The first thing the man did when he staggered into his cheap hotel room was put on a pot of coffee. The packaging of the grinds all but assured him his taste buds would not be in for a treat. That was fine. It could lack in taste, as long as it made it up in caffeine. The week had been grueling, and yet his job was just beginning.
His eyes skimmed across the bed he had slept in all week. Though it felt like sleeping on a slab of marble, it was the most inviting thing he’d seen all day, and he found he had to fight to pry his eyes away from temptation.
He checked the clock on the nightstand. It read 6:32.
Almost there, he promised himself. Twenty four hours from now, it’ll be out of your hands. Then you can sleep as much as you want.
The hotel was so lacking in amenities it didn’t even offer a desk. Instead, there was a small, knee high table that had just enough room for his briefcase.
It’s okay. There’s plenty of room on the floor to lay out all the relevant papers.
The buzz of the coffeemaker jolted him awake as well as any cup of joe could. He chuckled to himself that he no longer needed to pour himself a cup, and even felt relieved that he didn’t have to press his luck that the coffee was any good to get the high he needed.
The man quickly lamented the fact that like it or not, he was most likely going to need to finish the pot. He was almost through his week of hell, but there was still one more night getting by on two hours sleep standing between him and the finish line.
To his relief, he’d had worse.
For the next hour, he carpeted the floor with all the reports he’d been hauling everywhere in his briefcase. To the untrained eye, it was a chaotic collage, but to him, each paper had their crucial place in his masterpiece.
Projections and pie charts jumped out at him from every page so vividly he could envision them when he closed his eyes. He began to close his eyes, point blindly at the floor, and recite what information he expected to find on that page. After ten attempts, he had a perfect score.
When the rush from the first cup wore off, he made to pour himself another, and only then did he notice that two hours had passed. He berated himself as he put down his mug and made his way to the phone.
You can’t forget again!
The man picked up the phone and dialed from memory, which was an impressive feat given all the numbers dancing around in his head. As he waited for the phone to ring, he pointed at another random page and quickly gave the percentages for each slice in the pie chart. He didn’t need to check to know he was eleven for eleven.
At the first ring, it hit him that he hadn’t called in a week. There was bound to be a cool reception for him when she picked up.
The man shook it off. He had sat her down and laid it out for her. It was no mystery to her that he was putting himself through hell this week. She might be mad, but deep down, she’d understand.
But will he?
He didn’t have time to answer as the phone was picked up on mid-ring, and he heard the chipper voice announce on the other end, “Moore Residence!”
The man smiled. Just like I taught him. He braced himself, hoping the voice would still be as bright and bushy tailed when he heard who it was.
“Hello, Rob—”
“Daddy!”