The Pusher

Menlo was having trouble breathing. A large man with big arms was leaning on his chest. Leaning hard, putting everything he had into it. His shoulders rippled and the tension stood out along his jawline in wriggling tremors. The man wore a patterned vest over a broad expanse of bare chest. An earring winked from one ear. He was bald. Completely bald—shiningly so—as though he was inhospitable to hair and all the happier for it.

He had been there since the night before, pushing on Menlo's chest so hard it was all Menlo could do to gasp pitifully. He thought about calling an ambulance. Or at least calling in to work. But what would he say? "A large man is pushing on my chest really, really hard." He knew how that would sound. Menlo wasn't a drinker, but did anyone at Deerwald, Rimmy, and Traff know that? When they heard about the man, they'd sigh and put the phone back down and put an indelible black mark next to Menlo's name in the company register.

So it was just Menlo and the chest-pusher. He shifted his position to work some different pushing muscles and Menlo started seeing spots. The pressing was pressing the oxygen right out of him. Quick sips of air—that's all he could manage with this man leaning against him this way. The man didn't talk. He kept up a steady grunt of exertion, but no conversation. No explanation. No "I'm sorry about this." Nothing. Just the pressure and the grunting like a whining motor as he pressed against Menlo's chest, his knuckles whitening and his wrists stiffening up. He lifted one hand and cranked it around in a circle to wring out the cramp. Then he got back to work.

Menlo craned his neck, to see around the bulk of the man and into the kitchen, to the happy, round clock on the wall. He was very late.