The elevator doors opened and George followed Miss Roy into the lobby. While the pretty young woman from human resources had her back to him, he quickly glanced at his watch.
Nine-thirty, already! And I have to be at a ten o'clock meeting. Should I even bother to try?
Miss Roy spun on her heels and smiled at him. She extended her hand and said, "Goodbye, Mr. Deakin. And good luck!"
He remembered to make his handshake firm, to show confidence. "Thank you very much, Miss Roy," he said, "I hope to hear from you soon."
George left the building and, as soon as he could no longer be seen through the glass doors, began to run toward the Metro station. His satchel banged against his knees and his shoes had no traction, but he ran anyway, as quickly as he could. He did not want to answer any questions from Mr. Ramsey, his boss, about why he had been arriving late to work so often recently. And if he was late for this meeting, he knew, the shit would hit the fan.
It was a great interview. At least I have that going for me. I could tell she was impressed. And I'm perfectly qualified for the job, anyone can see that. Now if only I'm not competing against some vice-president's nephew, I'll be in, and this damn ten o'clock meeting won't matter.
He crossed the street against the red light, dodging cars, and burst through the swinging door into the Montreal Metro system. Running down the escalator two stairs at a time, he fumbled in his jacket pocket and found the bus ticket. He pushed the ticket into the feeder slot and shoved through the turnstile. There was a train on the platform, still slowing down. He sprinted to the staircase.
On the stairs, he saw that the train was going in the wrong direction. He slowed to a walk, and moved to the end of the platform.
It can be done. If the next train comes by nine forty, I can make it on time. But where am I going to change?
George worked in a software company, where the dress code was casual. T-shirts and jeans were his usual work clothes. But now he wore pressed slacks, a shirt and tie and polished shoes. He had purchased a new jacket just for this interview, and a vest made of leather and silk. Everything was nicely coordinated, and he had even bought a carnation for his buttonhole.
I look fantastic. This outfit says, "I'm smart, dependable, very promotable, and I have an expensive lifestyle, so I need a high salary." This is good, but I can't show up at work looking like this. What should I do?
He had been in this situation before, of course, but never had he been so pressed for time. His usual course of action was to step into the washroom of the fast food place next to the Cote Vertu station, and change his clothes in the stall. But that would cost him more than five minutes.
Well, I guess I have no choice. I'll have to hope I get a Metro car to myself, and change while we're moving through the tunnel. If it's too crowded for that, I'm sunk.
He looked up and down the platform. Nobody else was waiting to get on the train. Not surprising, at this time of day. He leaned forward and looked down the tunnel. Far away, he could see the headlights of the train he was waiting for. He watched as it gradually drew closer, then the whooshing noise of it became audible, then louder and louder until the train pulled into the station and slowed to a stop.
He stepped into the ninth and last car, and sat in one of the corner seats. There were seven other people in this car, only three in the eighth car, and six in the seventh. He could not see any further than that, as the far wall of the seventh car had no windows. Sixteen people altogether.
As the Metro pulled in and out of stations, George kept track of how many people got on and off. By the time he reached Namur station, there was only one other person in the part of the train he could see, but she was sitting in his own car, and facing him. There were only three more stations on the line, and he was tempted to just go ahead and change his clothes anyhow, but the lady looked like the sort of person who would raise a ruckus at the sight of an incompletely-dressed man. He decided to wait one more stop.
Come on, you grumpy old cow, get off the train at De la Savane. You wouldn't get off at Du College; only students want to go there. And you don't want to get off at Cote Vertu; you don't look like the terminus type. Okay, lady, here comes the stop, we're at De la Savane, hit the road, okay?
As the train slowed down in its approach to the De la Savane station, the lady gathered her shopping bags together and prepared to leave. George wanted to jump up and down with glee, but he just held his breath and watched the platform, praying that there would be nobody waiting to get on the train. The doors opened, the lady got off, and nobody got on.
As soon as the doors closed again, George sprang into action. He opened the satchel and took out his jeans, t-shirt and sneakers. He pulled the carnation out of his buttonhole and flung it away, then pulled off his shoes and put them at the bottom of the bag. Next, he removed his jacket and carefully placed it onto the seat. He would have to fold the jacket carefully before packing it. He did not want to ruin it. He pulled off the vest, rolled it up and put it into the satchel on top of the shoes, then dropped his tie on top. Both shirt and slacks were rolled up before being dropped into the satchel with the rest.
Standing there wearing only socks and underpants, George felt vulnerable. There was nothing to worry about, of course; the train had not even started to slow down for the next stop. But as he reached for his jeans, he saw movement out of the corner of his eye. He looked along the train towards the seventh car, and was alarmed to see the emergency door swinging open. Coming through the door from the sixth car, two Metro security guards stopped and stared when they saw him. Their jaws dropped.
"Shit!" said George, out loud, and then grabbed the jeans and struggled to pull them on.
Great! Oh, great! This is all I need! I couldn't be spotted, in public, in my underwear, by ordinary people, right? No, of course not, it has to be Metro cops; of all the obnoxious, bullying, frustrated, castrated psychopaths that are loose in this city, I have to be stumbled onto, while behaving very suspiciously, by a couple of pretend cops with two-foot-long flashlights!
George succeeded in fastening his jeans and pulling on his sneakers before the security guards reached him. One of the security guards was tall, with greasy black hair and a bushy black moustache. The second was short and blonde, clean shaven, with a crewcut.
"Qu'est-ce que tu fait, monsieur?" asked the shorter security guard.
"Um, sorry, uh...officers, but I was only changing my clothes. You see, I was late for work."
The shorter security guard scowled and said something in French that could not be heard over the roar of the train. George tried again, in French this time.
"Pardonnez-moi, monsieur, mais je dois changer mon vetements, parce-que je suis en retard, pour arriver a mon travail."
The security guards moved a few feet away and discussed the situation, too quietly for George to hear them. He would feel a lot better about his chances of avoiding arrest, if only he were wearing his shirt. He glanced over at the seat, looking for the t-shirt, then realized that the shorter, scowling guard was holding it up, examining it suspiciously, with a look of repugnance on his face.
Oh, come on, dimwit, it's just a shirt! You would think, the way he's looking at it, that it was woven out of coca leaves or something! What the hell am I gonna do if they arrest me? I can't let that happen. I can't stand up in court and face some weird indecent-exposure-in-the-Metro charge. I gotta get away! And now the train is slowing down. I'm gonna make a break for it! One false move on their part, and I'm gonna run all the way home if I have to!
The taller security guard looked at George apologetically, and said, "We have to ask you to come with us, sir."
"But, why?" asked George, genuinely surprised, "I was just changing my clothes. I didn't cause any harm. If you'll just give me back my shirt, I'll put it on, and I'll keep it on, I promise!" The train was almost at a stop, now. The doors would open in two or three seconds.
They're playing good cop, bad cop with me. I wanna break the jaw of this scowling little bad cop, but if I'm gonna go on the offensive, I have to put the bigger guy out of commission first. Okay, George, here we go, the doors are about to open, shrug your shoulders, look sheepish, be unpredictable...
George held the fingers of his right hand stiffly together and drove them into the left eye of the taller security guard. The man shouted and backed away, clutching at his eyes. With a threatening glare at the smaller security guard, George snatched his jacket and the satchel and walked backwards out of the Metro car, then turned and ran along the platform.
I can't believe I did that! I better get out of here, and fast! Where the hell is the damn staircase? Oh yeah, this is Du College station, the exits are at both ends of the platform. I don't even know which exit I'm heading for, but who cares! I just hope I can flag down a taxi before these guys catch me.
As he reached the end of the platform, George could see that something was very wrong. There was an orange metal scaffolding there, and a temporary plywood wall had been built, covering the place where the staircase was supposed to be. A sign directed him to use the other exit.
George looked down the platform at the other exit, and saw it was just a few feet from where he had stepped out of the train. He saw the security guards sprinting down the platform toward him. The taller one held his hand over one eye. Both of them were shouting, and brandishing their flashlights as clubs.
He looked at the train. The driver's compartment was here, and he could see the driver leaning back in his seat, holding the sports page up in front of him. The doors of the train were still open; there must be some delay.
George ran to the end of the platform and down the stairs into the tunnel. Jumping over the near rail, he started running down the tunnel toward the Cote Vertu terminus. He knew he would never make it to Cote Vertu before the train; he would have to leap over the central rails and run on the other set of tracks, when the train caught up to him.
Behind him, he heard shouting. Looking back, he saw two lights, jerking and bobbing, occasionally pointing straight toward him. The security guards were still giving chase. He could hear their footsteps.
Up ahead, there was a metal plate raised off the floor. Cables and pipes led into and out of it. George was not sure whether it was safe to touch the thing; to avoid being electrocuted he would have to make sure he touched only cement. He gathered his legs beneath him and leaped over the metal plate. The manouvre was successful, but his grip on the satchel gave way and he heard it hit the ground behind him.
Shit! No time to go back and get it, they're too close. There go my interview clothes! Aw, man, there was about three hundred dollars worth of duds in that bag! And I have no shirt!
He was still holding his jacket. He put it on while running; he could run faster with nothing in his hands. The tunnel curved, then up ahead he could see the Cote Vertu platform, still far away. There was a train parked there on the other set of tracks, pointing toward him. As he watched, its headlights went on. That meant it was starting to move into the tunnel. At the same time, he detected a brightening light coming from behind him. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw the headlights of the train he had been riding.
Oh no! The trains are going to pass me at the same time! I'll have to hold myself flat against the tunnel wall. At least those cops will have to stop chasing me for a few seconds. It'll give me a chance to catch my breath. But I'm gonna have to wait till the last second before I stop running, so they don't catch up.
As the two sets of headlights moved closer, George kept running, trying to estimate how much time he had. Suddenly he noticed an opening in the wall on the other side of the tunnel. Without hesitating, he leaped over the center rails, jumped again over the far outside rail, and was in the side tunnel, doubled over, gasping for breath. Looking out of the side tunnel, he saw the train he had been riding begin to go past. Two seconds later, the other train began to speed by.
All right, I'm pretty sure I can beat those guys to the terminus. But what then? I can't exactly go and stand at the bus stop. I can't go to work with no shirt, and I'll miss the meeting, anyway. The best thing to do is to get out of sight of the Metro station, then blend into the crowd as best I can. And find a phone booth and call in sick. Ramsey is in the meeting by now; I'll get his voice mail, so I won't actually have to talk to him. I'll tell him I got food poisoning from a meat-lover's pizza, or something.
The trains were slowing down. The noise they made was deepening in pitch. George gaped, crestfallen, as first one train, then the other, slowed to a crawl and stopped. The drivers must have seen people running in the tunnel and called in the order to stop. And all the way down the line trains would be stopping, to keep them in synch.
He was trapped. George did not relish the idea of trying to walk along the narrow gap between the train and the wall. He turned around, and began to examine the side tunnel. It must go somewhere. He walked deeper in.
A staircase! Maybe there was a way out! He climbed the stairs, and found himself on a narrow catwalk. He walked along the catwalk until he saw a ladder, its metal rungs bolted to the wall. He looked up and saw, forty feet above, a door built into the wall. He climbed the ladder as quickly as he dared, and tried the door. It was not locked!
Now he was in a small concrete shed. He closed the door he had come through and locked it. Looking around him, he saw a door and a tiny window. He tried the door and found it locked, then went to examine the window. Through the grimy pane, he saw a grassy lawn with plastic bags blowing across it, and a busy street beyond. The scene looked familiar, somehow.
He unlocked the window and pushed it open. It was quite small, but he thought he could fit. It was worth a try, anyhow. Pushing his shoulders through, he wriggled and hunched his way outwards, bracing himself with his hands on the outer windowsill. When he was halfway through, there were some uncomfortable moments when his hands could not reach anymore, and the sill dug painfully into his abdomen. Kicking his legs and jerking forward, he managed to get his hips past the window and he fell clumsily to the ground outside. After a few deep breaths, he stood up, pushed the window closed, and looked around.
Why, that was Rue Begin, right beside him! He was right across the street from work! He looked across at the Optical Gain building, and his heart sank when he saw Ramsey, his boss, standing outside the front door, smoking a cigarette. Before he could duck behind the shed, Ramsey turned and saw him.
"George! What the hell are you doing over there?" shouted Ramsey, "Get over here, on the double!"
George looked down at himself. The new jacket was filthy and torn now, from climbing out the window. And it would not be easy to hide the fact that he was shirtless, as the jacket only had two buttons. Dejected, he walked across the street.
"What in God's name happened to you?" asked Ramsey. Luckily, he did not wait for an answer. He said, "Didn't I warn you not to be late for another meeting? Go get cleaned up, and then meet me in my office fifteen minutes from now. And you better have a good explanation for all this, or it'll be your ass!"
George went inside, made his way to the men's room, and tidied himself as well as he could. Then he went to his own cubicle. The only thing he had that would do as a shirt was a cardigan, but its buttons only went halfway up his chest. He further fastened it closed by looping paper clips through the wool on each side.
Well, this'll have to do. What else can go wrong for me today? What am I gonna tell him? I got mugged? My shirt caught on fire, somehow? Is he gonna can me? He wouldn't dare! Except for being late for a couple of meetings, I've been a model employee. I always meet my deadlines, I work long hours, I need little supervision. He'd be hurting himself if he fired me. But what am I gonna tell him about the shirt? What about missing the meeting? Why couldn't that shed have been somewhere else? Anywhere else!
George stood up. It was time. But just as he started to walk out of his cubicle, something caught his eye. The little red light was on, on his phone. Should he listen to the message? He checked his watch; there was still three minutes before he was supposed to be in Ramsey's office. He picked up the phone, and punched in the numbers to dial the voice-mail system. He heard his own voice saying his own name, and entered his pass code. A pleasant woman's voice said "You have ...one... new message in your mailbox."
He pressed number one. The message played. "Hello, Mr. Deakin, this is Julie Roy. I have spoken to Mr. Regnier about your application, and we are prepared to make you an offer..."
George pressed number seven, then quickly dialed Julie Roy's number. She made him the offer, and he smiled. Three weeks vacation to start. Salary reviews twice in the next nine months. The smile broadened. Bonus incentive. Full dental. He made an appointment for the next day, to go and sign the offer sheet.
As he walked to Ramsey's office, George tried unsuccessfully to wipe the smile off his face.
I can buy a new computer now. And get a better apartment. Live in a nice neighbourhood for a change. And I'm gonna buy a new car. Something tells me I don't want to take the Metro anymore.