The Wilson Boys: Running a Revolution

Some brief introductory information:

The Wilson Boys: Running a Revolution

Brookfield, Pennsylvania.

Brookfield, PA if you’re Pennsylvanian.

Half an hour outside good old Philadelphia, it’s the location of a very prominent tool-making company, that isn’t really just a tool company. Here to document the goings-on are an excitable writer and her team of cameramen, so their legacy can be preserved for later generations. Besides, wouldn’t you like to know how a revolution is run?

Here we find five men, all friends, all employees in this company:

Harold Morris, whose fascination with the British mixes with a Pennsylvania accent to make him something of a spectacle,

Jack Creston, who is so proficient at the art of disguise, his mother rarely recognizes him,

Arthur Szprejda, the famously ambidextrous right-hand man,

Marcus Ives, everyone’s favorite half-Italian valet, and

Peter Fleming, who has wondrously remained morally pristine despite the efforts of everyone around him.

You’ll be hearing from these chaps, unless the speaker is otherwise identified.

Enjoy your stay.

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Episode One: Discrimination in the Workplace

Harold Morris

I don’t know if You’ve ever heard of us. Odds are, you have. And if you don’t know us by name, I can almost guarantee you use something of ours, and are too much of a lazy ass to look at the brand name on the side of your household power drill. We’re Wilson Incorporated, based in scenic southeastern Pennsylvania. Remember us now?

Ah, dash it. It’s so hard to become famous when you work at a tool company. Such a dull business, you know? And with my job, the calls I get are enough to make you want to drop off in the middle of running a race, or something of that sort. You know what I mean. But it’s what I have to do. I did, after all, sign up for this position, though I do believe I’m the only male secretary I know.

Now don’t go making any assumptions here. This story’s not about me. I took the reception job out of desperation and want of food and roof-over-head…let’s see…quite a few years ago. I really ought to have counted, but it does feel like I’ve been working here all my life.

So yes, I answer the phone and make appointments, I send out invitations and do all that nasty social stuff. But when the tool business is taken care of (most of these duties have now been delegated to some of our more naïve staff members, for my convenience), I get down to the real business matters.

Wilson Incorporated doesn’t just supply you with every blessed thing you need to fix a leaky sink, it serves another much more crucial purpose in the world:

We’re running a revolution.

What do you mean, you don’t see villagers running round outside your door with torches and pitchforks? Of course you don’t. Ours is not a revolution that is seen outside the third inside page of the newspapers, and that’s even a rare occurrence. You see, instead ours is a quiet, forceful and determined revolution. Just you wait, you’ll see the changes soon enough.

What do you need to know about it? Well, right now, that if you stay out of it for now, refuse to vote in any election that comes your way and never grant money to a politician in order to gain some sort of vicious goody bag of favors in return, you and your family and all their possessions are totally fine. Don’t sweat it, we don’t strike innocents.

Wow, that topic came up fast, didn’t it? Geez, what was that, five minutes? Sorry folks, it’s just something you need to know: that just about everyone in my story here works not for the production of tools, but for the betterment of our world. Perhaps knowing this will earn us some brownie points in your eyes, perhaps not. Really, I guess it could go either way.

My name? But I already told you. Tell it to the audience? Okay, Harold Morris at your service. But only on Tuesdays. At three, because that’s the time I’ve allotted in my schedule for complete morons. No offense, but I’m busy.

So I suppose I should get on with my story, then. Don’t want to bore the percent of the audience who’s actually in the Group (by the way, what percent do you think that is?). On to the events that shook us all up a little. It was a couple weeks ago, before you and your crew of cameras and that excitable girl who does sound (who the hell is she anyway?) came rolling in. Oh yes, speaking of girls, I—hold on, I promise I’ll get to my point!

Just a note to the audience: I am completely, one-hundred percent available. I love meeting new people. I enjoy food that derives from any ethnicity, except Thai and Norwegian, but thank God they closed Aksel’s Ale Hall just last week, so that’s not a problem anymore. I love the cinema too, and I do have season tickets to the Kimmel Center if you’re into that sort of thing, and I’ll go to sporting events but not playoff football games because the humanity of Philadelphia makes me want to retch. I also like the beach, and the outdoors…well, that one’s a lie…

▲

I know I’m a secretary, but don’t ask me what day it was when it happened. If this happened to you, you wouldn’t remember the rest of the day either.

I was down in Intelligence, at the Wilson building in Philadelphia, which is the main base for all things legal and otherwise. Not like I had any particular duties down there, except to get some reports from the Intelligence receptionist and bring them up to a group of evaluators who would then decide whether or not the people mentioned in the reports were worth stalking and possibly threatening.

But that was a job of five minutes, tops. Ten minutes if I took the stairs. Since I was down there, though, I thought I’d pop in on one of my closest comrades and the best investigator I’ve seen in my life. Not like I’m friends with hordes of investigators, but it’s true that he’s good.

Jack Creston, among our little circle of acquaintances, is by far the youngest. Still in his twenties, the little blighter, but he acts very professional most of the time, so it hardly matters now, does it?

Of course it does.

See, here at Wilson we strive to create an atmosphere of open and comfortable friendship among employees. Which is why we all have at least one reason to completely tear each other apart with ridicule. Jack’s the youngest, Peter’s sickeningly nice, and Arthur’s last name is unpronounceable.

What do my friends tease me about? Well, I’d rather not say it right now. It’s sort of more embarrassing than the others’. No really, I’d tell you if it had anything to do with my love life! Really.

Back to our story, eh?

So I stopped in Jack’s office and found him on his computer, staring at the screen like his life depended on it. In fact, he didn’t see me until I was right behind him, breathing on his neck and watching him download music from some illegal site or another.

“Why the hell are you downloading that stuff illegally?” I groaned to the man, who instead of answering my question flew up from his chair with a yelp and bopped me right on the chin.

“Harold! Oh my God, make a noise or something!” He backed towards his door, then spun and casually clicked it shut. A smile spread on his face, giving him a few years, visually, which is good; he looks like a college kid still. “For your information, I like getting my music for free.”

“I know what your salary is, and you can afford to buy all the cheap rap you want legally, and have enough left to buy actual music. You know, something with taste. Plus, don’t you want to support the ‘artist’ by giving him some of your money?”

“Psh,” he replied with a wave of the hand, sitting back down and motioning for me to take a seat. “None of the money goes to the artist anyway, and I’m allowed to exercise my right to illegally download anything I want. And rap is music, you old fart. Grow some ears, will you Grandpa?”

Jack had a habit of putting his feet up on his desk and doing his hair. And when I say ‘doing his hair’ I mean exactly that. He’s let his hair grow out like some kind of rock star, so for work he has to put it up in a rubber band, and he’s always taking it out and putting back in again. I mean, I don’t blame him. If my hair was that long, it would annoy me too. But it wouldn’t be. I’d shave myself bald before I did that.

Although most long-haired men have failed in their endeavors to…what exactly is it men want to accomplish by growing their hair out? Looking like extras in an epic fantasy movie? Having a sample of their enduring patience hanging out for society to see? Well, whatever it is these blokes want to do with their tumbling locks, Jack’s done it. I s’pose it’s because he’s young.

He has the greatest, best-kept head of hair in the office, and it’s a nice color, something between honey and that autumny orangy tint that hangs about in October. He’s one of those chaps with a crop of hair that gets all the women nearby excited, and with that stupid charming smile he had to perfect to get his job, he’s pretty much guaranteed to have someone at all times. He could be married now, if he wanted to be.

But oh yes—what I was mentioning, about his hair. He was putting it up when there was a knock on the door and Lawrence came trotting in without waiting for Jack’s assent.

Dear Lord, Lawrence Christopher. What about him? Do you have all day? No, okay, how about a couple long hours? No? Okay, in short Lawrence is an ass. I cannot stand the man, and I to this day have not the foggiest how he came to work with us. God, I just want to fire the slimeball—

I’m sorry. No really, I’m a great storyteller, people always tell me that when we go out to bars.

Well he came on in, slapped something on Jack’s desk and began babbling nervously (Jack makes him anxious, you see. That’s the only amusing thing about him), fiddling with his big round spectacles and standing in front of me so that his arse was aimed straight at my nose. Considerate, eh?

As I was waiting for a shift, or better, for him to leave, I looked through the small window Jack had from his office into the rest of the open space of the floor, and noticed a pair of women’s flip flop shoes, and painted pink toes. Standing right outside Jack’s door. When Lawrence paused to heave a breath, I could hear someone knocking.

“Jacky!” I called. He flashed a pained look my way, but didn’t seem to understand that I was trying to alert him of something. So I tried again. “Jacky Creston! You have a visitor! And a real visitor this time, not this scummy sod.”

Lawrence started. “Hey!”

“Hey yourself. I just call them as I see them. Or in this case, smell them. Your hindquarters are right up my nose.”

He turned and angry red, and Jack just rolled his eyes and went to the door.

An awed whisper: “Damn!”

Lawrence here vocalized my thoughts best, and I would have congratulated him on doing something halfway useful, had I not been otherwise occupied.

A woman sauntered into the office, wearing an enormous, celebrity-style pair of sunglasses that made you look at her lips, which were the damn shiniest red things I’ve ever seen. For a while, all I could do was stare at her, not really knowing whether or not she was staring back from behind those big old lenses, and not caring that much.

If you think Jack’s a well-groomed specimen, this newcomer beat him out by a long shot. I couldn’t find a single blemish on her skin, which was a pleasant shade of cream—yes, I know, I don’t usually go for those English, stay-in-the-shade chicks, but this was an exception that had to be made. And the way her neck just…heavens! I can’t describe it! I feel like an idiot.

And I’m also not really a fan of girls who find it necessary to chop all their hair off, leaving little more than, say, Arthur’s got. You know, the bit that hangs about the ears and what. I like a woman who can sweep her hair over her shoulders, with that graceful gesture that just sets the heart off. But this stranger’s mop barely reached her chin, and let me tell you it actually worked for her.

Small skirt, small small skirt, and a t-shirt advertising some band I’ve never heard of. I think Jack caught me when I was examining her legs, because he coughed, and I realized he’d been talking all this time.

“Yes, that sounds lovely,” I automatically replied. The girl laughed, pushed her hair behind her ears. I think Lawrence was drooling, the nasty animal. At least I had the awareness to get myself together in time to make up for my unfortunate blunder.

“Harold, were you listening to me?”

“No sorry there, Jack. I had this song in my head and—well, who is this?”

“I’m Wednesday,” she said with a smile. Her voice was of the unique brand of girls’ voices that perks up your ears and makes you think. How refreshing, I thought. I had feared she’d be one of those breathy whisperers.

“Well it’s very nice to meet you, Wednesday. What an unusual name. It’s rather nice. I’m Harold Morris, at your service. Why have you decided to grace us with your…yeah Jack? What’s the matter?” Jack had been staring, seemingly horrified at me for some reason. I let go of the handshake and wished I could take it up again. Jack had better realize how lucky he is, I thought then.

Wednesday held aloft a Tupperware container and pressed it into Jack’s hands when he didn’t grab it right away. Actually, to tell the truth he looked a little sick, and kept darting his eyes to me and Lawrence. What was he thinking, that we’d steal her on the spot? We’re good friends, for heaven’s sake! I would have waited for her to leave at least, then follow her to the parking lot and get the job done.

“I baked these for you. Maybe you can share them with your friends, here. But it’s okay if you don’t. I know how much you like the chocolate chunks.”

“Y-Yeah. Thanks. Weren’t you supposed to be at work today?”

“I took a day off. Needed relaxation, you know? I’m going to get my nails done, then probably go out and get you those pants you needed, and a new tie for your meeting next week. Anything else you want me to pick up?”

“No. Nope.”

Jack was still very green, even after Wednesday had waved and fluttered out of the room, and he just stood there, clutching the box of cookies and staring at his closed door. Eventually, Lawrence stood from where he’d fallen into my chair and wiped his mouth. Oh Lord, he had been drooling.

“So, you want to hand over one of those cookies?” I asked with a wink. Jack shook his head and then did something surprising: he kicked the container under the desk. Lawrence didn’t seem to notice Jack’s transition from nausea to visible irritation, because he exclaimed in that hushed, awed voice,

“Damn, Creston! You’re wife’s smoking!”

Jack’s eyes almost literally popped from his head. Honestly, I fully expected to be pinching them off the floor and sticking them back into his face.

“What?” he blurted.

“No offense meant, I don’t think,” I said, putting a consoling hand on his shoulder. “But she was pretty nice. How’d you snag her?”

“Wh-Wh-I—that’s not my wife!”

“Well even if it’s—“

“My husband!”

▲

Then came one of those moments that only surface once in a while. You know the ones, where everything seems to stop and get very, very quiet. You wonder, is that ringing sound in the air or in your head? And then logic and truth waltz into your brain and kick over every notion you had about something. In this case, Jack.

I’ve known Jack Creston since he was an intern at the company, which was somewhere over five years ago I guess. Five years. Just picture that, if you will. Five years of not only working together, but being near acquaintances, sharing in troubles and high times, spending a good deal of after-work time talking about life. You would think that in five years, something like this might have come up.

It was out of the bluest blue, I swear. I hadn’t a clue. He didn’t even help me along, with any obvious hints or character flaws, or at least I didn’t think. And he just stood there, with a face that completely told me he thought I already knew.

Lawrence was about to cry from holding in his laughter, but I couldn’t share in the merriments just yet. We had something to get to the bottom of.

“Lawrence, bug off.”

He left, guffawing before he reached the exterior. Jack had his arms crossed over himself, and was staring at me the way he used to stare at our boss, Darius, whenever he was forcing our Mr. Creston to do something on the nasty side.

I coughed. “Wow.”

“Yes, I guess this is a ‘wow’ situation, eh?” He kept staring down at the cookies.

“Husband.”

“Yes.”

“God!”

He snorted weakly, wouldn’t meet my eyes.

“So, were you planning to tell me, or was I going to find out when I decided to follow her—him down to the parking lot?”

“Excuse me?” His mouth remained open. When he waited and I didn’t come up with a retort, he fidgeted about. “I was probably going to say something, maybe before I retired.”

And here’s where I can’t exactly tell you what happened next, or at least not word for word. I had the biggest pressure building up in my head, and I just couldn’t believe that he’d done something this big. And hid it from me! From the rest of his friends! Did anyone else know? I had to find out! Not only was our old friend a fruitcake, he was married! To a man who looked like a shorter version of a women’s fashion model.

It was like the apocalypse raining down. I couldn’t take it, so I blew up at the chap. I admit, I might have been a little too colorful in the language department, but I desperately wanted my feelings known. So when I had finished, he was a glowing red, and had made fists that I figured would swing my way soon enough. So I was halfway through the door when he decided to shriek at me.

“GET OUT OF MY OFFICE! HOW DARE YOU—“

And here’s where I ran for the hills.

TO BE CONTINUED