Grind

A Short Story

Author’s Note:

This story was origninally published in Pulp, Pipe, & Poetry Magazine, October 2023.

Enjoy

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6:30 a.m.

For Mr. Kevin Anker, work was a pleasure that had no equal.

That morning, the sixty-one-year-old man breezed through the sea of empty, dull-looking cubicles. The automatic ceiling lights flashed on with each step he made.

When he arrived at his seat, he snapped his briefcase open and fished for his company laptop. With haste, he popped it open. His fingers slammed against the keys.

What wonderful music, he thought; a few clicks and clacks filled the office, transporting his mind to the work at hand. Glorious work.

What would he focus on today?

Department spreadsheets? Email cadences? Slides for the Quarterly Review? Perhaps he will reorganize the database records again? It didn’t matter. Variety was not his style. That would be - inefficient.

7:45 a.m.

The floor was piling up with bodies now. The clicking was no longer sufficient to drown out the noise, the idle chitter-chatter that plagued his ears daily.

The youngins, the youths, and the graduates choked by their father’s old neckties huddled near his desk and would recap “the game” from the night before, yakking endlessly. Mr. Anker cleared his throat like a chain smoker hacking up something thick from below as a polite reminder that there was work to be done. He did this repeatedly until they cleared out.

He hadn’t earned the title of manager yet. An oversight to be sure. The desire burned in his soul and he made every effort to ascend to the next level in his career. Life was reorganized to meet the demands of his work.

He’d happily arrive early and stay late, even weekends were surrendered to the humdrum of company projects. The new offices occupied by Dressler, Duncan, Clark & Company, with their “open concept” floor plan, bean bag chairs, a gaming room oddly busy during work hours, tiny glass telephone booths, and enough cold brew on tap to send your heart into overdrive earned his annoyance that Monday morning. No doubt Dante would elect these office spaces as one of the circles of Hell.

There was nothing wrong with the old offices, Mr. Anker thought. Nothing at all! The tall walls of the old cubicles ran high enough to make you feel secure at your desk; your own personal castle where you reigned as lord over your serfdom of files and billing reports.

Now Management opted for walls that barely reach your shoulder. You can actually see the person working next to you, in front of you, left, right, and center. Mr. Anker groaned at such an idea. Why change?

He knew why, of course. The applicant pool was getting younger and younger each day. Management began conceding efficiency and a productive work environment for the juvenile, dumb monkeys released from their overpriced colleges the previous Spring.

“Forward. Our company is always looking ahead,” Mr. Duncan, the Managing Director, would often respond with the little quips he’d been collecting over the decades, enough maxims to produce a series of motivational posters you’d find plastered on walls in such a lackluster working office such as this one.

Still, these private thoughts and opinions would go to the grave with him. Mr. Anker would never dream of wasting time with petty office gossip.

He sat upright in his supported chair, tucked neatly at his white desk, and carried on.

12:09 p.m.

The floor emptied for the lunch hour. Though his stomach rumbled on and off fifteen minutes prior, he pushed through, keeping his eyes focused, bouncing back and forth, back and forth from his dual monitors. With the exception of a few annoying bathroom breaks, the man was glued to his desk. The music of typing returned. He smiled.

Then he heard it. The succession of footsteps from a distance.

His fingers paused. The walking continued with an incessant tapping of shoes on the thick, vinyl floor.

His eyes fixed on his watch then passed noon. Everyone should be at lunch.

Who could still be on the floor?

The footsteps continued behind him. The sound rang in his ears. Dear God, what if they came to his desk? He didn't dare to look behind him. Eye contact would seal his fate forever. Mr. Anker returned to his typing as best he could, but it was too late. The sound of the march stopped at his desk. A pair of sensible black Mary Janes.

Ms. Debra Sun, from one of the SMB sales teams, planted herself by his desk carrying two mugs filled and steaming with a dark roast she brewed that afternoon. It was her ritual to say hello and bring over a drink. She couldn’t help but be bubbly and friendly, a terrible affliction that troubled if not annoyed her seasoned coworker.

She was young-looking, possibly early thirties, with bright bluish-green eyes, and golden hair held together in a didn’t-want-to-do-anything-with-it ponytail. Her smile and upbeat personality would be regarded as infectious to a more receptive audience.

Mr. Anker glanced up at her, his fingers still flying across the keys at a swift speed.

“No lunch today?” her voice hovered in a high octave that no woman, no matter how dainty, should be able to carry.

“No,” was Mr. Anker’s reply. “QBRs for Mr. Duncan in thirty minutes.” He refused to look up at her or acknowledge the thoughtful gift of caffeine she placed on his desk in front of him. She sat there leaning at his desk, trying not to pick at her already chipped green nail polish.

“You gotta take lunch,” Debra said, “If you won’t eat, at least stretch your legs outside. It’s soooo nice out.”

The typing continued in full force. It wasn’t registering with her.

“Well, Kev, I’ll let you get back to it. Some of us are starting the afternoon lunch walk/run this week. If you’re interested—”

“Thank you, but no,” his eyes squinted as he turned to her. His blood ran cold at that childish nickname she gave him. The typing ceased and he just stared. She was beginning to understand.

“Let me know if you change your mind,” she turned and left him to his work.

A deep sigh escaped him. He looked at the time on one of the monitors - 12:15 PM. He completed his report with fifteen minutes to spare and quietly took a sip from the mug next to him. Either way, he had to cease his typing for a moment. The joints in his hands felt as if they were on fire; the swelling and rubbing were getting more intense these days. He tried making an O shape with his thumb and the tip of his fingers, just like his OT suggested. Only simple exercises, really.

His eyes wandered to a few of the other folks working around him. These young, baby-faced boys with stubble cheeks sat at their desks, smiling and dialing away to prospective customers who were too foolish to realize the value of their youth.

Age was peering its grim, wrinkled face around the corner with its cold gaze seemingly fixed on the old man. There was only so much he could do to try to repel its advances.

His hair was thinning, the wrinkles on his forehead seemed to multiply with each passing day, and his body was slower, ready to break at the first sign of pressure. Management reminded him of his senior rank, which felt more like a warning label than a badge of honor or respect.

Could he keep up with the rising next generation?

He’d have to try.

As he took a sip from the coffee cup given to him by Debra, the taste of burning sewage filled his mouth. Decaf? What a waste, he thought. He went to return the dreadful liquid to the kitchen in the back of the office when he heard his name called.

“Kevin. Do you have a moment?” the voice was refined, sharp, and carried authority.

“Of course, Mr. Duncan.”

“Excellent. My office when you’re ready.”

Mr. Anker dumped the coffee down the sink drain, placed the mug neatly in the dishwasher, and scurried off to his boss’s plush corner office.

“Have a seat,” Mr. Duncan’s towering body looked immensely awkward in his puny office chair. He was a silver fox, with a calm demeanor and large, powerful eyes. His hands were large too. If he clapped them together he’d send poor Mr. Anker’s short body flying across South Street Seaport.

“I’ve been watching you, Kevin. All of the management team has kept a close eye on you.”

His massive hand pulled out a file from his desk drawer. Mr. Duncan continued. “You’ve got some of the best work on the floor. I should say the best.”

Mr. Anker let a cheeky grin slip out as he twirled his thumbs over each other in slow fashion. It was rare to receive praise from Management, though he no doubt deserved it.

“I’ll get to it, Kevin,” Mr. Duncan’s voice was slow and deliberate this time. Mr. Anker leaned in, but only an inch, he didn’t want to seem too interested in his boss’s speech.

“The business is looking to expand the Enterprise team and will need a new manager to lead it.”

The eyes of Mr. Anker swelled with delight. He nearly rubbed his thumbs until they were raw. Finally.

“After reviewing your work last quarter, it only made sense to the Management team to—”

“Why, me?” Mr. Anker said with a not-so-subtle smirk. “I’m humbled, sir, really.”

“...ask for your recommendation.”

“Come again,” he felt his heart drop into his stomach and bounce around like a tennis ball.

“We’d like you to recommend someone. You are after all our most senior on your team.”

The room, though opulent and spacious in the most executive way, suddenly shrunk around Mr. Anker. He felt the temperature drop, especially around his neck as the air soon became harder for him to breathe.

“A—recommendation? You want me to…”

“Yes, management only thinks it’s fair to ask a senior staff member such as yourself to submit a recommendation. A new policy I personally suggested.” Mr. Duncan smiled that corporate smile with his teeth glistening white and bare, skin tight around his mouth, and eyes absent of any light or color or charm. A corporate smile that he perfected in his thirty-three years as Managing Partner, where every morning arriving at the office he’d get off looking at his name on the company masthead.
“No,” Mr. Anker’s voice punched through Mr. Duncan’s radiant, slimy smile.

“Pardon?”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Duncan, but I believe there isn’t a single soul on the floor worthy of the title of manager.”

“Oh,” the old man recoiled back into his leather throne, his shoulders noticeably tensed.

Mr. Anker was standing now as if preparing an impromptu speech on his imaginary soap box.

“With all due respect, sir, I know the company’s business better than anyone you employ. Last quarter alone, I sold more telephone lines and computer services than anyone on the sales team. Look at my record, sir, and you’ll see not a single day of tardiness or sick time. Not one request for PTO. Ever. I’m the first one in the office and the last to leave. With all that being said, I—”

“You make a compelling case, Kevin. I recognize your contributions to the business, of course. But..”

Mr. Anker stood frozen, hanging on every word of his boss.

“We are looking for fresh blood, someone we can train up, someone—”

“Younger.”

Mr. Duncan smiled his corporate smile again.

“Now, now Kevin. Think of this as a way to help bring up the next generation.”

Next generation?! The ones who took an additional twenty minutes on their lunch hour as if no one would notice? The generation that is far too timid to look you in the eye as you make your way to the bathroom? The generation that can’t distinguish the difference between a stamp and a return label? THAT generation?!

Mr. Anker blinked slowly as he eased back into his seat. He didn’t dare argue with his boss. But he continued.

“Chance.”

“Pardon?”

“What if management simply gave me a chance to prove my worthiness of the position?” Mr. Anker knew his boss liked little competitions, challenges, spiffs, and opportunities to see his employees rise to special occasions.

“I’m listening, Kevin,” Mr. Duncan’s smile returned once more as his eyes almost sparkled. Almost.

“Sir, allow me this chance to go above and beyond and you’ll have no doubt in your mind to offer me the position! Not a single doubt.”

His boss rose to his feet and his large hand stuck out in front of him, reaching to shake Mr. Anker’s.

“I like your attitude. I admire a man who is ambitious.”

He felt his heart skip a few beats when his hand clasped Mr. Duncan’s in a sharp, firm grip. He received the boss’ blessing, now he just needed to find a way for all this to work….somehow.

***

For the first time in over thirty years, Mr. Anker took a lunch break. Though it was unlike him and gave an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach, it was all for good reason. A week later, he journeyed downtown to Slater’s United Medical Center. He remembered the late-night commercials on TV and ads in the Sunday paper about the new technical advances the Center had made, where slower bodies could be made “new and vibrant again.” After talking it over with his primary care physician, his insurance company for the referral, and finally a Chief of Surgery at Slater, he grew a little more confident in his decision. But only a little.

He sat there quietly in the empty waiting room of the center where it seemed not a soul had ventured in years. The seats had dark stains, the room too tight and intimate, the air was thick with the smell of stale cigarette smoke desperate to break free from such dismal surroundings. There was a box-shaped television set perched in the corner that was stuck on a static channel that served as white noise.

A green light flashed just above the door leading to the treatment area and there was a harsh buzzing sound. From the door, came a stout, old woman who seemed to be the nurse, in navy blue scrubs. She fixed her eyes on Mr. Anker. Her face carried a fierce scowl that she seemed to be held together with regret for past decisions that led her life to this job, along with too much eyeliner. Like a ragged Miss Piggy puppet.

She said nothing, only waved Mr. Anker furiously, as if she had more patients waiting somewhere in a back room. Mr. Anker leaped to his feet and followed the old pig puppet through the door and down the dingy hallway with a shabby-looking carpet that stunk mildew and dead vermin. He covered his nose and pressed on.

The nurse opened the door to the examination room and pushed Mr. Anker inside. She motioned him to sit on the table and quickly closed the door behind her. The lights flickered, the wallpaper was chipped, stuck in the late 1970s, and Mr. Anker felt the nausea return to him again.

Was this a mistake? Perhaps he was in over his head. Surgical alterations to the human body were still a risky gamble, if not life-threatening, even these days. What would it mean if he severed parts of himself in exchange for certain - medical enhancements? All for what? Company recognition?

But his work demanded him to perform at his absolute best.

Was he willing to pay the price?

Mr. Anker sat there with such racing thoughts. No. This had to work.

He needed all this to work. The position of management is a coveted prize to be had. No other soul deserves such an honor and no soul was fit enough to sharpen Mr. Anker’s pencils. Certainly not!

Mr. Duncan himself endorsed the notion of his ascension to the position and after all, he was the most senior. What were a few alterations, anyway? His insurance was good, that’s all that mattered now.

There was a gentle rapping at the door. Mr. Anker jumped.

“Welcome back,” said Dr. Everett, the Chief of Surgery, who arrived in the room with a cheery grin. His face was oldy shaped like a chipmunk, plump cheeks and small, with excitable looking eyes.

“Have you given any thoughts on the surgery, Mr. Anker?”

“This procedure,” the doctor looked over his notes, “you understand once the alterations have been made, there is no going back. Your original hands…will be gone for good. The process cannot be reversed under any circumstances.”
Mr. Anker looked down at his hands and then balled them into fists.

“Yes,” he said, “I understand. When do we begin?”

The doctor gave a nod of confirmation and smiled.

***

The office floor hummed along with busy bodies at their desks. Another day filled with endless phone calls, morning stand-up meetings, and idle chatter around last night’s mindless TV show. Everyone is perfectly placed at their stations on a typical workday.

With his new finger prosthetics, he quickly went to work that morning. Long, thin bionic instruments protruded from the bone of his fingers. Mechanical ligaments welded to the base of each finger with gears giving off a slight hiss every now and then. Arthritis? Gone. His fingers could practically burn holes in his keyboard if he wasn’t careful.

The surgery was successful, and Dr. Everett felt pleased with his work. Kevin Anker was not going to rest any longer than he needed to. His eagerness to return to the office was palpable. A prescription of painkillers did what it needed to do for the time being.

Though he already was lacking in coworker camaraderie, the sheer sight of his industrial hands, that every now and then oozed a vile grease and hummed like a motorized toy sports car, the other corporate drones made every effort to avoid him now. There were rumors circulating through the office about him. After witnessing his new upgrades, they feared to approach the man altogether.

“Was he in an accident? Was this a weird, extreme attempt at dark humor?” No one knew the real reason of course. He was delighted in his solitude. Words spread so quickly that the HR department dispensed a company-wide Memo instructing employees on respecting the rights of others wishing to go through permanent, albeit radical, medical changes to one's anatomy. The petty office gossip didn’t stop him, it invigorated him! Now he was free at last to continue to be a productivity machine with the help of his — additions. He quickly became more efficient by the day.

Many of the staff opted to work in single pods and some requested to have their desks moved far away from him. An added bonus, Anker thought. The music of his typing sent him back into a trance. This was the edge he needed. With no one to bother him with tedious small talk, he could increase his output and easily secure his promotion.

The title of manager would be his in no time.

His typing speed increased, and the paperwork was filed within seconds. During lunch, he'd skim Slater Medical Brochures wondering what other enhancements he used. Pesky bathroom breaks? Try a steel catheter. Sleep getting in the way? Why not upgrade to an external electric battery?

So many, many choices. Soon his old body would be gone and his age would truly be a simple number.

Though many of his coworkers found it difficult to concentrate with the occasional grease stains on the floors as well as the loud mechanized motors running overtime, they hesitated to complain. His ears suddenly perked up when the clacking sound of kitten heels grabbed his attention.

Debra Sun seemed to be the only person in the office not intimated with Mr. Anker’s new add-ons. She threw herself at his desk at the lunch hour.

The young woman placed upon his desk a mug of something hot.

“I thought,” Debra kept her eyes on his bionic fingers clanking away. “I thought you might want…coffee?”

He paused for a moment and turned his head slowly until his sharp little eyes met hers. He knew she felt unsure of his prosthetics. Uncomfortable. Uneasy. Yet, Debra still brought him a cup of coffee despite Anker looking like a corporate Edward Scissorhands.

What was her angle? Was — she making a play for the role of manager? Her?!

He let the thought linger in the air. There was a soft, but growing chuckle erupting from someplace deep inside him. How ridiculous! He entertained the idea of her running meetings, dispensing memos, and suggesting “ways for him to improve” during annual performance reviews.

Then he returned her offer with a nice half smile.
Debra felt a chill running over her body as he looked at her. She pulled out a plastic straw from the pocket of her sweater and offered it to him.

“Maybe,” she started “Well, I just thought maybe you might need this? Make it easy to enjoy it and all.”
Mr. Anker reached up, the gears of his hands and sharp fingers, whining, curving slightly as he tried to grasp the straw.

Then the sounds came all at once. A sharp squelch and a wet crunch. Soon accompanied by a shriek with enough force to shatter the windows of the whole office.

It took him a moment to fully realize the extent of what happened.

Slowly, his eyes scanned his white desk that was darkened by a small ruby pool containing three, maybe four thin white fingers with dark green nail polish.

Mr. Anker noticed his once clean blue shirt now sullied with large inky patches and blackened blotches.

Spots of blood painted his face like an original Jackson Pollock. The screams of the young woman made his body quiver at first, but soon he was motionless looking up at the sea of eyes of many coworkers who stood in fear at the horror of the scene.

Debra Sun collapsed still holding her mutilated right hand. A woman and two men rushed to help her.

An authoritative voice echoed through the office floor, “What’s happened?”

The people of the office kept their distance, murmuring to each other about the event they witnessed.

“Let me though,” continued the voice.

Mr. Duncan pushed his way out of the crowd and nearly gagged at the sight of Debra’s fingers on the desk.

“Get an ambulance! Kevin—”

“I...this was…an accident. I didn’t–”

“Enough. Not another sound,” Mr. Duncan shook his head. No corporate smile this time.

“Get security up here, now. This man must be removed immediately.”

He stood alone at the mercy of his boss and his peers. They hauled Debra away and he looked at his titanium hand that did the deed of slicing through warm flesh.

A hand that was now coated with the blood of the only person who showed him any kindness. Someone who approached him with a smile and a hot drink every afternoon, who smiled at him and encouraged him to participate in company activities.

She was a ray of sunshine in this cold, lifeless place.

Kevin Anker did not say another word, nor did he resist the police when they eventually came for him. The officers escorted him to the elevator and he stood there saying nothing, only weeping.

His deep desire for recognition and the acquisition of the most coveted title would never be his.

A man with great ambition, but an aging body, discovered that the price of continued career success was one marred in blood. With his shiny, titanium claws now being scraped, Debra being rushed to the ER, and his termination from the company, his mind became overwhelmed with the worst realization.

He had finally been rendered — inefficient.