but fuck it, Larry won’t know the difference! The man’s an asshat. I knew we could pull it out of the bag if we put our minds to it. Ellen nodded, politely excused herself, walked down the corridor to the toilet, and threw up into the cool lavender air.

The doorbell rang five minutes later. Ellen showed Larry into E.J.’s office, and he sank into a sofa opposite the desk. He looked upset. She had managed to get rid of all the beer cans and sprayed the room with an industrial strength disinfectant.

- Smells like a hospital in here, said Larry. Where is he?

- He’s just freshening up.

The toilet flushed and E.J appeared. He was still wearing the kaftan, but otherwise he looked remarkably normal.

- You old bastard, he said. Let me look at you.

Larry remained quiet. Another moment passed. E.J tapped the desk.

- I bet you want to see the designs.

- I paid for ‘em, didn’t I?

- That you did. That you did.

E.J paused and cracked a beer.

- Corona?

- Not before five.

- It’s five o’clock somewhere, Larry.

E.J. downed the bottle in one, and threw it into the waste paper basket. Then he took the designs and passed them over with a regal flourish.

- I hope you like them.

Larry took the pages and looked through them slowly. He made no immediate visible reaction. Ellen tried to focus on the hummingbirds hovering on the television as Larry rifled through the pages.

Finally he sat back. He lit a cigar, and looked at E.J.

- What are you trying to do? Bankrupt me?

E.J didn’t blink.

- What do you mean, Larry?

- It looks fucking expensive. How much is it going to cost?

E.J was immediately effusive.

- I know a guy who knows a guy. He’s just had some legal troubles so he’ll roll over pretty easily. Ellen, get us some Bloody Marys will you? We have to celebrate.

E.J. was back in business.

Five minutes later, on her way to the store for Tabasco sauce which E.J. insisted on being part of the package, Ellen thought about the year of her life she’d wasted. Next time would be different. Next time, she wouldn’t aim so high. Something was sure to come up sometime. Something small, and something unimpressive that she could really underperform in.