Blowfish
By Sandra Lundy
No one at the firm liked Frank, and he leaned into it. He was sour as a chewed cigar to his fellow partners, icy as Pluto to associates and staff. Donna, Frank's last secretary, a middle-aged woman of steel and spit when she first took her seat at the desk outside his office, left three years later bent and pale, tormented by a piercing ring in her ears. Ted, Frank's gentle staff accountant--"Dead Ted” Frank called him--filled his nights with "Call of Duty: Warzone," under the nom de guerre FKPhrankk. We avoided his office if we could, and backed out of it as quickly as possible if we couldn't. It wasn’t that Frank yelled or threw things or insulted you outright. It was just that when you were in his office, the air was so thick with disdain it was hard to breathe. Still, the partners felt lucky to have him. Frank was the foremost authority on accounting principles for cryptocurrency. Each year, he brought in millions.
Nowhere was Frank more Frank-like than at the Cashe, Rich & Fortuna, P.C. annual Holiday Party, a black-tie affair usually held in the gilded foyer of a museum or the richly- appointed lobby of a concert hall or well-endowed charity. At each year’s CRF bash, Important People leveled mountains of cold jumbo shrimp and hot lobster meat, spread salty butter shaped like dollar bills onto hand-kneaded rolls, drank poisonous amounts of high-end liquor, and pretended to dance. It was a time to break out the diamond necklaces and Patek Philippes, a time to celebrate not only the firm’s financial success but also its urbanity.
And each year, without fail, Frank managed, as it were, to pick the nose of the firm’s pretentions.
At the Museum of Native American Culture, he showed up in Cleveland Indians cap and moccasins, which made a jarring contrast with his black tux. At the Massachusetts Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, he wore a mink coat and snakeskin boots. Frank flaunted his odious politics to anyone he could capture, meeting their frozen smiles with a menacing glare. Or he walked off in the middle of a conversation, as if he had more interesting places to be.
Some of us thought Frank was just clueless about social graces. “It’s about what you’d expect,” we said, “from the overachieving son of a schoolteacher and his librarian wife who still drives a Subaru and buys his suits at Target.” Others said class was beside the point. “Frank is just a boor.”
Anyway, this year’s holiday party was at the Aquarium. The employee kitchen buzzed with speculation. The secretaries said Frank would show up in a sharkskin suit. The younger CPAs opted for a sealskin jacket. Mid-level CPAs bet on a plastics theme. “If he comes as a blowfish,” said Dave, our 50-year-old stoner office boy, “no one will know the difference, right?” We all agreed that Frank, with his puffy body, pouty lips, bug eyes, and short limbs could pass as a blowfish.
The night of the party was clear and chilly. The luminescent Aquarium stood brilliantly against the ink sky. At the entrance to the cavernous lobby, Dick Cashe, the head of the firm, greeted every client with a fat smile and a fat handshake, while his latest wife offered air kisses and flutes of champagne. High heels ticked on marble. Laughter bounced off deep-water tanks. Waiters wove deftly through the crowd like tangs through a coral reef. The evening was perfect, except everyone knew it wouldn’t last. Our collective muscles tensed, waiting for Frank.
Some say the dread between the raised hand and the slap is worse than the slap itself. I get it. The party wore on, and there was no Frank, and still there was no Frank. Speeches were spoken. Half-eaten lava cake oozed on embossed dessert plates. And still there was no Frank. The muscles coiled tighter. People dropped their drinks, their glasses tinkling on the marble floor. The secretaries got headaches. The junior CPAs were suddenly too tired to dance. Senior associates mumbled about the babysitter and handed their tickets to the valets. Partners snapped at waiters, and waiters snapped at each other. The invited guests felt insulted, although none of them could say why. Still no Frank.
By eleven o’clock, on a Saturday no less, the party was over.
The next Monday, Frank was in the office early, as usual. He hummed to himself all day. He spoke to no one, and no one, furious, spoke to him.
THE END
Author Bio: In her recently former life, Sandra Lundy published books and articles on domestic violence and general family law. Way before that, she published fiction and poetry in little magazines and anthologies. Life has come full circle, and she’s mining her experience and imagination in ways that are always catching her off balance.