Perry awoke suddenly as if shocked from sleep. “Nine fifteen… Damn it! My appointment was for nine o’clock!” He studied the alarm clock. “I set the alarm…. The alarm light is on…! Aw, damn it! The time’s wrong! It should be AM--not PM! Aw, damn it, damn it, damn it!”

The job appointment, from Perry’s perspective had been the most important event in his life.

“Aw, damn it! I blew it!” His voice quivered and he felt a wave of nausea in his stomach. “They’re not gonna hire a guy who can’t show up for an appointment!” Tears instantly welled in his eyes. They were the tears of anger. Weeks of interviews, marginal hopes, anxious speculation, role playing with the recruiter for the final interview, months of bills piling up, the aftermath of the divorce and the settlement, the boxy smelly apartment where he had been forced to live, “and on top of everything else, now this!” he thought.

Perry reached reluctantly for the phone. The receiver seemed to weigh four hundred pounds. “Hell, what’s the use! They just don’t hire guys who can’t keep appointments!” Perry fell back to the edge of the bed in tears. His body collapsed sort of inwards. With his feet spread, his elbows on his knees, and his face resting in his hands, Perry began to open the growing dam of emotions. He began to feel the torment of one more failure--not just one more failure, but the agony of the most critical failure of his life. “Lonely, fifty-five-year-old, alcoholic divorcees don’t get too many more chances at anything!”

All around him, the apartment seemed to grow smaller, stifling.

From the darkness of the bedroom, a darkness due mostly to the cheap vinyl-coated canvas drapes and to the ungodly maroon paint on the walls, Perry could hear the muffled sounds in the hallway of the high rise. They were sounds of doors closing, neighbors greeting each other, purposeful sounds from a world of people with jobs. They were the rhythmic sounds of a world with a mission of success and happiness, of feelings and love and belonging. They were the sounds of a world on a quest for a comfortable retirement!

Outside, the mid-morning summer sun heated the concrete finish on the building so that, from time to time, the walls in Perry’s apartment made a cracking sound. It was now that such a sound startled him from his doleful posture.

“It’s nine forty-five. You’d think, if they were hiring a guy for a key position, and he was late for the final interview, that they would call to see if something’s wrong. Maybe they’re still expecting me to show up….” With sweaty palms, Perry reached again for the phone, then he paused. “Maybe that’s it. I’ll just go ahead and go, and they’ll think it was heavy traffic or something. Maybe I can just show up anyhow and say I’m sorry that I got caught in traffic!”

With that Perry reached for the clothes that he had carefully laid out on the bed the night before. Again his confidence began to dissolve. “Still they should have called me. That’s what I would have done. That’s what anyone would have done…, if it was something as important as a final interview!” This reasoning, however, threw the dilemma right back into Perry’s lap.

“But, if it was really important to me, I should have called them. Damn it! They are just not gonna hire a guy who thinks the job isn’t important enough to call when he’s late!” Perry slumped back onto the bed. The sweat was now running in little rivulets from his armpits down his sides to his shorts.

Perry reached again for the phone, and again he halted. “But if I call them now, it’s almost ten o’clock. They are gonna know that I didn’t get caught in traffic. They are gonna wonder why I didn’t call at nine fifteen, or whenever I first knew I was late. They are gonna think that’s the way I treat a new job opportunity. Then they will check my references for sure and find out that I lost my last job for the same reason.” Perry again tried some reasoning. “…but everybody’s late once in awhile! The last place I worked just didn’t understand what I was going through…, with my divorce and the kids and everything! God help them if they should ever have to go through what I went through and then get fired on top of it all!”

For the moment, Perry felt vindication in his reasoning. After all, there were a lot of guys his age--victims--victims of divorce, downsizing, aging, disdain from younger and more energetic people--people like Mr. Geoffreys, the guy with whom he was to have the final interview. “Good God!” Perry thought. “Here’s a snot-nosed guy--can’t be more than twenty-five--making six figures, and I have to call him Mr. Geoffreys! I made six figures before he even had his first tooth!” Perry was proud at the way he had, at least in his imagination, put Geoffreys “in his place.” He would have to remember those exact words in the event that Geoffreys shot him down over missing the appointment. “I won’t call the prick…! I’ll just get dressed and show up--let him deal with it!”

Ten thirty AM.

Perry had done a good job, rationalizing his situation. He felt justified. Perhaps he even felt as though he had subconsciously planned to show up late just to make a point--just to reinforce his integrity in the eyes of that pup Geoffreys. Thus reassured, Perry slowly and deliberately set about his morning ritual of shaving, showering, dressing, having coffee, and reading the “Wall Street Journal.” There would be no “classifieds” for him today. Perry was about to arise from the final ditch, so to speak, to walk proudly forth to seize what had become rightfully his.

Sitting now at the breakfast table in his finest gray suit, collar button undone, and tie draped loosely around his neck, Perry looked down at his Cardin suspenders. His bulging stomach between the furrows of the suspender lines, looked like a ball of bread dough squeezing out from a sandwich press. A sudden wave of panic then tore away his moment of complacent musing. “What am I doing here? I am not God’s gift to the business world! I am not GQ material! That’s why I went to the recruiter. That’s why I labored to put together my resume and my credentials. That’s why I went through a million interviews! Why hasn’t anybody called!!”

Perry raced frantically for the phone. “Eleven thirty-five AM. Maybe it’s not too late to call. Maybe Geoffreys is running behind too!”

As he was about to dial, Perry halted as before. “It’s lunchtime. Nobody’s gonna be there to answer the phone. I’ll just be leaving a message on the answering machine. It’ll be better to wait till after lunch and talk to real person--maybe to Geoffreys himself.” Then Perry threw the receiver at the phone in desperation. “Ah, what the hell am I saying here! I’m kidding myself! I was supposed to be there two and a half hours ago. It’s for sure they’re not gonna hire someone after being two and a half hours late and not calling!”

Perry’s guts were twisting with stress and anxiety. Tears of rage once again filled his eyes. He wanted to vomit--to vomit up all the lies, and bullshit, and one-upmanship that had led him to the final interview. He wanted to scream that they didn’t have to hire someone with his credentials to fill the job. He wanted everyone to know that any nitwit--even Geoffreys--could handle such a Mickey Mouse position! The money was good, however, in this “Mickey Mouse” job, and Perry would be able--barely able--to put aside his arrogance, even if only for the money.

Perry reached into the night stand and withdrew a pack of cigarettes. He had planned on not smoking all day. He didn’t want to smell like smoke in the interview or during the victory lunch he had planned to have with Geoffreys after he took the job offer. Perry studied briefly the pack of smokes in his clenched hand.

“Jesus! I didn’t think about it, but they probably have another candidate, another guy ‘in the wing’ ready to accept an offer when I don’t show up!”

Twelve-thirty PM.

Perry lit a cigarette, and began taking two or three drags at a time. He removed his clothes and carefully pressed them onto the bed. Clearly he would have to call and tell the truth, possibly to reschedule the interview for tomorrow. The whole process had gone far enough toward a commitment on their part. Surely, they wouldn’t blow him off now because of a missed interview. “The truth! I was foolish after all to get so upset over this. These people aren’t dummies. They know things happen--stupid things, like over sleeping and not calling. …and they still might call me. Geoffreys himself might call and say, ‘I meant to call you earlier, Perry, but I just got too tied up. I’m glad to see that you didn’t make the interview today. As it turns out, I wouldn’t have had the time to do it justice! You can come in tomorrow, say two o’clock, and I’ll set aside an hour just for the interview. Really it’s only a formality anyhow. Just thought you’d like to know that!’”

“It could happen that way…!” thought Perry.

“…but it’s one o’clock…. Why hasn’t anybody called? You’d think somebody would call!

“Man, my nerves are shot. Might as well ‘hang it all up’ until tomorrow. Maybe a little shot of whiskey will steady my nerves so that I can finally make the damn call!”

Perry put on some jeans, a tee shirt, and an old comfortable pair of “flips.” The pressure was off now. He lit up another smoke and put the rest in his tee shirt pocket. In the kitchen he retrieved a fresh bottle of scotch which he had avoided opening for the past week. Perry had felt it wise not to muddle the “home stretch” with booze. Clear thinking--that was the ticket!

“Let’s you and me get ready for a little conference call to our buddy Geoffreys!” Perry addressed the bottle as if it were an old business crony. “It’s two fifteen PM and just about time to put the world on hold. What do you think?” Thus Perry sat down to the kitchen table and ritually opened the bottle. As he did so, he began a little dialogue with himself.

“It’s been a week. Did you get lonesome in that cupboard?” Perry laughed, as he spoke to the bottle. Then he responded to his own question in a different voice--supposedly the voice of the bottle..

“No, Perry.” answered the bottle. “In fact I’m proud that you could put me away when the game got serious, just to let me know things aren’t all that bad with you.”

“I am a hell of a guy aren’t I?!” Perry swished the scotch around in the bottle then poured generously into the tumbler.

“Hey! Go easy on that stuff!” said the bottle. “you haven’t crawled out of the hole yet!”

“So what?” Perry spoke with mock complacency. “You might as well admit it…! I’m history! But I’ll still make the call. I still give it the old college try…, just for you, Pinhead.”

The bottle responded, “Who you calling ‘Pinhead?’ If it wasn’t for me you wouldn’t have got to where you’re at!”

Perry rose slightly from the table in defense. “What do you mean ‘where I’m at!’” Then he paused. “Oh, wait a minute…. I get it! That was ‘double entendre’ wasn’t it?! Well where I’m at is not so bad! There are pa-lenty of jobs out there for a seasoned professional like me. You think this is the end of the road? Well, think again, Pal!”

The bottle interrupted. “Have another slug! I can see that you’re on a roll now!”

Perry continued the senseless dialogue for some time until the scotch began to really cloud his senses. At that point, he staggered into the living room, turned on the TV, and slumped onto the couch, bottle in hand.

Five o’clock PM.

On the television, the network was winding up an all-afternoon broadcast of the summer Olympics. Perry had passed out on the sofa.

Outside, the late afternoon sun of August summer cast long shadows on Perry’s side of the high rise. Perry continued to sleep. The heat of the day amplified the complex texture of city smells and sounds. The world passed over the apex of another day, and, as the heat began to subside, the tree leaves fluttered with the flow of early evening coolness. In the hallway of the high rise, doors opened and closed, and neighbors greeted each other. Cooking smells wafted through open doorways and under cracks and through windows to wrap around the building, thence to rise and join the surrounding tapestry of city fragrances. Gradually the muted light in Perry’s apartment gave way to the subdued gray of solitude, and outside on the horizon some distant structures began to turn to silhouettes against the deepening blue of the eastern sky. Still Perry slept. As night approached, lighted windows randomly dotted the sides of darkening buildings, heralding eventide in the sea of life’s compelling pursuits.

Seven o’clock PM.

Perry stirred. He began his return from the often-practiced oblivion of his habit. The darkness and the unplanned loss of time rendered him disoriented. He lifted the bottle from his side. “What have you done to me this time?” Perry lamented as, for a few moments, he could not remember the day or how he had ended up there. Then, reeling to his feet, he recalled the purpose for this debacle. Staggering again he reached the phone. He tried to shake of the “fog” in his head while he frantically dialed the number from memory.

The phone gave up a ringing signal, and at the other end a recorded voice spoke.

“This is the office of Bill Geoffreys. I am not at my desk to take this call, but, if you will leave a brief message with your phone number, I will be happy to return your call. (‘beep’)”

Perry hesitated while he collected his senses, then he drew his vocal cords open, attempting to respond in a confident baritone. “Mr. Geoffreys…Bill? Yeah, hi! This is--uh--Perry Lyons.” Perry began to struggle here to manage, because the well of his remorse was beginning to break up his speech. “I--uh--couldn’t make the interview today. I t-tried to call you several times [a half-truth], but I just didn’t get through. I--uh--know my missing the appointment probably didn’t--uh--set well with you. Still I am anxious for the interview, and I count on your understanding to see it through, perhaps…,[now in a small and weak tone] tomorrow?” Perry swallowed against his dry throat. “I’ll call you first thing in the morning. Thanks, Mr. Geoffreys!” Perry ended the call, giving his phone number.

He had finally made the call! However, doing it had given him no ease. “Damn it!” Perry shouted his desperation. With tears and, with the cloying sensation of mucous in his dry throat and the rising heat in his face and neck he exclaimed to some unseen listener, “I should have called this morning! I should have called and told the truth! What’s wrong with me?! I could have had the job! I could have had a start on fixing my crummy life!”

The emotion was stifling Perry. His heart was pumping erratically, and he could not catch his breath. It was only panic, but it felt like death. He moved quickly to the bedroom and opened the window. There he leaned forward in an attempt to inhale the night air, to end the panic, to purge the bitterness of one more impending failure.

After minutes had passed, Perry’s breath was restored. His face bathed in the cool of the night air and he leaned back. The rage, which had cluttered his vision, now reduced itself to a long sigh. From the seventh story window, Perry studied the city night with unexpected calmness. Over his shoulder, the red diodes of the digital alarm clock read 8:25--still AM. Now totally lucid in his thoughts and strangely at peace, Perry marveled how a single small event, a tiny oversight, had altered the course of his life so drastically--how all that he had considered a “done deal” had melted away in random consequence. With a cool rationale, he understood that the job of a lifetime had slipped from his feeble grip, leaving him with one rare and sublime opportunity to live in the moment--this moment. Perry continued for some time to linger at the window, to stare into the night, to reflect. During his reverie, five more minutes passed. It was now eight thirty PM.

At nine fifty-seven PM, Perry’s apartment was still in darkness, save for the flickering TV screen. Over the blare of sound came the ringing of the phone. Perry was not in the room to take the call. The message recorder clicked on, and the voice on the other end announced itself. Perry did not hear the call come in.

“Hello…?” The voice paused. “I’m calling for Perry Lyons? I hope I have the right number…. This is Bill Geoffreys. I called in to my office to listen to my phone mail, and I got your message, Perry. You sounded disturbed or distraught or something…, so I thought I’d better call you. I hope I haven’t disturbed you…, calling this late….” Geoffreys paused as if expecting Perry to pick up the phone, then he resumed.

“Anyhow, you know it’s only Sunday…, right? I mean, I get my days mixed up sometimes, and it sounds like you do too. We still have a date tomorrow morning, right? I can see you’re probably upset, thinking you missed our interview. In any case, I guess I should tell you not to worry. You’ve got the job, as long as the offer we show you is okay. The interview tomorrow is just a formality. We’ve been kind of hung up on the compensation package. Anyhow, relax and get some rest. See you at nine AM!” Geoffreys paused again to see if Perry might pick it up, then he hung up.

Ten o’clock PM.

The nightly news broadcast came on the TV.

The commentator opened the program. “Tonight in the headlines…. At approximately 8:30 PM, witnesses report, a man jumped or fell from his seventh story window at an east side high rise complex. Police report that the man was dead when they arrived at the scene. We will bring you further details in our local news segment. Meanwhile….”

In the hallway outside Perry’s apartment, a door opened and closed. Behind nearly every door the nightly news blared its sensationalized stories. People were watching with an element of trust that, within their small circles at least, life would present a new day, a new opportunity for happiness. The sadness in the news seemed galaxies away. They felt safe. Still other people had ventured out of their apartments and gathered in the hallway, engaged in a quiet conversation.

Eleven o’clock PM.

The nightly news was ended. Inside Perry’s apartment, the TV was silent, the screen dark. The refrigerator clicked as the compressor started its quiet hum. The walls of the apartment settled with a cracking sound. The empty whiskey bottle lay on the floor beside the sofa. In the bedroom, the display on the alarm clock flickered and read 11:01--still AM.

A nighttime breeze drifted in through the still-open window of Perry’s apartment, and, in an obscure corner of the bedroom, the red diode on the answering machine still flashed it’s beacon--lonely sentinel of a maligned and delicate destiny.

It was certain now that Perry would not get the job.