Khaki Shorts - #fridayflash

Photo: Constantin Jurcut, stock.xchng

Small-minded people can be found even in the tallest skyscrapers.

That’s what I learned. 

Not the first day. Not when I walked briskly across the concrete esplanade towards my new job at McNeil-Frost Publishing, my neck craned back to get an earthworm’s view of the magnificent glass and steel structure towering above me.

If I was ever going to have a dream job, this was it. This was it, baby. The country mouse was nibbling on some big city cheese, some haute-sweet fromage. This was no small town reporter going through those big glass doors, this was a guy whose moment had come. 

McNeil-Frost churned out dozens of trade mags, including Wheels Weekly, the fat tome so stuffed with lucrative automotive advertising contracts that money leeched out between the glossy covers. That’s where I worked. Ron Dykland was my editor. Heard of him? He was kind of a big fromage in publishing circles. Sometimes he got his picture on the society pages, escorting dewy-eyed 12-year-old models to car shows and charity events.

I was kind of dewy-eyed myself when I first met him. He had that kind of effect on people. Dressed smart. Talked smart. Knew what he was doing. He was always in control, you know? Guys like him, they’re like movie stars. They have presence. Guys like me want to be just like him.

Funny thing was, he liked me. I could tell. He treated me better than the other staff writers. Asked me out to lunch. Gave me tickets to ball games and concerts. Confided in me.

One of the things he told me was how much he hated Jackson Beech. Jackie was the office assistant. The gopher, basically. He made phone calls, booked ads, filed stuff and fetched coffee. I didn’t mind the guy – yeah, he had a few quirks – but everything he did or said ticked off Ron.

Like phone messages.

“Have you heard him leave a message? It’s embarrassing. He can’t just say who it is and leave a number. He’s gotta repeat it three times. I’m not exaggerating. Three friggin’ times! You listen, next time. Drives me right snaky.”

Or his fine features and high voice.

“Queer as a three dollar bill.”

Or his desk, the most organized desk in the building.

“Did you know he colour-codes his paper clips, for crissakes?”

But the thing that drove Ron to distraction was Jackie’s khaki cargo shorts. He wore them every day, spring, summer and fall. In the winter, they hibernated.

“Maybe he has several pairs of the same shorts,” I said.

“Bullshit,” said Ron. “Look at the belt loop on the right, at the back. See? It’s ripped at the bottom.”

He was right but I was beginning to wonder how much time Ron spent staring at Jackie if he noticed crap like that.

Ron was also convinced the shorts weren’t washed more than once a week. He started jotting down notes on the various stains that appeared as a week wore on. Gleefully he reported to me that Monday morning’s slopped coffee was still there on Friday afternoon.

I found myself drawing away from Ron.

Ron noticed.

Any time I had business with Jackie, Ron watched. Intently. He started making cracks about me and Jackie, “sitting in a tree,” juvenile stuff like that.

Then he stopped giving me the good assignments. Suddenly I was staring up at a mountain of rewrites and obits.

I asked Ron if I had done something wrong. “Geez, dude, I don’t know what to tell you ... your work is good. We’re good. It’s all good. You worry too much.”

Things got worse after that. When I needed a day off for a dentist appointment, he said I couldn’t go. He tore a strip off me at a staff meeting, in front of the publisher. Anything I did write, besides obits, never saw the light of day. 

And then he stopped talking to me altogether. Gave me the silent treatment. Like we were 12.

I talked to Human Resources. Their hands were tied. So I said screw it, and I found another job. Council reporter for a mid-sized tri-weekly in the burbs. The office was in an industrial plaza, a far cry from McNeil-Frost’s tower in the sky.

A whole bunch of years went by. I made editor, got married, bought a house, had some kids. One day I was buying coffee at the diner across the road and in came Jackie. He looked good. Nice suit, leather briefcase. National advertising director for Wheels Weekly, he said.

“Wow,” I said. Impressed.

He noticed me noticing the gold ring on his finger. “Just got married – two months, now. You remember that good-looking blonde at the front desk?” I remembered. Of course I remembered. Who could forget legs like that?

I asked about Ron Dykland, half-hoping to hear he had dropped off the face of the earth.

“Still there,” Jackie said. “Still busting balls every chance he gets.”

“Not yours, I bet.”

Jackie just grinned

I had a hard time reconciling the guy in the suit standing in front of me with the kid who wore the same khaki shorts every day. So I asked him about it. After he finished laughing he told me he wore those shorts one day because everything else was in the wash. 

“That pissed off ’ol Dykland so much that I wore them the next day. And the day after that. I wore those shorts for bloody years – YEARS! Until they wore out. HAR!”

And then he was into the laughing again.

When the chortling stopped I bought him a cruller, since he already had a coffee, and I gave him my business card and told him to call me. Which he did.

These days he’s what you might call my best friend. His family and my family hang out together. We golf together. We vacation together. We talk about everything, anything. Our wives. Our grandkids. Our finances. 

Ron Dykland was so wrong. There’s nothing weird about Jackie. Nothing.

When he retires this year, I’m gonna buy a few pairs of khaki shorts. 

One for him. 

One for me. 

And one for Ron Dykland, with a thank-you note tucked in the pocket.