Titus, Part 1

He wasn't what most people would call a large man, but small dogs and children under twelve found him intimidating. Maybe it was his quiet and piercing stare. Or maybe it was the way he seemed to sway as he walked. It could have even been his cologne or the reflection of light from his high forehead. But no one could ever place it, whatever it was about him that made him seem less than real. It's not like he wasn't a perfectly normal-featured, average-sized, mild-mannered businessman type. He was, in fact. And a very good one at that. Titus Dunleavy was one of the best managers on the entire 17th floor of the Pembroke Building on West 78th Street. What he managed, no one really knew, not even Titus himself. Papers would come into his office; and he would sign them and send them off to someone else to sign, who would send them off to someone else; and so on and so on like the reflections in a mirror facing a mirror. But before the reader starts to feel sorry about Titus' situation, it must be noted that Titus could not be better suited for his situation, and the situation could not be better suited for him. There are very rarely any small dogs or children on the 17th floor of the Pembroke Building, and when there are, they're usually too inexplicably nervous to venture past the elevator lobby, which is conveniently furnished with a snack machine and unusually comfortable carpet. As far as the rest of the world is concerned, it's not. Concerned, that is. To them, Titus is simply a normal-featured, average-sized, mild-mannered, businessman type that buys their food and sits next to them on the subway and mumbles a humble "You're welcome" when he holds the door for them at the supermarket. But to the perceptive ones, or the constantly nervous ones that wear tiny wool sweaters because they're owners think it's cute, there is nothing normal, average, or mild about Titus. And they are the only ones everyone else won't listen to. They are the only ones that are right.

Continue on to Part 2...