Chapter 12

At the Office
By Pierre Bastien

Hank leaned way back in his office chair and felt the sun on his face, coming through the windows. Both his arms lay on the armrests of his chair, his body completely relaxed, his eyes closed, and his chest rising and falling slowly with each inhale and exhale.

His office was the perfect temperature—neither too hot nor too cold. An overhead fan pushed air on his face, little puff by little puff. He was in the perfect comfort zone, fully relaxed, but not sleepy. He could hear a dim white-noise whirr from his computer.

His Saturday lesson with Jerry was about to start. Hank didn’t want to get up from his chair just yet. Too comfortable. Jerry, God bless the man, was bound to be brimming with ideas on how to “optimize the value of the club.” That’s how he described it, more than once, when he’d set up the lesson with Hank.

“What you’re saying makes sense,” is all Hank would say. He did want to save the club, but he just couldn’t seem to muster much enthusiasm for the value-optimization discussion. His mind was in two places at once really—half on a future where the club had been saved through Jerry’s miraculous efforts, and half on a future where the club was lost, and Hank had had to make peace with it.

Hank wondered what he’d say to Kate when he saw her. He tried to envision the conversation, but couldn’t get hold of it. He tried to practice a couple of opening lines, but stopped himself. It doesn’t matter, he supposed. However it comes out will have to do.

Hank’s mind wandered to when Kate was four years old. She was always such a night owl. Sometimes when she’d had trouble going to sleep, Hank would lie in bed alongside her, a theoretically comforting presence to help her drift off. Inevitably, Hank would crash out first, leaving young Kate lying there awake, singing little songs to herself.

Not only would little Kate go to bed late, she would wake up late. That was always a logistical challenge, since Hank and his then-wife were morning people. By the time Kate got to her teenage years, her owl-like habits only grew more pronounced. It seemed like their schedules hardly overlapped at all anymore.

That was probably just one more wedge driving Kate apart from them, Hank figured. Whatever she’s doing with her life these days, I hope it has an 11 am start time.

Just then, Hank heard a soft knock on his office door. He sat up in his chair and opened his eyes.

“Kate!” There she was, standing in the doorway. She was dressed in blue jeans and long black boots, with a black overcoat wrapped around her tightly. A white knit cap rested on top of her head, and a white scarf poked out from under her jacket. She looked so...grown up!

Hank jumped up out of his chair and promptly whacked his kneecap on the edge of his desk.

“Oh!” shouted Kate. She stepped forward to help him, reaching out her arm, but there wasn’t much she could do.

Hank lost his balance, spun halfway around, and hopped on the other foot a couple of times, all while trying to grab hold of the knee that was now sending stabbing pain signals straight up his spine. He finally put out a hand to balance himself against the wall.

“Are you okay?” asked Kate.

“Yeah!” said Hank, wincing and smiling at the same time. “I was just trying to imagine what it’d be like when I saw you again.”

“Is this how you were thinking it would go down?” asked Kate with a laugh.

“I was imagining something a little less...painful,” said Hank. He hopped over to Kate and gave her an extended bear hug.

“I was so happy to get your note,” said Hank, smiling. “And thanks for keeping good care of the rackets.”

“Hey, I wouldn’t want to lose the proof that you took a game off Thierry Lincou.”

“GOOD,” replied Hank, putting on a straight face.

Kate seemed to remember something. Her brow furrowed.

“Is everything alright?” asked Hank.

“Sort of,” said Kate. I just dropped the rackets off at your office and was on my way out when I ran into someone on the street.”

Hank waited for her to continue.

“I ran into someone I didn’t want to see.”

“Who?” asked Hank.

“You might know him. His name is Pike.”

“Pike!” Alarm bells went off in Hank’s head. He knew Pike had gotten into trouble with his philandering ways. And the other day, his buddy Carter from the courts at Village seemed to link Pike and Kate together. Not a good combination.

“You didn’t want to see him?” asked Hank. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s...” Kate trailed off. “It’s kind of a long story. But when I ran into him just now, it wasn’t a good scene.”

Hank felt his protective-father instincts coming on strong. He tried to hold them at bay as best he could bear. It’d been months since he’d spoken to Kate, and, instinctively, he didn’t want to rush into their same old parent-child roles. At least, not without feeling things out first.

Finally he asked, “Do you need help?”

“Actually, yes. Pike seemed angry with me. Like, a little crazy even. So I just turned right around and came back into your building. I just bolted.”

Hank hugged Kate. “Alright, let’s hang out here a bit then.”

“Awesome,” said Kate. ”Thing is,” she ventured, “I’m not sure if he’s maybe still hanging out outside the building.”

Right at that moment, Jerry popped his head into the office. “Who’s outside,” he asked jovially, “Mick Jagger?” Jerry got serious as soon as he saw the worried looks on Kate and Hank.

“Sorry,” said Jerry, “I shouldn’t have interrupted.”

“Your lesson!” exclaimed Hank. “Sorry, Jerry, I totally forgot. I got an unexpected visit from my daughter Kate.”

Hank turned to Kate.

“Kate,” said Hank, “meet Jerry.”

“Is everything okay?” asked Jerry. “Something wrong outside the building?”

“Hey, Jerry,” Hank said. “You remember our boy Pike?”

“Yeah,” said Jerry.

“Apparently,” said Hank carefully, “he’s causing a stir outside the building.”

After a long pause, Hank volunteered, “Maybe we should call the cops?”

”If you want to get rid of the guy,” said Jerry, glancing over at Kate, “I’ve got an even better idea.”

“What’s that?” asked Hank and Kate in unison.

“Well,” said Jerry, “let’s call Kucinich. I bet he’d love to know Pike’s exact location!”

Pierre Bastien is 37, lives in Philadelphia, and runs a squash equipment blog called Squash Source. 

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.