The Meeting (my second short story)

Ronald. J. Morse                                                                                                    about 1000 words

Portland, Oregon 97233

971-258-5453

Ron.morse@gmail.com

The Meeting

by

Ronald Morse

      The meeting is set up for three thirty this afternoon.  It’s a little after nine a.m. now.  If I were to tell you I was a little bit nervous, I’d be lying.  I’m extremely nervous.  I don’t think I slept for more than forty-five minutes at a time last night.  You see, this meeting was agreed upon late last week, and the closer it gets to happening, the more havoc it plays on my head.  Oh, this isn’t our first meeting; there’s been plenty before.  And I’m quite certain it won’t be our last.  At least, I hope to God it isn’t. But as the hour grows closer, I become more and more of a wreck.  You want to know why?  Honestly?  This kid scares me.  Okay, let me clarify that somewhat. I’m not scared that he’s gonna beat me up or anything. No, the damage this guy can do is far worse than that. And when I say, ‘kid’, well, he is, but then again, at my age, a lot of people are.

      Let me give you a little background, and then I’ll get you up to date regarding today’s meeting. I’ve known this guy for almost nine years now. Our meetings haven’t always been under these conditions, and the circumstances in which we’ve met in the past are too numerous to go into here. But hell, I’ve got this much time into it, there’s no way to walk away now.  He wouldn’t allow it.  So, regardless of whatever other obligations I have in my life, he demands I make time for him and his problems. And I do. Like I said, I really have no choice. I could go on and on about our past (his and mine), but it makes little difference in regards to the here and now.  So, rather than bore you with old stories, I guess I better fill you in on today’s events.  Like I mentioned earlier, we’ve met under a number of different conditions, both geographic as well as emotional. Today we’re meeting in an old Victorian style home. The way its set up is there is a separate entrance for each of us.  That way there can be no problems ahead of time.  Not that there ever has been, nor do I ever expect there to be; that’s just the way it’s done nowadays.  I guess he’s a pretty busy guy, I don’t really know. I’m not privy to what goes on in his life outside of our meetings. I do know this: I’m allowed one hour of his time for today’s meet.  Exactly one hour.  He’ll arrive at exactly three-thirty and sixty minutes later, he’ll leave. Doesn’t matter what we might be in the middle of.  When the times up, it’s up.  We’ve got rules we follow as well.  No cursing. That’s a big one and it’s not condoned.  We’ve got a ‘facilitator’ that sits in with us, just to keep things ‘on track’. The facilitator’s name is Mel. Mel rarely says anything; really no need to.  But Mel’s there, nonetheless, quietly watching, sometimes making notes or writing something down.  I’ve yet to see what is ever written, and god knows where it goes or what gets done with it.  Sometimes after the meet, Mel and I sit and ‘recap’ the previous hour.  Sometimes Mel gives input about something that was said, maybe a suggestion on how I could have handled it better. To be honest, I think having Mel there is a complete waste of time and our meeting would go much smoother and we’d get further if it were just me and ‘the kid’. But it is what it is, and I can’t change it. Another thing: any advice Mel gives me usually goes in one ear and out the other.  I won’t say I dislike Mel, but over the course of the last year, I certainly haven’t grown any fonder, either. During our last meeting, the kid was angry. I could tell. It’s not something we speak about; that’s another of the unspoken rules. Another big one is this: No excuses. He doesn’t want to hear them. The only thing he wants to see is results. Either I’m making progress, or I’m not. No promises, no excuses.  Just results. And progress. If no results or progress are being made, nothing is said, but I’m unable to look him in the eye, and he knows as well as I do.  And it’s unacceptable for both of us. We each have our reasons, and we each have a stake in this.  It’s getting closer to three-thirty now, in fact, just moments away, and I can feel the butterfly’s in my stomach.  This is the hardest time to deal with. I’m already in the room in which we will meet, and I hear him enter the adjoining room.  I remind myself: An hour. Just get through the next sixty minutes in one piece, and then I’ll be free to walk out the door and try to produce enough new results to bring to the table to our next meeting that will make him proud and happy he’s stuck with me over the years.  Just an hour, I tell myself, to put on my best face, be brave, show him no fear, and know that when he leaves, he’s walking out that door with a good feeling about me inside.  His footsteps can be felt as he walks across the hardwood floor, towards the door that connects the two rooms. I hear the door squeak as it opens and I briefly close my eyes, opening them in time to see him rush through, arms open wide, as my eight year old son smiles and greets me warmly, saying: “Dad! I missed you!”