| A Day in the Life of Norman McLane |
| When Norman McLane woke up Wednesday morning, he had the feeling that this was going to be a good day. That this was going to be the day his life finally turned around. He could feel it in his bones, winding its way down to the very core of his being. This in itself was not unusual. He thought this every day when he woke up. If nothing else, Norman was an optimist. On this particular Wednesday morning, as on every other Wednesday morning, and indeed every morning on a day that ends in �y�, Norman�s alarm clock woke him at 6 AM. As always, he hit the snooze button twice before actually getting up and wandering into the kitchen to make himself some coffee and an English muffin. While that was cooking he took a shower, and when he returned to the kitchen a few minutes later, his wife Audrey was awake, eating his English muffin and drinking his coffee, also as usual. In the 22 years they had been married, Norman had never actually eaten his English muffin, nor drank his coffee, and he never tried to change his routine so he could eat his English muffin and drink his coffee. This was the life of Norman McLane. After staring at his wife for a moment, he mumbled �Good morning dear,� to her and went to make a fresh cup of coffee and English muffin. He then opened the back door to retrieve the morning paper, which was, as usual, in the bushes next to the door. He glanced down the drive at the paperboy pedaling away and yelled at him in a small, high pitched voice, �Can you at least try to get it on the doorstep son?� The paperboy just laughed and flipped him the finger as he rode away to the next house on his route. This was the life of Norman McLane. He went back into the house, into the kitchen just in time to see his son Benjamin grabbing his fresh cup of coffee, and his daughter Heather stealing his second English Muffin. This hadn�t been happening as long as his wife�s stealing of his coffee and his English Muffin, as Benjamin was only 17 and Heather only 16, but it should have been long enough for Norman to adapt to this obstacle to his being able to enjoy his breakfast. But as of this morning, Norman had never bothered to try and change his routine. He was just about to put a third English Muffin in the toaster when his wife spoke up. �Norman dear, you better get going so you aren�t late for work. You know how Mr. Bell hates when you aren�t on time. Grumbling softly to himself so no one would hear, Norman returned the uncooked English Muffin to the package. He walked over to his wife and kissed her goodbye, said �Have a good day at school,� to his kids, grabbed his keys and walked out the door to his car. He got in the car, started it, turned on the radio to hear the morning news, since he never got to read his newspaper, and looked over at the empty passenger seat. He shut off the car, walked back into the kitchen, grabbed his briefcase and headed back out to his car. This was the life of Norman McLane. Norman worked in one of those rather tall buildings in the heart of the city, the ones that block the sun from ever shining on the surrounding buildings, owned by one of those large corporations which nobody ever seems to know who really controls. His office was on the 35th floor and he sat in there all day long attempting to make numbers do things for his bosses that numbers were never meant to do. Not that the numbers ever complained about it, at least not out loud. They simply silently refused to do what Norman�s boss wanted them to do without a whole lot of pushing and prodding. Several years ago, he had done such a smashing job making the numbers do things numbers were never meant to do that his boss offered him a promotion and a better office, a corner office. Everybody wanted a corner office, they explained. When Norman asked why everyone wanted a corner office, they replied that it was in the corner, thus it was a corner office, and everybody wanted one. For Norman, this type of logic was unassailable. He had to accept the idea that everyone wanted a corner office. Everyone except Norman, that is. Norman was afraid of heights, and the corner office had windows. He much preferred his cramped little office in the center of the building, where he had no windows and would not be reminded of how far off the ground he was. His boss told him that was a real shame. Since he didn�t want the office, he must not want the promotion, and they have never offered it to him again. This was the life of Norman McLane. On this particular Wednesday when Norman arrived at work, he was not surprised to see a large stack of papers with numbers on them sitting on his desk, along with a little note requesting that he somehow make these numbers do magical things. Sighing almost happily, he took off his jacket, sat down at his desk and started to lose himself in the numbers. Norman just loved numbers. The numbers made sense to him, even though they could sometimes be somewhat stubborn. People did not make sense to Norman, so he spent as much time as possible with his numbers, almost happy in his own little mathematical world. This was the life of Norman McLane. At exactly 10:30, he stopped working for fifteen minutes, as he did every day. He opened his briefcase and removed the blueberry muffin that was waiting for him there. Norman may not have actually eaten his English muffin any time during the past 20 years, but every weekday at 10:30 in the morning he did get to enjoy his blueberry muffin. It was one of the few things he could look forward to. And he knew he had exactly ten minutes to eat his blueberry muffin, because at 10:40 every morning the mail would be delivered to his office. The mail carrier was quite possibly the most beautiful woman Norman had ever seen in his life. And she showed up at exactly the same time every day, which was something Norman could respect. She was about his height, slim with long golden hair that flowed over her shoulders and down her back. Her ocean blue eyes lit up the room every time she walked in, and her smile brightened Norman�s day. She had been delivering his mail for a little over three years. One day, when she had first started, she had interrupted Norman�s routine by telling him her name was Rhonda, asking his name and if he was married. He had thought briefly, for the first time in his life, about saying he was not married, but thought better of it almost immediately. He did love his wife, after all, even if he never got to eat his English Muffin or drink his coffee. This was the life of Norman McLane. Rhonda said she thought it was a shame he was married. She wanted to go out with him, and she usually got what she wanted. She ended the conversation that day by telling him she would not give up until he gave in. Since then it had grown into sort of a game between them, her asking every day if he was still married or if he wanted to go out anyway, and him replying that yes, he was still married and no he couldn�t go out with her. But she gave him her phone number every day, and told him that if he changed his mind to call her at any time. And every day he would tell her that if anything changed, she�d be the first to know. Norman popped the last bite of blueberry muffin into his mouth and took a sip of his coffee. He wiped away the crumbs from the corner of his mouth just as there was a light tapping on the door. Without waiting for him to answer, the door opened and in strode Rhonda, smiling as always, a vision of perfection. �Morning, Norman,� she said as she flashed those blue eyes at him. �Still married?� �Good morning, Rhonda. Yes, I�m still married.� She leaned across his desk to place the mail directly in front of him. As usual, he could see right down her shirt, making him excited and uncomfortable at the same time. She was wearing a red lace bra. It was somewhat distracting. �You wanna go out anyway? I guarantee you�ll have fun.� She flashed a wicked smile at him and giggled briefly. �I�m afraid I can�t Rhonda. Audrey is making pasta tonight.� �Well,� she said standing up and backing away from his desk, �if you change your mind give me a call. My number is under the mail. I�ll be at home tonight, reading.� She opened the door and started walking out, then turned and flashed another smile at him. �Have a nice day Norman.� �I�ll see you tomorrow Rhonda.� With that particular morning ritual out of the way, Norman settled back into his safe little mathematical world, once again coaxing the numbers into doing what he wanted them to do. He was almost happy. This was the life of Norman McLane. At exactly noon he pushed himself away from his desk. He stood and stretched, and then headed out of his office in the direction of the elevators to go down twelve floors to the company cafeteria. He caught an empty car and immediately pressed himself into the back corner, grasping the handrail the circled the inside of the car so desperately that his knuckles turned white. Norman really didn�t like heights, and he wasn�t overly fond of elevators either. The car abruptly jerked to a stop one floor down and the doors parted to reveal a tall, well dressed man trying to convince a pretty red-haired girl that going out with him that night would be the best thing that ever happened to her. At the sound of the opening doors, the pretty red-haired girl looked into the elevator hoping to see some salvation from the well-dressed man who was annoying her, but all she saw was Norman. Sighing heavily, she stepped into the car anyway and moved next to Norman, who was still cowering at the back of the car with his white-knuckled death grip on the railing. The well-dressed man who had been annoying her was about to step into the car as well when a voice from down the hall called his name. The last thing Norman and the pretty red-haired girl saw as the elevator doors closed was the well-dressed man who had been annoying her turning towards the voice that had called his name with an annoyed look of his own on his face. Once the doors closed, the pretty red-haired girl turned to face Norman, and the look on her face spoke volumes. It said, �You�re not going to start bothering me too, are you?� Norman�s own face simply turned even whiter as the elevator started moving again and the terror swelled up in him. The pretty red-haired girl then looked at him with a mixture of pity and relief and looked away again. This was the life of Norman McLane. After several more stops to allow people on and off the elevator, (including the pretty red-haired girl who got off two floors above Norman�s destination,) the elevator finally arrived at the floor that housed the cafeteria. Norman immediately got in line to wait to purchase his lunch. It was Wednesday, so Norman was looking forward to a tuna sandwich with a small bag of potato chips and a Pepsi. The line moved slowly forward and after several minutes he finally reached his goal. There was one tuna sandwich left. Norman smiled faintly to himself and started to reach for the sandwich at exactly the same time the well-dressed man who had been annoying the pretty red-haired girl barged in line ahead of him and scooped up the tuna sandwich. Turning around, he flashed a nasty grin at Norman and moved ahead in the line to push someone else out of the way to pay for his sandwich. Norman floundered for a moment; his hand suspended in midair over the spot previously occupied by the tuna sandwich. He had no idea what he should do now, now that the sandwich wasn�t there anymore. He began to sweat, looking around nervously trying to clear the fog from his mind. He hadn�t any ideas for lunch other than the tuna sandwich, potato chips and Pepsi. All the remaining choices looked the same to Norman. Gradually he became aware that the people behind him were growing agitated with his failure to decide and move on. Becoming even more flustered, Norman moved forward and instead of making a decision, he simply picked up the potato chips and Pepsi, paid for them, and went to find a seat. Windows surrounded the cafeteria on two sides, and they were still 23 stories from the ground. Norman chose a table that was in the far corner away from the windows, and he sat with his back to the cafeteria facing the wall so he wouldn�t have to look outside and be reminded of how far off the ground he was. He ate his potato chips and drank his Pepsi slowly; still trying to figure out what he could have done differently when the tuna sandwich disappeared from under his hands. After half an hour of this, Norman gave up on the problem, not seeing what else he could have done. After all, it was Wednesday, and there was no tuna sandwich. This was the life of Norman McLane. At precisely 1:00, after another terrifying elevator ride, Norman sat down at his little desk. He was just about to start making the numbers do magical things again when he noticed a little yellow note taped to his computer monitor. Mr. Bell wanted to see him about something important. Norman slowly allowed himself to become excited, remembering the feeling he had when he woke up this morning that today was going to be a good day. Today was going to be the day when his life finally turned around. The last time Mr. Bell had wanted to see Norman in his office was when he offered Norman a promotion several years ago. Perhaps it was time for that promotion now, only without the inconvenience of a corner office. Norman hopped up from his chair, suddenly full of life and energy, and ran to the elevator. At least he assumed it was life and energy. He couldn�t remember ever feeling full of life and energy before, and he also couldn�t remember ever feeling the way he did right now, so he had to assume that was it. Mr. Bell�s office was on the 40th floor, so Norman would have to endure the elevator for an additional two rides today. But he reasoned that if he was going to be promoted it would be worth the possible inconvenience of an early demise that sometimes accompanies playing with death the way people do when they ride in elevators. Norman exited the cable-driven deathtrap on the 40th floor and paused a moment to let the color return to his face. It just wouldn�t do to go into his boss�s office looking like a ghost. Picking up his stride, he walked purposefully to Mr. Bell�s office, whistling the happy little tune he had heard in the elevator. He had always though it absurd to play happy music in elevators, when everyone inside could plummet to their deaths at any moment. But this afternoon Norman was feeling good, and it was just as well that he had a happy tune playing in his head. He reached Mr. Bell�s office and the secretary, Lucy, gave him a look he couldn�t quite decipher. It was somewhat similar to the look his wife gave him when he got home from work on Mondays and Wednesdays, and he never understood that look either. But he was feeling so good about everything right now that he decided he wasn�t going to worry about it. Instead, he said to her, �Hello, Lucy. I had a message that Mr. Bell wanted to see me.� Lucy continued to give him the strange look for a moment, then shook her head and looked away to speak softly into the intercom. After a moment, she looked up at him and said, �You can go right in now, Mr. McLane.� She then resumed the look that he didn�t quite understand. Norman figured she was probably on drugs. Grasping the handle firmly, he opened the door to Mr. Bell�s office and strode in, head held high, a confident spring in his step. Full of self-assurance, he knew he was here for a promotion and he knew he deserved it. And he supposed that this time, if he absolutely MUST take the corner office with the promotion, he would simply accept it and have the windows blacked out so he wouldn�t see how far off the ground he was. Flashing a winning smile and without pausing, he walked right up to Mr. Bell�s desk and sat down facing his boss, still exuding confidence from every pore of his body. Mr. Bell matched his smile, and reaching for Norman�s hand he said� �Norman. Norman? Norman!� Norman blinked rapidly and looked around in confusion. �You can go IN now, Norman.� Norman blinked and looked around in confusion again. He was still standing outside Mr. Bell�s office, his hand tightly gripping the handle. Lucy was still talking to him, and she was still giving him that odd look, although now it was mixed with something he understood all too well. Pity. That was one look with which Norman was intimately familiar. Grinning like an idiot, he mumbled, �Thank you,� to Lucy and turned the handle, trying his best to exude the confidence that came so easily to him moments ago in his mind. He strode through the door, his head held high and a smile forming on his lips as he said in a loud, clear voice, �Hello Mr. Beeeeellllllll.� He promptly tripped over thin air, and went tumbling wildly into the room, knocking over a chair and finally coming to rest sprawled out in front of Mr. Bell�s desk. He reached for the edge of the desk to pull himself up and naturally his hand hit the ashtray, causing it to plummet on top of him, covering him with cigar ash. This was the life of Norman McLane. �Pull yourself together, McLane!� bellowed Mr. Bell. Norman sprang up immediately and started dusting himself off, creating a cloud of smoke and dust around himself while spinning around brushing at his suit, making himself look like a small tornado that had suddenly sprung up in the middle of the office. He wondered how this was going to affect his promotion. �Sit down, McLane!� Norman sat. �That�s better.� Mr. Bell settled back into his large, luxurious-looking chair and puffed away at his cigar. �The reason I called you in here McLane,� he started. Then he paused and looked around the room for a moment. �Where�s my Yes-Man? I need a Yes-Man, dammit!� He stabbed at the intercom button. �Lucy! Get me a Yes-Man! NOW!� A moment later the door opened again, and in walked the well-dressed man who had been annoying the pretty red-haired girl at the elevator. The very same well-dressed man who had taken the last tuna sandwich practically out of Norman�s hand. �You, Yes-Man,� bellowed Mr. Bell, �get over here now!� Mr. Bell jerked his thumb at a point just behind his chair. The Yes-Man did his best to break the sound barrier getting to the spot Mr. Bell had indicated. Norman swore he thought he saw the man grinning as he went by. Mr. Bell leaned back in his chair, obviously more comfortable now that he had his Yes-Man at his side. He puffed at his cigar noisily for a few moments, exhaling volumes of smoke in Norman�s direction. Norman valiantly fought the urge to cough uncontrollably. Mr. Bell leaned forward, slamming his meaty hands down on the desk. �McLane, I�m not gonna beat around the bush here.� He grabbed a file from his desk and waved it almost menacingly in Norman�s direction. �Did you put this file together? Don�t bother telling me you didn�t.� He turned to the Yes Man. �He put this file together, right?� �Yes,� said the Yes-Man. �Well, there you have it. All the evidence points to you putting this file together McLane. And you know what? I don�t like this file. I don�t like the way these numbers add up. They make me look like I don�t know what I�m doing here. But that can�t be, since we all know I DO know what I�m doing here, right?� �Yes,� said the Yes-Man. �But,� said Norman. �Shut up McLane,� said Mr. Bell. He stood up behind his desk, strode around it, and came to a stop directly in front of Norman, towering over the slightly trembling accountant, and blew a large cloud of smoke directly in Norman�s face. �I have something here for you, McLane.� He snapped his fingers over his shoulder and the Yes-Man scurried over. �You have Mr. McLane�s present?� �Yes,� said the Yes-Man. He pulled an envelope out of his pocket and handed it to Mr. Bell, a satisfied-looking smile stretching from ear to ear. Mr. Bell grabbed the envelope and handed it to Norman. �Here you are McLane. We made it just for you. Go ahead and open it.� Norman gingerly took the envelope from Mr. Bell�s outstretched hand, staring at it with a look he usually reserved for bottles marked �Poison,� or, �You may have already won�� His hands started to sweat profusely, smearing the ink on the envelope. He grasped the lip of the envelope, preparing to open it, and promptly cut his finger. This was the life of Norman McLane. After sucking his finger for a moment, and with another even more belligerent glare from Mr. Bell, Norman finally opened the envelope. Holding his breath, he peered inside. Relief flooded Norman and he let out the breath he had been holding. He even let out a nervous little laugh, mentally chiding himself for being so negative all the time. He had been half-afraid with the way Mr. Bell was acting, he would find a pink slip in the envelope, but instead he saw only a standard piece of white company letterhead. He pulled the sheet out of the envelope, unfolded it and started reading. And then his smile slowly faded once again. The letter read: �Dear Norman. You�re fired. Thanks for the years of service, now get out. Oh � and don�t try to take any office supplies with you on your way out. They�ve all been counted. PS: Sorry we ran out of pink slips.� This was the life of Norman McLane. He looked at Mr. Bell, trying to comprehend what was happening here. Where was his promotion? Where was the corner office he was going to have to black out the windows of so he wouldn�t see how far off the ground he was? But comprehension seemed to have taken the day off. In fact, comprehension was at home this very instant, packing its suitcase to move to Zimbabwe. But Mr. Bell wasn�t looking at him. Mr. Bell was barking into the intercom on his desk. �Lucy? Get security in here pronto to escort Mr. McLane out of the building.� He turned back to Norman. �Don�t worry about your personal belongings. They�ll be sent to your house. Goodbye Norman. Call me sometime. We�ll do lunch. Although I guess you won�t be paying, will you?� Mr. Bell laughed at this as the security guards grabbed Norman�s arms and dragged him from the room. CONTINUED |