Steven J. McDermott reading "Duplicity"

"Duplicity" a short story by Steven J. McDermott

Stuck inside the prison of a job. Trapped behind the rusting bars of the mask I wear. Not even eight AM, yet, and despite the ergonomic chair and desk, the muscles across my shoulders sear. Everything I fear pings off the walls, a volley of grape shot mowing me down. The scent of fresh cut grass seeps through the air-conditioning vents, reminds me of other jobs, outside jobs, honest work in fresh air. The blue heron's glide skims the cat tails before touching down without a splash amid the lily pads. Foggy mist steams from the dock's cedar planking. The heron arches its back, spreads its wings, takes in the glitter the rising sun sprinkles over the lake. Away across the water the mountains drip a cherry glaze. The view is my dessert, the simple pleasure of a highly compensated prisoner. Of course I don't feel like a prisoner until the ski boat swings into the view, sling-shots a water skier into an arc near the dock, his frothy roostertail sending the blue heron aloft.

If you don't tell someone something they need to know, even if they don't ask you to tell them, is it lying? The layoffs are coming and my ethical dilemmas multiply by the minute. My assistant has a two-year-old and is aglow and swelling with a new pregnancy. I know more about her financial situation than my own. Is it my deceit that causes me to resent her seeming guile-less and guilt-free disclosure of what losing her job would cost her? Of course headcount decisions are never made based on her kind of need.

Every day I wake up and wonder if today is the day I won't be able to look at the face in the mirror. I sleep, barely. A tossing torment fending off the assault of carrion beetles feeding on my mask. Occasionally, and with increasing frequency, they bite, and I claw at my face, leap from the sweated bed, jump around in the dark, awash in panic, until the overdose of adrenaline wakes me. And then, although utterly alone, I'm more embarrassed than if I were naked in front of an auditorium full of my co-workers.

Sleep deprived, I cry at my desk. I hear tears are a strength, a sign that I'm in touch with my feelings, emotionally mature. I try to believe in that strength. The truth is I've never felt weaker in my entire life. The tears are a relief rally, a letting go that keeps me from caving in. Nausea is the next strength I feel. Vomiting into the wastebasket, I let go the last illusion that I haven't caved. I've spelunked into the Carlsbad Caverns of my emotions and gotten lost. Worse, I've neglected to leave a trail of breadcrumbs so I can find my way out. And these are the feelings I'm supposed to share? Outside my office window crows peck crane fly larvae from the lawn. Caw. Caw. Caw, caw, caw.

This story was previously published in Cenotaph.