Martin looked at his watch. It read 3:27. The actual time was 10:53.
Behind the dumpster of Streetcar Subs, it reeked of rotting cold cuts and moldy bread, and the damp morning air shivered with the pulsing hum of circling flies. Martin placed his leather satchel on top of the garbage bin. “Let’s do this,” he said.
He slipped off his coat, loosened his tie and began unbuttoning his shirt to reveal a pea green Streetcar Subs t-shirt underneath. He folded everything up and placed it in the bag. Then he delicately swapped his pressed slacks for rumpled khakis and his polished loafers for black sneakers. With his employer-mandated uniform on he was ready to face the lunch rush.
Behind the register, Martin thought how things could be worse. He could be working at Ruby’s Burgers where everyone has to wear those bright red tennis shoes.
Martin looked at his watch. It read 3:27. The actual time was 1:05. He wondered what his wife was doing at that moment. Browsing a wall of $300 shoes probably, unaware of her husband’s termination and subsequent underemployment.
“Martin? Is that you?”
It was a voice he hadn’t heard since his days as an intern, the voice of Brad Borland. And there Brad stood, immaculately dressed in dark gray, a sophisticated anomaly amidst the primary-color decor of the franchised sandwich shop.
“It’s me, Brad Borland.”
“I know, Brad,” Martin said. “Can I... Can I take your order?”
Brad ordered the foot-long roast beef before offering his unsolicited, unabridged oral autobiography starting with the day after their summer internships ended. He told an epic tale of boundless ambition, masterful corporate maneuvering and how an uncanny command of the market propelled him straight to the board of directors of some Fortune 500 capital investment firm. Martin didn’t catch the name of the company as humiliation had filled his head like a balloon.
“And what are you doing with yourself these days?” Brad asked.
“You know,” Martin said. “Not much.”
A bell rang. Brad’s order was ready. With sandwich in hand, Brad mentioned that while he really wanted to stay and chat, he had just flown in town for the day to close a big deal before heading off to Europe for three weeks.
Brad turned to walk out. When he reached the door, it became evident that he wasn’t wearing the expected black patent leather oxfords, but instead had on a pair of bright red tennis shoes.
Martin looked at his watch. It read 3:27. The time was actually 3:23. He stood in the parking lot and called his wife. Martin could finally tell her the secret he'd kept for so long.
“I need to tell you something,” he said.
“What?” Her voice crackled under the poor reception.
“I’ve been lying to you.”
“I can’t hear you, Martin.” She said. “I’m at the airport. I’m leaving you. I know you got fired. I’ve known for a long time and I can’t deal with it anymore. They’re boarding now. I have to go.”
Martin looked at his watch. It read 3:27. The time was actually 3:27 and everything felt right if only for a minute.