'Parallelism' : A Serial : Part Two

The reflection of Marcus Jones smiled back at its identical caster. It looked good, it felt good, it was good. Marcus always thought he looked better, more attractive, when viewed in this mirror than any other. Perhaps it was the way the light from his bathroom lamps caught it or perhaps it was the fact he tended to check himself immediately after passing waste and this cast a natural radiance – or relief – upon his pale façade.
      'Scared of mirrors' laughed Marcus. 'That old quack is in no position to advise me of my state of mental well-being.'
      He realised he was talking out loud to himself again and embarrassedly began to hum a nondescript tune as some sort of post hoc cover for his indiscretion. This too he stopped after a second. He was alone in his flat, who would have heard him? Did his neighbours hear him? He knew they'd heard him singing along to an old tape of pop hits last week. They'd knocked politely at first, then with incensed purpose. This progressed to a rapid temerity and, when Marcus finally opened the door, there was little to suggest the usual calm manner of 'wee Fergus from next door' in the face of the seething, bile-spitting demon that stood before him.
      'Will you keep that fucking noise down?' he gasped. 'And keep your fucking singing down too. If it is singing...if that noise you're making is singing and not just, just...a fucking weird racket.'
      'I'm sorry, I didn't realise.' apologised Marcus. It was true, he had barely been conscious of the sounds he had been making for the last thirty minutes. He had filled half an hour with high-pitched yelps, wheezes and squeaks and all to familiar tunes by Billy Ocean, Peter Gabriel, Level 42 and, most embarrassingly of all, Bucks Fizz. He was left out of breath, uncomfortably hot, lightly sweating and his mouth felt tight and sore.  Marcus coughed – a well-placed cough always made him feel better – and straightened his glasses in his mirror, the one which always brought out his best features.

Milquetoast

Gerald Tomkins is blessed, nay cursed, with a name so mundane, so vapid it practically predisposes his nature to all that meet him long before he proffers his signature limp handshake of welcome.  It is then fortunate that he still excels in his professional disposition as a middling salesperson for highly functional yet decidedly uninteresting software.  A moleish, middle-aged man in a budget suit standing five foot four in generously-heeled hush puppies may look out of place in a techno club or an inner-city skate park, but at a software sales conference it is practically uniform.

    Attending the annual Softmart conference at the less than stately Slough Manor is both Gerald's business highlight and personal lowlight each year.  The future of his small software house practically depends on him returning with a number of new contracts but the process leaves him feeling spiritually drained.  Nobody, he says, can ever connect with him as a person.
   
This year Gerald stands nervously behind a trestle table clearly last hired by a somewhat unruly youth group.  Only by strategically placing piles of brochures is he able to cover up their crude yet inventive graffiti.  Humming the melody to ‘Blue Monday’ by New Order, he sheepishly tries to make eye contact with the gathered representatives.  Those who do make this visual pact, however, are surprised by the knowledgeable, professional pitch they become party to – just as surprised as they are by the same curt refusal Gerald gives anyone who suggests ‘a drink to seal the deal’.

      ‘Hey! That’s Blue Monday, right?’ sounds a voice.

    Gerald looks up from a stack of brochures he had been repositioning.  His slate grey eyes meet another pair of sparkling azure, lightly obscured by overhanging curls of dyed red hair and accompanied by a grin of pure lipstick.

    ‘Oh...yes, yes it was.  Look, are you interested in software?’ replies Gerald quickly changing the subject and gingerly offering the topmost brochure.
    ‘
    ‘Sure!’ she beams.  ‘It's just that I love New Order and it’s always nice to meet another fan.  I’m Angela Smith, I work for Vasco.  We’ve actually heard quite a lot about your workflow management software – event-driven notifications, polling sources for redundant content...’

    ‘Well, er, it’s all there on the brochure,’ stammers Gerald.  ‘I...I think the electronic stuff’s their best.’

    ‘Electronic stuff?  You mean the software?’ replies Angela quizzically.

    Gerald feels his cheeks redden and his legs begin to shake.  ‘No...no, I – I’m talking about New Order.’ he gurgles.

    Angela smiles and studies the brochure, picking out various parts for extrapolation, Gerald doing his best to expand on them while simultaneously preventing his paper piles from being swept away by the breeze from the rusted ajar window behind him.

    ‘It sounds just like what we’re looking for,’ she says presently before laughing, ‘of course, your excellent taste in music swings it!  No, seriously, we would like you to visit the office to install a demonstration next week if you’re available.’

    Gerald takes a deep breath. ‘I will be delighted to,’ he squeaks before bravely adding, ‘I think the bar is open, would you like a drink to seal the deal?’