The only interruption to the sweet sound of silence that Craig loved so much was the steady clicking of his keyboard.
His laptop occupied the center of the desk in the corner of the room, away from all distractions in the simple apartment: three rooms, all he needed. The main room, his bedroom, housed a twin-sized bed opposite the clean, sleek desk where he spent most of his time. One dresser completed the room, his clothes fitting into four drawers. The kitchen contained an oven, never warm, a mini-fridge and his microwave for heating late night take-out. His bathroom, if the closet-sized extension could be call “room,” crammed a sink, shower, and toilet, into the dollhouse-like space.
Tonight, like every other night, Craig worked, preparing for tomorrow’s meeting. His brain raced as fast as his fingers clicked. Spreadsheets, expansions, marketing, all of the business insider information he had gathered throughout his years with Benison and Sons. Eight years of long nights, missed parties and no girlfriends were all going to be worth it.
Mr. Benison’s eldest son, John, left the business one week ago, apparently too good for the oil pipe and accessories game. Mr. Benison could have called tomorrow’s meeting a luau, but everybody really knew it was an open audition for John’s job. And Craig felt certain that job had his name on it—eight years of ass-kissing and hard work made him the rightful heir to the vice president position.
Who else would be worthy—Cathy? If the vice president’s job consisted of staring out the door and eating a doughnut, then yes, Cathy deserved the job. Ken Benison posed the only real threat as the youngest of the Benison kids. If work ethic passed down genetically, Ken would be adopted. Benison and Son, Craig thought, should be called Benison and Craig.
He finished his last bullet point, picked out his black wool suit, and set his alarm to seven. As he got into bed, he couldn’t help but feel proud; years of hard work to be realized tomorrow. He closed his eyes, growing sleepy, recalling the late nights working in his studio, all the times he blew off his friends, the girls he didn’t call. Craig fell asleep, his smile turning to a frown.
The alarm broke up Craig’s sleep. His eyes opened and he struggled to clear his morning daze. At 7 a.m., Craig rolled over and motioned for the top of the clock, a simple action he performed every morning, except this morning.
Craig’s blurry vision cleared from the shock of his alarm blaring. Like a mule, he kicked his sheets off, exposing the reality of this new day: He had no arms. Terrified, he examined himself up and down. His shoulder, smooth, rounded off at the end, from there…nothing. He swung his body back and forth, side to side, praying his arms would somehow pop out. The beeping of the alarm clock seemed to bounce off every wall of the tiny apartment until Craig couldn’t take it anymore. He shot out of bed like a rocket, using only his legs and abdominals. Confused, terrified, pissed off, he slammed his head against the clock with the rage of a man who woke up with no arms. His eyes rolled behind his eyelids, as he fell to the ground along with the clock, out cold.
Craig’s eyes fluttered open, a swollen black eye preventing him from seeing clearly. Finally focused, his eyes met the clock on the floor next to him. 8:20 a.m. Forty minutes until his meeting started.
He rolled over to his door like a child down a hill. No way would he miss this meeting. Pressing his face to the door, he inched his way to his knees as he broke down the situation in his head. If he got ready in five minutes, caught a cab, he could get there in 20. He’d give himself 10 extra minutes, accounting for his current state. Only 30 minutes, and a whole extra 10 minutes to prepare at the office! Focusing all his weight on his knees, he jumped up and landed on his feet. He fancied himself an escaping James Bond, a severely handicapped James Bond.
Staring at his clothes hanging on his door, Craig quickly realized five minutes wasn’t going to be enough time to get ready. He nudged the suit with his head until it fell to the floor. Like a dog, he dug his head into the suit trying to wiggle his way in. Not working. The suit moved around his body like a worm. The clock read 8:30 a.m.
Craig examined his armless body, standing tall in his boxers. Screw it.
The wind rushed up Craig’s legs as he ran out of his building, his boxers billowing with each step. People stared, but he didn’t care. Men in suits dotted the busy street, raising their hands, hailing cabs. One by one, cabs stopped, the businessmen disappearing into them. Craig looked down at his semi-naked body. He twitched his shoulder blade, attempting to call a cab. It was like a mute person trying to scream. He looked down at where his arm would be…no watch. Idiot! He had to do something quick.
“Stop! Stop, please god stop!” Craig ran out in the middle of the street. Like a madman, he jumped up and down shouting, facing a cab speeding toward him like a bullet. It stopped in front of him. The driver ran out of the car and opened up the door.
“Quick. Quick get in! Buckle up.”
Buckle up? They stared at each other.
“Okay, let’s go to the hospital!” The cab driver pushed the pedal down.
“No, thank you though. Can you just take me to Benison and Sons please?”
“You have no arms! You need the hospital.”
Craig tuned out the cab driver’s speech, and looked at the cab’s clock. 8:55 a.m. He was cutting it close. Not only was he cutting it close, he forgot his briefcase, but he knew his presentation like the back of his hand, if he had one.
They pulled up to Benison and Sons. “Are you sure I can’t take you to the hospital?” the driver asked as he opened the door. “You have no arms!”
Craig scurried out the door. He wanted to pay him, but he didn’t have his wallet or pants or arms to pull out his wallet from his pants. He left the cab driver there, scratching his head.
As he ran into the office, he passed Cathy munching a doughnut.
“You are late,” she said.
“You are eating a doughnut!” Craig rushed to the elevator. Shit. He slammed his head against the elevator button, recessed into the panel.
“Cathy can you hit this button for me?”
“I’m eating a doughnut, my hands are tied,” Cathy said, powder sugar spitting out.
She’s mocking me. Doesn’t she know how serious it is to not have arms, out of the blue? How dare she make fun of it.
Craig rushed to the spiraling marble stairs, his brain running through all his material. Expansions, numbers, logistics, the job was his. He got to the door to find it closed. He rammed it with his entire body.
Ken sat next to his dad. “Craig!” Mr. Benison said, rising from his position at the head of the table. Craig fell through the wooden door, looking up at the large conference room.
“I’m sorry Mr. Benison. I know I’m late. I have my report ready though. I’ll show you I’m the right choice for the promotion!”
Mr. Benison laughed. “Craig, it’s called Benison and Son, not Benison and Craig.”
The whole conference room lit up with laughter. Craig stood, eyes spinning, eyeing all of them.
“Also, where are your arms? Where are your clothes?”
Craig walked out, head bowed in defeat. The cool morning’s chill went through his exposed body like an arm is supposed to go through its socket. He headed towards the hospital, not caring who stared at him. Spreadsheets, analytics, PowerPoints no longer monopolized his thoughts—only the fact that he had no arms. Then it really hit him: He had no arms. Craig sprinted through the streets, healthier than he had ever felt in his life.
Iain Sunday is a junior at CASA Charter School.
