The Jesters

(Part 1) [This week's "As the Pegasus Flies"] Like jesters summoned to entertain a king and queen, Pete, Louie, Wayne, and Bert were called before the CEO. They weren't to be whipped or put to death if their performance was unsatisfactory, however. Their fate would be much worse: unemployment. Yes, they would be laid off, and not make the final trip to White Plains to join the rest of the company, which had already relocated in June. It was to be an impromptu performance, and they grabbed whatever props they could get their hands on; there wasn't much to work with—the old Pleasantville headquarters was now nearly empty of 70 years of clutter. "Maybe we can use this?" Bert called out, holding up an old hot water bottle. He turned it over and saw the initials DW written in faded marker. Eew, he thought, having an image of DeWitt snuggling up close to the hot water bottle during a cold winter, if not a cold marriage. "How about this cane and safari hat?" Louie asked. "I found some old sheets. Maybe we can use them?" Wayne said, tentatively taking a sniff. Pete—reminiscent of Kenny—just mumbled a sound through his parka that sounded like a question at the end. These were all rhetorical questions because they had no choice, they had to throw something together fast; everything was usable. They hung a sheet in the library and waited for the Queen CEO to arrive. They waited in a side room, sweating nervously. Finally her private car arrived and she entered through the Rotunda, sunglasses on top of her head and Blackberry in her hand. "Where are these jokers?" she said, sitting down on the one throne chair in the room. "Chop chop, fellas. I haven't got all day. My plane to Nantucket leaves in an hour."

(Part 2) Bert felt somewhat like a performing monkey, made to entertain someone to keep his job. Is this what publishing has come to? He was fifty-eight years old. He had seen the glory days of publishing—the steady raises, yearly bonuses, expense accounts, travel, the occasional free lunch. How had it all come crashing down so hard, so fast? Were people really not buying books anymore? Or magazines? Was it the recession? The increased costs to produce the product? The competition from other entertainment sources—like the internet, video games, DVDs, iPads and smartphones? Well, yes. Bert had worked his whole professional life in publishing, he had climbed the ladder (and now, apparently, was climbing back down). He was insulted that his job now depended on the whim of the Queen CEO. He had worked—no, slaved—for years, building his reputation, winning awards, mentoring others, working overtime. He was more than insulted; he was mortified, demeaned, livid, hurt, embarrassed, shamed. But when the Queen CEO looked at her watch and said, "I'm not laughing yet, boys," Bert did what he had to do. He grabbed the hot water bottle hanging from his belt, removed the plug, and aimed a nice, long squirt of water right into Louie's face. When the Queen CEO let out a spontaneous cackle of laughter, Bert felt dirty and abused. Used. But hell, he needed to keep his job. When she said, "Do it again!" he gave the bottle another long squeeze.

(Part 3) Louie was taken by surprise the first time Bert squirted him in the face, but the second time he let it happen willingly. He had a job to save—namely, his. He could take one for the team. He waved his cane in a threatening manner in return, which got another laugh. This was all about entertaining the Queen CEO, right? Taking some hot water in the face was the least of his problems. His wife was having an affair with Wayne—there was no doubt about this fact. The private investigator he had hired supplied photos of them in compromising positions; Louie had been struggling with how to confront the libidinous adulterers since he found out the truth. But maybe this skit was his answer, he thought. A well-struck blow to Wayne's head, all in the name of comedy and horsing around, of course, and old Wayne'd be toast. And in the eyes of the law it would all be nice and clean and accidental. And as an added bonus, Louie would get to keep his job, because who would be so cruel as to lay off someone who just accidentally killed a co-worker? Plus, Wayne would be dead, so that would leave either Pete or Bert as the one to get the axe (Louie was wrongly working on the presumption here that only one of the four would lose their job.) He had to make it look accidental, all in the name of comedy. He had to really camp it up. There couldn't be any suspicion that what he was about to do was intentional, pre-meditated. He laughed loudly, then raised the cane high, toward Wayne, and yelled, "Die you robe-wearing Statue of Liberty wannabe!" and struck Wayne a hard blow on the right temple. Wayne went down like a felled tree, bringing a squeal of delight from the Queen CEO. "Good show boys, good show!" she said. Moments later, the pool of blood spreading from the still-prone Wayne finally raised some concerns.

(Part 4) [The conclusion to this week's "As the Pegasus Flies"] Juan, the CEO's driver, sat outside the Rotunda entrance with the car idling and the A/C on. What a plum job he had. He let out a low chuckle, satisfied with his lot in life. He knew he was earning more than most folks who worked under the CEO (or below Level 8, anyway), and here he was sitting around doing nothing. Or not nothing, really, more like taking care of his personal business. Sending out emails on his smartphone, paying bills, making phone calls, catching up on his reading. Even the driving part of his job wasn't all bad. He had himself a nice new Garmin GPS system; he could easily get around traffic jams, meaning he'd get his client to her meetings faster, allowing himself even more free time to do his own stuff. Heck, he didn't even have to worry about small talk; she was always on the phone "working" while he was driving her around. He didn't feel guilty about this easy gig; he'd paid his dues, working too hard for too little over the years. This is what he was thinking when the CEO suddenly emerged from the building and hopped in the back seat. He didn't even have time to get out and open the door for her. "Go, go, go!" she shouted. He took off like he was driving the getaway car for a bank job (something he really once did many years ago). Before he had a chance to ask what was the matter, she was on the phone. "He's dead! They're killing each other now! No, I don't know. Some level fiver. Doesn't matter. Uh huh. Okay, bye." She hung up and stared out the window, one would think almost pensively, if you didn't know better. Juan knew better. "Where to?" Juan asked. "The Manhattan office," she said, then got back on the phone. "It's me. Get rid of them all," she said. "They weren't that funny anyway." Juan pulled onto the Saw Mill River Parkway heading south. This should take forty minutes or so, he thought. Then he could get back to his personal stuff.