Grumpy Boss

I gathered myself and walked to his windows. I ripped open the curtains and let light inside, and Desmond shrank back from it, like a cave dweller unused to the light. He grunted something and stooped down, looking at the bottles, before he found one with a swallow left. He drank it back and smacked his lips together before placing the bottle back where it was, angling the label just so.

“You’re not okay,” I said, and took a step into his room. “You need help, Des.”

“You need help,” he said, leering at me. “I’ve done all I can to tell the world what you are, Rees. They won’t listen of course, but I’ve tried.”

“They’re listening,” I said, shaking my head. “But none of what you’re saying is true. A lot of people don’t care though, and you’re getting people hurt.”

“Good,” he said, laughing to himself. “Good, good, good. I want them to get hurt. I want you to get hurt.” He stepped toward me, eyes wide and manic. “Before I met you, I was normal. And look at me now. You think I don’t know what I am?”

He sounded desperate, almost pleading, and for once second, I saw the old Desmond there in his gaze, lucid and buried somewhere behind the years of drinking and neglect. But that Desmond disappeared, and it felt like a stab to my chest, as he turned and stormed into the kitchen. I stood there, staring at the bottles, and listened to him banging around the cabinets.

“What are we going to do?” Millie asked softly, and put a hand on my shoulder.

“Everyone assumes he’s the same guy he used to be,” I said. “I bet he emails, makes phone calls—but never leaves the house. And because we were close once, they listen.” I laughed at the absurdity of it all. If a man this far gone could possibly hurt me as much as he had, then the world was broken. If a single one of those supposed journalists had done even a little due diligence, and tracked Desmond down to this horrible place, they would’ve instantly realized that he couldn’t be trusted. “This explains that letter,” I said suddenly, staring at her.

She chewed her lip. “You’re right. I’ve been wondering about the letter. It always seemed a little odd that he admitted to everything. But now looking ack at it… he’s just crazy. That’s all there is to it. Nothing makes sense, because he doesn’t make sense.” She shook her head, her face pale and drawn.

“And nobody noticed because he disappeared,” I said. “Refused to meet people in person. Stuck to phone and email. He’s sane enough to know his life’s a total wreck, and that’s he’s totally lost it, but not sane enough to come back.”

She looked scared, and I couldn’t blame her. This was the dissolution of a man’s life and his mind, right here in front of us, this house physical proof of Desmond’s scarred psyche. I would laugh, if it weren’t so terrible.

“We need proof,” I said. “Show people what they’ve been listening to.”

“How?” she asked, shaking her head.

I took out my phone and took a few pictures. “Like this.”

“You can’t show people that,” she said. “I mean, there have to be laws against it, right?”

“Then we’ll get his permission.” I put my phone again and sucked in some air, then followed him back into the kitchen. Millie stayed close, and I lingered as I stepped back into an open room, the counter piled with more bottle, the sink filled with dirty dishes, and Desmond was standing on his toes rifling through a cabinet packed with more bottles, searching for something. He found it with a gasp and pulled it out—more alcohol, this time about a quarter left.

He drank like a fish, heavy, deep gulps. “Better,” he said, and turned his gaze to me. The state of the kitchen made me sick, and I couldn’t imagine living in this place for long, how he survived in this filth and squalor. He’d been almost a fussy man, back in the day, and kept his workspace neat beyond reason. I remembered moving a stack of blank notepads once, and he chewed me out for ten minutes for disrespecting his environment.

Now, his environment was horrendous.

“I want to ask you some questions,” I said, and took my phone out again. “Can I record your answers?”

He snorted. “Record me, what the hell do I care? Go ahead and record me.”

I turned on the camera and held it pointing at him. “So you’re fine with this?”

He waved a hand at me. “Fine, do what you want.” He drank more and leaned against the counter. “Are you here to kill me finally?”

“No, Des, I’m not going to kill you,” I said softly, trying to muster up the hate I felt barely an hour ago, but somehow it had vanished. Seeing hi living like this, I pitied the man, and everything that he lost. This was punishment enough—a hell of his own making. “I’d like to help you, if I can.”