Violence by Timothy McDougall

was it. Anderson disconnected.
    That last statement, “I’ll talk to you later,” panicked Roman because the thought suddenly crossed his mind that there might not be a “later.” He feared Anderson might kill himself because Roman had imagined himself in the same position as his boss, and it was so instantly horrifying, that suicide seemed to be the only option.
    Needless to say, Roman was happy when Anderson returned to work and angry at himself for even thinking his boss would contemplate taking his own life.
    Anderson tucked the house keys into his pocket and returned his attention to the specs.
    Roman promptly left his office but then, feeling this was as good a time as any, he grabbed a manila envelope off Joyce’s desk where it was sitting and stepped back quickly into Anderson’s office.
    Embarrassed, Roman brought out some papers from the envelope that had sticky note arrows attached to various pages which show a person where to put a signature. He held the documents out in front of Anderson.
    “Oh, and can you sign these for my nephew’s work visa?” Roman asked uncomfortably.
    Anderson took the papers, picked up a pen and signed in the appropriate places.
     
    Anderson hoped to get in quickly and leave. Sneak in. Sneak out. He would have left everything except it seemed wasteful and he had just bought the golf clubs.
    Anderson was sitting on a low-slung flat bench emptying his locker at the country club when he overheard two members talking in the next aisle.
    “I’d kill those fuckers. Get the mafia, whatever it took.” One wheezy member boldly croaked.
    “What the hell was he doing leaving them alone like that?” A second member bellowed as a rejoinder.
    Anderson knew they were talking about him because he heard his name seconds after a locker room attendant turned off a shoe polishing machine, which was right before he could hear the two men talking together.
    Anderson let the injury of their comments go without acknowledgment, and was very near getting away without physically running into anyone he knew when Alan Murphy rounded a corner, fresh off the golf course. Murphy was the man who directly sponsored Anderson for membership and he pulled up abruptly, surprised to find Anderson in the row of lockers.
    “Oh Noel, there you are. It’s good to see you. It’s terrible what happened.” Murphy spewed all this with a rat-a-tat jumpiness as he tore off his golf glove. He stepped up and shook Anderson’s hand which Anderson felt was flabby and clammy. “I’m speaking for everyone when I say we’re sorry. It’s unfathomable what you must be going through.”
    In Murphy’s defense, he did show up to the visitation wake and did send a card of condolences, although it looked like it was in Murphy’s wife’s handwriting. The note started with textbook off the rack syrupy sympathies but ended with what seemed like a not so subtle request for Anderson to resign.
    Anderson remembered the note finishing with wording something like, “ you do what you want but the membership would completely understand it if you decided to not go through with the initiation.” It didn’t take a huge leap for Anderson to find that peculiar since Anderson had completed the interviews and the process of joining the club, all the way down to handing over a check. Murphy’s brusque demeanor right now just confirmed Anderson’s suspicions. Anderson wouldn’t have stayed in any event and had already informed the front office of his decision to quit.
    “I don’t blame you for wanting to leave. And don’t worry about the check, we never cashed it. Look, I gotta run. Kid’s little league. Sorry. You take care.” Murphy concluded, and with that he grabbed his street shoes out of his locker and bounded off.
    Anderson could hear Murphy as he kicked off his golf shoes by the attendant’s booth for them to be polished before he headed for the parking lot, fast.
     
    When Anderson left the country club parking lot a few