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  MENAGERIE

  By

  A.K. Meek

  MENAGERIE

  A.K. Meek

  Copyright 2013 A.K. Meek

  https://www.akmeek.com

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental. If you know of any Menagerie, tell me.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Prologue

  The Presentation

  Acme

  Mr. Toady

  Girl with a Squirrel

  Evergreen

  The Angry Witch Mob

  The Big Decision

  Party Time

  Dreamweaver

  Hangover

  Mondays

  Problems

  Disclaimer

  Author’s Note

  Prologue

  me·nag·er·ie

  1. A collection of wild or foreign animals kept especially for exhibition. ~Webster’s Dictionary

  2. A forever friend to help with life’s tough struggles. ~The Acme Corporation

  The Presentation

  A parrot clasped the left shoulder of John’s business jacket with one gnarled claw while meticulously preening a wing with the other.

  John stood at the head of a long conference table, projector screen behind him. The introductory slide displayed his name, John Barron, with ‘Slide 1 of 175’ centered under his name.

  His oversized brown Stetson matched his oversized suit.

  Some of the other analysts sitting at the conference room table conversed about the mundane, others about John’s impending exhibition.

  It was going to be a long meeting, especially with John giving the presentation. Five analysts already called in sick that day. That has never happened before. Sometimes one, two, tops. But not five.

  Tim leaned back in his chair and gazed out the window, daydreaming he was anywhere but there at that moment.

  He was an analyst for Sigma Analytical District and found many things more exciting to watch than John stumbling through an appalling presentation.

  The District’s main conference room nestled on the 99th floor of Building Seven in the March Cluster, a group of business lease buildings. The District leased the 98th and 99th floors. Half wall partition cubicles spanned across the 98th floor. The floor above was reserved for meeting rooms and senior analyst offices.

  Building Seven’s outer wall formed the left side of the conference room, providing a panoramic view of the city through its glass wall. The tops of taller buildings disappeared in the perpetual smog, but here on the 99th, the view was still partially unspoiled by the pollution.

  Tim’s eyes followed a capsule shuttle through the transit tube located around floor 50. Tubes networked throughout the city of Corinth at various heights, connecting building to building. The transit system had to accommodate a growing, mobile population. The splendid city had already expanded to the borders of the wasteland and could expand no further. The next option was up. Building Seven rose over 200 floors. It was one of the smaller buildings in the March Cluster.

  Laughter snapped him out of his daydreaming.

  Out of the 30 analysts in the room and the countless conversations, he honed in on Bob and Lob. They always goofed off in meetings. He made a mental note to sweet talk Patsy in personnel so he could review their résumés.

  “I’m telling you if he throws up this time then I’m going to hurl,” Bob said.

  Lob pulled his narrow brimmed hat low over his eyes, lifted himself from his chair, and looked to the front. He giggled under his breath. “I don’t see a trash can. Maybe I should get him a trash can.”

  Two o’clock, time for the meeting to start. People found their chairs, the noise in the room diminished, and the room of analysts turned on electronic memo pads and put their attention on John.

  He shuffled his weight, looked at his notes and then looked to the presentation on the virtua wall screen. He swallowed hard enough so that Tim, half way down the conference table, saw it.

  The unspoken conference room hierarchy gave senior analysts front row seating, closest to the front of the room and to the presenter. Junior analysts fought for the remaining seats at the back. Tim usually sat somewhere in the middle, closer to the front. Most days he wanted to sit at the head of the table with older, wiser analysts. Today, he was happy where he sat.

  The parrot finished with the preening, shuffled underneath the Stetson the inch or two to John’s head and put its beak close to his ear. John listened, nodded once or twice, and whispered something back to the bird.

  He cleared his throat one last time and began his presentation.