Read Online The Safety of Objects: Stories by A. M. Homes - Free Book Online

and Jim gets nervous. His palms sweat, and he finds it difficult to breathe. He sits paralyzed at his desk and pushes the redial button every two minutes until finally someone picks up. It is all he can do to stop himself from hitting redial every minute, or thirty seconds. This did not happen years ago, before they moved out of town. After all, before, if his wife was not home, she was out there somewhere, perhaps walking just below his office window. Now, if she is not home, she is
truly
out there, easily miles from home, possibly in another state.
    Each evening, well past eight, when all the offices are empty, Jim goes down the hall, leans back in the senior partner’s chair, and looks out over the Manhattan skyline. He relaxes for fifteen or twenty minutes and then on his way out he peeks into the hall, making sure the cleaning lady is at the far end of the floor, unzips his fly, and relieves himself into the large potted plant Patterson keeps by the door.
    It is Jim’s rule that except in cases of extreme emergency, he is not permitted to pee between lunch and the end of the day. By eight o’clock he has collected a sufficient quantity of urine. It is his ritual, his salvation.
    Since signing on with Flynch, Peabody, and Patterson, Jim’s lost count of how many plants he’s killed. Patterson’s secretary seems to think their death has to do with the lack of light, the poor quality of air in the building, or possibly a high concentration of lead in the drinking water. The associates make jokes about the horrible smell by Patterson’s door. In one the punch line is something about how it’s better to drop dead in your tracks than go dripping off like the old man, who in reality is hardly old.
    *  *  *
    “Not interrupting you, am I?” Patterson says as he walks into Jim’s office, laughing, fully aware that there is no such thing as the senior partner interrupting anyone. “You’re Flynch-Peabody’s Man of the Year.”
    Jim doesn’t know what he’s talking about. He feels like a surprise contestant on a game show.
    Patterson’s secretary comes in with a plaque the size of a coffee table. Patterson himself is grinning from ear to ear. A photographer rushes in and snaps a few pictures of Patterson and Jim standing with the plaque between them. Jim’s secretary carries in a large potted plant. Jim blushes deep red and feels his knees turn into rubber bands.
    This is a joke, a bad joke, Jim thinks. This is Flynch-Peabody’s way of saying good-bye.
    “You should be proud,” Patterson says, shaking Jim’s hand. “Not every man is Man of the Year. I never was. Don’t think I don’t know you’re here every night after everyone leaves. I have my spies.” He winks at Jim and then leaves.
    “Congratulations,” Jim’s secretary says, still holding the potted plant, which must weigh at least forty pounds. “Where should we put it?”
    “Take it home,” Jim says. “I have terrible allergies.”
    His secretary carries the plant out to her desk, and Jim calls home again. The line is busy.
    The shock of the award, the plant in particular, has left him weak. He’s still seeing the blue spots from the photographer’s flash in front of his eyes. There is no way he can work.
    “Early lunch appointment, slipped my mind,” Jim says as he passes his secretary’s desk on his way out.
    I am a self-made man, he tells himself in the elevator. He looks into the silver polish of the control panel and sees his reflection, distorted. I made you and I can break you, anytime I want. Something to keep in mind, buddy boy.
    Jim takes a long walk, circling the block twice, picking up the power to go farther, then heading in the direction of the river. He thinks about his job, about the view from Patterson’s big chair, about how good it feels to finally let go when you’ve been holding it in all afternoon. Within a half hour, Jim is so fully revived that he marches back to the office.
    There are police cars and fire