Sea Change

By Jason A. Wendleton

“Don’t be a coconut, God is trying to talk to you”
—Julian Casablancas

William Loomis opened his eyes. The first thing that he saw was the blank white ceiling hanging over his bed. Then he saw the thick, cream colored comforter his wife, Mary had bought the year before.

William stared blankly up at the ceiling. He lay motionless, waiting for—

“Churrp, Churrp…”

The alarm clock (made in China) sitting on his nightstand chirped to life. It was one of those fancy gizmos that could wake you up at different times on different days of the week. Today was Tuesday, not that it mattered.

William had all the days set to six thirty-five.

Rather than a teeth-rattling buzz or a blaring radio station, William’s clock made dozens of soft bird calls.

He got out of bed (naked) and headed for the bathroom to begin his morning ritual. Twenty-five minutes later he was fully dressed in light gray slacks with a light blue shirt, light gray blazer. Heading out the door, he stopped at the threshold of his average home and looked over his shoulder, lingering for half a minute.

Nothing.

Soon he was pulling his beige Honda sedan onto the freeway. Fifteen minutes after that he was at his cubicle. Thus began the last normal day of work for William Loomis.

* * *

William worked for Vazno and Associates. Located on the fourth floor of a large concrete cube, V&A was a typical advertising agency. Alone in his cubical, William’s job was to invent ways to entice people into buying things. He didn’t have much to do today, however, because he’d just completed a very large campaign for __________.

Now he was “in between” assignments and was in fact, stilling riding high from finishing the __________ campaign.

William’s computer began to beep, he had a new email. His miniature desk-fax began to spit out reams of paper. Then the phone rang—the message was all the same:

“Please step into my office.”

It was his boss, Mr. Vazno.

Robert Vazno was in his early fifties and struck an imposing figure. Physically, he dominated every room he was in. Tall and wide, he always wore red suspenders (his own personal form of branding) and a wide-stripped tie. He knitted his bushy black eyebrows together as William entered his office.

“Have a seat,” he said.

William sat in one of the chairs perched near the edge of Vazno’s desk. “Thank you, sir.”

Vazno cleared his throat, “Gonna get right down to it Loomis…that ___________ campaign’s a piece of shit.”

“Sir?” William said.

“I told you that you were on probation, and the __________ account was going to get ya off it one way or the other.”

William felt his throat tighten. He couldn’t think of a single thing wrong with his take on the __________ campaign. Had it really been shit?

“Congrats Loomis,” Vazno grumbled. “Yer off probation—yer fired.”
The big man looked down at his desk and started shuffling papers. As though that was all, their business was done.

“But sir, I worked tirelessly on the __________ account, everyone over at ___________ said they loved the direction I took.”

Vazno snorted, “Well not everyone. Rothschild hated it, and he owns the fucking company!”

Tears of frustration began forming in the corners of William’s eyes. He wanted to scream. Instead—

“What is Mary going to think?” he blurted out. It was the first thing to pop into his head, sitting there at the edge of a big and very nasty man’s desk. He winced, knowing it was a whiny thing to say.

“Ha!” Vazno snapped. “That’s yer problem Loomis…always worrying about what the wrong people will think.”

William wiped at the sides of his cheeks defiantly, “And who should I worry about? Rothschild? You? The ___________ campaign?”

This was the first time that William could ever remember raising his voice to Vazno. It stoked the big man’s wrath.

“What ya need to worry about, Mr. Loomis, is finding another job! Ya have ten minutes to clean out yer desk.”

It only took him three.

* * *

“What are you doing home so late?” Mary Loomis asked when he came through the front door that night.

“I had a rough day…”

“Jesus, you smell like piss,” Mary said wrinkling her nose. William ignored her and proceeded to haul himself up the stairs towards the bedroom.

“Aren’t you going to tell me what happened?”

He stopped and turned to her.

“I got canned today.”

She looked at him wide-eyed, “At work?”

William laughed, “God…yes Mary at work! Where else could I get canned at?”

Mary shook her head, “Perfect! That’s just great—Sandy Thompson next door wanted us to go in with her and Randy on a timeshare…”

William went back down the stairs to where she stood, fuming.

“Did you hear me Mary?” He spread his arms open wide in the universal sign for a hug. “I lost my job today.”

“I heard you,” she said, folding her arms. “Did you hear me? A timeshare, in the Florida Keys…”

William went up the stairs, fighting back tears the entire time. In the bedroom he ripped off his shirt and tore away his tie, then he went into the bathroom and began his bedtime ritual. Something inside him became disgusted. Not with Mary, but with himself. He opened the medicine cabinet. Inside a bottle of sleeping pills sat next to his dental care products.

He snatched it up and unscrewed the child-proof top. Three little yellow and red pills spilled out of the orange plastic—onto his shaking, sweaty palm. Without hesitating, William Loomis popped them into his mouth. Lips firmly clamped, he leaned down and turned on the faucet in the bathroom sink. Cupping his hands he shoveled water into his mouth, the cold rushing stream carrying the pills down the back of his throat.

He crashed onto of his wife’s cream colored comforter. Received into its stiff embrace, he nodded off to sleep. A thin string of drool trickled onto the sheets beneath him. In time it grew into a little puddle, the inspiration for strange, nautical-themed dreams where he was a brave sailor, sailing on warm, gooey seas.

* * *

And then everything changed.
The pores of existence expanded. As they widened, their contents loosened and fell out of reality. All there was, is, and ever will be began to pile up in a disorganized heap of matter.

Then, as quickly as they had opened up—the holes of existence contracted to their original size and shape. The mountainous piles crumbled, the boulders of reality began plugging the holes back up. The whole process was instantaneous; within two seconds everything had been deconstructed, jumbled, and put back together.

* * *

Dipping back into the icy waters of consciousness, Will became aware of a beautiful sound. It oscillated from high pitched and clear to a deep, low warbling vibration.

An elegant bird call, probably the most gorgeous he’d ever heard, emanating from somewhere near by. The sound’s intensity made his inner ear itch, like it had been poked with a cotton swap. Opening his eyes, Will stared up at the ceiling above his bed. Gone was the blank stucco page from the day before, in its place was a wondrous alien landscape. Pockmarked with deep craters and dotted with mountainous protrusions—the ceiling was a perfect replica of the lunar surface. Lying in bed, Will followed a trickle of dents and dings all the way to the Oceanus Procellarum. That great mare glowed down on him from the western corner of his ceiling. Nestled among the moon rocks, the Apollo 12 smiled down at him. Will’s interlude into selenology was soon interrupted by a voice from downstairs:

“Will, get up! We’re all out of milk!”

The voice sounded like Mary’s, and yet it was somehow very foreign to him. He crawled out of bed and was struck by a sledge hammer of dizziness. Will’s head was half-way filled with water and it sloshed around inside his skull as he stood. His brain bobbed up and down in this cranial lake as he went down the stairs. He got about halfway to the kitchen when he heard the beautiful bird song once more.

Standing in the kitchen doorway, Will saw his wife for the first time again. Her average body was lengthened and streamlined, as though the dough of her body had been flattened by a cosmic rolling pin. Her cruel lips were now an elongated, finger-nail colored beak. More striking was the flickering red feathers of fire that covered her body—from head to claw.

Mary Loomis was a song bird.

“Well,” she clucked. “Good morning, sorry to wake you, but we need milk for our breakfast.”

She extended a long, flaming wing towards him. An empty half-gallon milk jug rested on its tip.

“Alright,” Will nodded. “I’ll go to the store…”

Mary cooed, “Thank you dear…don’t be gone too long, I need it to make the gravy…”
He turned and headed for the front door.

“You might want to pick up a paper for the…you know….classifieds!”

Will Loomis walked outside.

* * *

The green sky was clear and bright in the early morning. Will started down his front steps, glad to be away from his ladybird. He had almost thought they were going to have a complete conversation without her bringing up the fact that he’d lost his job. He walked down his winding driveway to where his Honda sat waiting for him.

Something isn’t right, he thought. There’s something funny about Mary. She seemed almost in a good mood...

Whoops!

The world lurched and crashed into him. He’d slipped on the dew coated morning paper—now he was lying on his back in the crisp blue lawn. Will lay there winded, staring vacantly into the verde sky.

He would have laid there all day had he not heard the low rumble of music. Rolling over, he peered through the bent back azure blades. In the middle of his lawn, he spied a miniature stage. A clump of worms and beetles sat starting at it in anticipation.

“I need to find a new exterminator,” Will said.

One of the beetles nearest to him looked up, “Shh! The performance is about to begin.”

An egg-white-bellied mushroom appeared on the stage.

“Welcome, one and all!” it said. “I am proud to present to you all, Sporza Spinogg’s fabulous new masterpiece: L’Esposizione Di Portobello.”

The varmints comprising the audience all began clapping politely. A busy-body grasshopper stared at Will, who wasn’t clapping.

“Oh, sorry,” Will said, tapping his index fingers together. A velvet red curtain rose in a dreamy haze—behind it another mushroom was spotlighted:
L’Esposizione Di Portobello

The second mushroom stands alone, wilted and sad.

“Life is a dream,” it sang out. “Either brief and pleasurable or long and nightmarish…”

The floor of the stage erupted into a grove of towering Cedar trees. The little mushroom peered up at their lanky branches in a mixture of awe and envy. Gazing back at the audience, the little fungus began to sing a slow, sad song. Though the words escaped him, the meaning was clear: it was a song of envy of both envy of despair.
As he sang, the little mushroom became smaller as the trees grew taller. Soon the top of the cedar forest was gone from view, leaving only the massive trunks for the mushroom to see. From the opposite end of the stage, a pulsing orb of blue-white light danced and flittered in the air. Like a lazy butterfly, it gradually made its way over to the sad little mushroom. The light rose up high over the top of the mushroom, then dropped down bopping the fungus on the head. As soon as this happened the little mushroom perked up.

“Inspiration!” the mushroom called out. “Thanks to you/I know just what to do…”
Then the mushroom danced and hopped across the stage. The Cedar trees began to shrink back down to the stage until they looked like a forest of toothpicks. Soon the little fungus towered over them. Turning to the audience, the little mushroom sang a happier song.

While it sang, the little mushroom tossed great billowing clouds of emerald all over the stage. Some of it fell out into the audience, whipped along by the whirling mushroom’s dance. Through the sheer force of will the little mushroom was transformed—its cap grew large, wide leaves. The mushroom’s stem had turned brown and had long strips of dense bark. Though it wasn’t quiet a cedar, it was becoming very tree-like.

“My dream has come true…”

A quick flash of red and violet dashed across the stage. A sparrow from above had dive bombed the little mushroom-tree, snatching it off the stage and carrying it off.

* * *

The audience cheered.

“A brilliant tragedy!” they cried out in unison.

“Truly inspirational!”

Will blinked away a few emerald coated tears.

“We hope you have enjoyed the show!” one of the beetles said to him.

“I did,” Will replied. “I bet my wife would love it, too. When does it play again?”
The little beetle looked at him curiously, “The story only plays once, that’s all we ever get.”

Will nodded sadly, then got up off the grass and headed over to his parked car.

* * *

Will slipped his white Honda into the crowded parking lot. After a long search, he found a spot that was close to the front of the grocery store. The automatic doors slid open as he stepped onto the warm rubber mats. A door greeter greeted him as he entered the store:

“Morning sir, welcome to FoodLand.”

Will nodded and headed for the dairy case. It was located in the very back of the store. Decades ago, a study was conducted—millions of dollars and man hours were spent to determine where everything should go in FoodLand. After studying the data, it was decided that Will should have to walk a mile before reaching the milk he wanted to buy.

Cutting through the middle aisle of the store, Will walked past a cavalcade of brightly lit, neon-flashing cardboard boxes. This type of display was very familiar to Will; after all, he’d designed one very similar.

“Food! Buy!” They screamed as he walked past. “Food! Buy!”

On the top shelves, where it was too high for anyone to reach, was a small row of plain black-and-white boxes. These quietly whispered their own mantra, “Nutrition! Buy!” but couldn’t be heard over the more elaborate, louder, boxes.

Will got half-way down the aisle before he was compelled to stop. He stared at the chorus of screaming products, each demanded his undivided attention.

“Me! Me! Me! Pick me!” they all called out to him, their voices overlapping like the waves of the ocean.

“Quiet! One at a time! One at a time!”

A red and yellow box leapt off the shelf and into his arms. The box had tiny hands and baby-sized feet that writhed and kicked in his arms. Will dropped it in disgust.

Others followed, spilling off of the shelves in an avalanche of advertising.

“Buy! Food! Buy!” they chuckled running after Will.

He got to the end of the aisle, and then dashed down another. The tidal wave of boxes followed him, dogging his every step. Will played this demented game of follow-the-leader for several aisles. A gang of sixty multi-colored, flashing boxes chased him up and down the store. Growing tired from the chase, he felt them nipping at his heels. Desperate, Will ran to the front of the store, near the entrance.
He looked for the greeter he’d met coming in, but he was nowhere to be seen. Finding no help, Will grabbed a shopping cart and pushed it into the advancing hoard of boxes.

The boxes screamed as the clicking metal wheels crushed the life out of them.

He punted the remaining attackers with his foot. Exhausted, he collapsed onto the floor and looked over at the heap of defeated foes. His curiosity overcame him and he reached for one of the dead boxes. There was nothing inside it. He checked another, and another—and another…they were all empty. None of them had anything inside them; they’d only been flashy shells.

* * *

Once he’d rested from his battle with the boxes, Will went to the dairy case and got a gallon of milk. He’d asked if it was fresh, and the cow working in the dairy section had told him it was. And that was good enough for Will, who cautiously made his way to the check-out line.

The line stretched halfway down one of the frozen food aisles. It was so cold Will wished he’d brought along a parka.

“I hope my milk doesn’t freeze,” he told the woman in front of him. They were standing ankle deep in snow, teeth chattering uncontrollably. With time and a little patience, the line moved out of the snow and Will didn’t have to worry. He could almost see the front doors.

While he waited his turn, Will watched as a stiff jointed, plastic skinned employee swept up the crushed mound of cardboard boxes. Will felt bad that he’d made such a large mess…he would have offered to help, but he didn’t want to lose his place in the check-out line.

The plastic employee finished sweeping up the boxes into one large pile, then headed to the back of the store to get a dust pan. On the way back he tripped over a still flashing box of “Food.” Unable to catch himself, the stiff jointed employee fell to the floor—shattering into three separate, flailing pieces.

Will left the line and went over to where the broken employee lay on the tiled floor.

“Are...are you alright?”

But the broken employee said nothing. His eyes became clouds and his limbs quietly flopped to a halt, like a dying fish.

“I am so sorry you had to see that, sir.”

Will looked up and saw it was another plastic employee. This one had a name tag that read: Manager.

“No, it’s alright…this was my fault, I made such a mess…”

But the Manager shook his head, “Nonsense sir. Don’t worry about a thing, I’ll just get another employee to clean this up.”

The Manager turned and headed off into the depths of the store. Hesitating, Will got back in line. As he was checking out, Will saw the Manager return dragging a large, gaudy box behind him—the words New and Improved Employee written on its side.

The Manager tore it open and an identical plastic skinned employee emerged from it.

“Alright,” the Manager said to the new hire. “Clean this mess up right away.”

“Yes sir!” the plastic employee droned.

Will paid for his milk and left. On the way out he passed the greeter.

“Have a pleasant day, sir.”

Will nodded.

* * *

Will pulled his Honda out of the grocery store parking lot and headed home. Like everything else about FoodLand, its distance from Will’s house had also been carefully calculated by unseen businessmen.

Though it was still early in the morning most people were already at work, leaving Will alone on the road. Alone to enjoy the sunshine.

Left on Market.

Right on Shaftsbury.

Left again, right again.

Will turned his steering wheel in big, lazy strokes. The gallon of milk sat next to him in the passenger seat—shot gun. It looked at him nervously and wondered why he hadn’t buckled it up.

A hard right turn sent it tumbling end over end onto the floor board.

“Shit…”

Will death gripped the wheel with his left hand, and strained for the milk with his right. Setting the milk back onto the seat, Will glanced up and saw two red angry eyes glaring at him. Gritting his teeth, Will punched down on the brakes, sending his car into a half-skid. The little white Honda stopped mere centimeters from the motionless bumper blocking the road.

“That,” Will told the milk, “was close.”

From one line to another.

He joined a line of stopped cars that snaked ahead of him.

There must be an accident up ahead, he thought.

Creeping forward, Will reached the next intersection five minutes later. There, a brick and mortar policeman was straddling the four way stop. He had a whistle jammed in between his pursed stone lips. The policeman motioned for Will to stop and wait his turn. Off to one side of the road was a pair of SUVs. One was leaking a thick, foamy purple. The other had a trickle of yellow dripping out from underneath it.

Where the two colors met near the center of the intersection, they swirled and made a pretty floral pattern. That was partially why traffic was moving so slowly, Will noticed. Every time the cop motioned for someone to go they’d slowly gawk by the accident scene. Some tried to splash through the brilliant puddle, which only spread the goo and emboldened its swirls. This made the next person move even slower through the intersection.

Will grumbled and complained each time.
Finally it was his turn. Driving by the fused car hulks; Will entered the swirling garden—and was transformed into a side-show patron. The Honda’s brake lights flashed. His eyes dilated into the purpleyellow abyss. The swampy colors were a bizarre DMV-themed Rorschach; soon he began seeing road signs and traffic cones in the shifting color.

The policeman tooted his stone whistle, flinging pebbles onto the ground.

Now the traffic cones merged into a jaunty, curling creature. It had a spiral tail and ended in a long purple snout. The back sprouted little twigs, reminding Will of the little white-bellied mushroom that had wanted to be a Cedar tree.

“Hey buddy move this thing!” the brick cop pounded a stony fist on the side of Will’s Honda.

“Was anyone hurt?”

“Wha?” the cop blinked.

“In the accident, did anyone get hurt?

The cop shook his head, “Yeah, two people, they went to the hospital…now move it!”

Will felt the car lurch forward. He thought about the swirling colors the rest of the way home.

* * *

Mary the song bird was waiting for him when he got back home.

“Took you long enough,” she squawked.

“Sorry, there was an accident honey,” he handed her the milk. “Two people were hurt.”

Feathers flew, and in a few seconds she had breakfast ready. Somehow, Will ended up at the dinning room table. Mary set two plates of biscuits and gravy down. The gravy oozed and ran all over the plates. Despite being white and gray, it reminded him of the flowering colors of the accident. Will imagined the two lumpy biscuits were the shattered SUV’s.

“So,” Mary said sitting down. “Did you remember to pick up a newspaper?”
Will watched her pluck food up off her plate and toss it into her gapping beak. She threw her head back and furiously snapped her jaws. Will had seen swans eat this way at the park.

“What for?”

“What for?” Mary’s throat bobbed up and down. “To find work, that’s what for.”

“Oh right. I’ve been thinking about that,” he took a drink of orange juice. “Maybe instead of jumping right back into the workforce…I could go back to school, maybe take up painting.”

“Maybe,” Mary considered. “How we gonna pay bills in the meantime?”

“Well you work, right?”

She nodded, “Only part-time…but I guess I could try and get some more hours.”

Will smiled and ate his breakfast, he didn’t really care one way or the other. Stalling Mary was just a game he liked to play. He was surprised at how decent she was being about his joblessness.

“Of course,” she cooed. “If you quit working to go back to school, and I gotta pick up the slack…things are gonna change around here.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. Like I’m going to be too tired to always do the cooking.”

“Fine! Fine! I can cook,” Will said.

Mary shrugged, a small cloud of flaming plumage flew off her shoulders.

“Ugh, I’m molting again…”

“I think you look fine dear,” Will was happy to change the subject.
Just then, in the next room, the phone began ringing. It sounded like a klaxon on a battleship.

Ah-Oooh-Gah!

Mary got up and flew over to the receiver.

“Will! Phone it’s for you!”

Leaving behind his soggy breakfast, Will went over to the phone.

“Hello?”

“Loomis, that you?”

It was Vazno, he sounded strange—almost cheerful.

“Yeah, Mr. Vazno is that you?”

The man on the other end laughed, “Yes it is. I am me and you are you! Now that we have that settled…listen, are you busy today?”

Will thought briefly. All the things he could possibly do filtered through his brain. For some reason he found himself wanting to visit an aquarium or museum of some sort. His mind’s eye conjured up Frescoes and fish under glass.

“No,” he replied. “I don’t think I’m going to be too busy today. Unemployed men rarely are.”

Vazno chuckled, “That’s just what I wanted to talk to you about.”

“I’m listening.”

“Not here, not like this over the phone…come by my office, say around one?”

“Alright,” Will acquiesced. “Does this have anything to do with the __________ campaign?”

Vazno chuckled, “You’re a bright lad…yes, I want to talk with you about the __________ account.”

Will hung up the phone, angry that he was still jumping through Vazno’s hoops.

“I’m going to see Mr. Vazno today at one.”

Mary perked up, her plumage falling onto the carpet jungle under her clawed feet.

“Really? Maybe he changed his mind about firing you!”

Will snorted, “More likely someone changed his mind for him.”

“How exciting!”

“I suppose…”

* * *

Mary Loomis sat perched on the edge of the tan striped sofa. Clutching a remote control in her left wing, she stared in anticipation at the silver television screen. Pressing the thick, rubber “power” button, the set came to life. Floating dismembered heads began to shriek and scream at her.

She’d only had it on for a few seconds when the residue began to coat the inside of her ears. The telly-jelly muted the world around her, while the flickering images kept her eyes from wondering beyond the metal edges of the screen. Mesmerized, Mary Loomis had willingly joined the ranks of the deaf and dumb.

“I’m leaving hon, don’t know when I’ll be back,” Will told her.

When she didn’t respond he reached down and gently shook her shoulder. Instead of turning to him, Mary’s finger twitched in rapid succession—looping the channels endlessly.

“I guess I’ll see you later.”

Walking out the front door, Will picked the waxy debris out of his ears. Looking up at the sky, he saw a wispy orange cloud floating over his neighborhood. It resembled the creature he’d envisioned in the purpleyellow of the accident. The name of it was on the tip of his tongue.

A sea horse, he thought happy to have been able to extract the words.
Admiring the cloud, he considered skipping the meeting with Vazno and painting a picture of the floating cloud. But before he could begin to mentally select a brush, a stiff breeze tore through it breaking off several small chunks. As cloud birthed smaller sea horse clouds, Will dismissed the idea of painting it.
No one would ever believe a cloud could look like that.

No one would ever understand.

* * *

Once again he was back on the fourth floor of the large concrete cube. Entering the V&A offices put a spring into his step. He was ready for some good news.

“Good afternoon Mr. Loomis,” Nancy-the-secretary said. “Mr. Vazno will see you in his office.”

Will headed over to Vazno’s office, as he neared it the gold framed door swung open. A gigantic rhinoceros wearing red suspenders waved him in.

“Loomis!” the Rhino greeted him. “Good afternoon!”

“Hello Mr. Vazno,” Will said sitting down.

The Rhino squeezed behind his tiny desk.

“I want to apologize for what happened yesterday…”

Will stopped him, “What do you want Vazno.”

Vazno’s blubbery lips curled into a demonic grin. He looked like he was about to either laugh or gore Will to death with his horns.

“That’s why I like ya Loomis, yer always to the point,” He slid a vanilla colored envelope across the desk. Will leaned forward and reached out for it—

BAM!

Vazno slammed a hoof down, pinning the envelope to the desktop.

“Think about this offer, don’t just feed off yer emotions…use yer head Loomis.”

Will took the envelope. Inside was a single sheet of paper with his old salary typed in the center. He did a double take, there were a few extra zeros attached.

“Why Mr. Vazno?”

“Funny thing,” the Rhino leaned forward conspiratorially. “Your work on the __________ campaign…”

“Rothschild changed his mind? He loves it!” Will beamed.

“Nah,” Vazno waved his hand lazily. “That old fool still says it’s shit—and I have to agree…”

Will was confused.

“But, Rothschild’s an impatient cheapskate. He decided to run yer stuff anyway…”

Will couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

“Hold on, you’re giving me my job back because the client was so cheap he used the ads he hated?”

Vazno laughed, “No actually. Another, richer-someone saw your ____________ ads and liked ‘em. Liked ‘em so much he called me up last night and requested you.”

“Me?”

“Yeah, he says to me ‘Rob, I want the guy that did the _____________ campaign to work on my account.’ So I told him…”

Will smiled, “I’m sure you told him you fired me, right?”

“I told him that you were my top man, and that you were too busy to work on his project, but that perhaps for the right price your schedule could be cleared…”

“So you want me back, just like that?”

Vazno nodded, his horns scuffing the ceiling tiles.

“Even though you hate my work, you want me back?”

Vazno shrugged, “Look kid, I’m a businessman…I never claimed to be an art critic. I like what people tell me is good.”

“Double it,” Will said. “And we have a deal.”

The old Rhino glared at him. Will could swear he heard the old Rhino’s rusty wheels clicking in thought.

“Fine. Done. Deal…welcome back. Now get to work!”

Will stood up, satisfied with how the negotiations had resolved themselves. Then he thought about his conversation with Mary this morning.

“Do you know what a Fresco is, Mr. Vazno?”

The thick skinned Rhino nodded, “Sure, isn’t that an upscale soft-drink …Martina worked on it’s European promotions last year.”

* * *

Walking out of Vazno’s office, Will reflected on the day’s strange turn of events. When he’d gone to bed last night, he’d been an unemployed disgrace. Now, less than twenty-four hours later, he was back on top again. Will got all the way to the front door of the big concrete cube, before he stopped himself.

“You know, Mr. Vazno,” he said returning to the old Rhino’s office. “I change my mind. I don’t want to come back to Vazno and Associates.”

Vazno puffed and snorted.

“I’ve learned that a lot can change over night,” Will said leaving. “I think I’ll wait and see what tomorrow brings.”