Sheltered



  Sheltered

  Copyright 2014 MontUHURU Mimia

  This story is based on true events.

  One

  Brent Grimes cracked his knuckles and waited for his boss.

  His seat, facing his supervisor’s desk, allowed him to peer out a set of expansive windows. From this height, he had a clear view of downtown Chicago, which at this hour, was a mosaic of sun spots, skyscrapers and two airplanes seeming to travel in slow motion.

  After Brent’s gaze came back in the office, his eyes pored over his boss’ desk. No framed photos; only a computer, a phone, two mini atlases for paperweights and a small stack of documents looking like they’d never been touched.

  Moments before, Brent picked up the hint of lavender scenting the office, but the air held more overtones of old money and Ivy League arrogance than anything. This was evidenced by the wall covered in degrees from Harvard, Stanford, Oxford and some other upper-crust school ending in ‘rd’ he’d never been to.

  Brent glanced at the reflection in his boss’ nameplate. What came back at him was his set of crimson eyes, a five o’clock shadowed, square jaw and a scarred right cheek.

  The Congo, 2008—we barely made it out of there, Brent thought, rubbing his forefinger over the embossed skin of his wound.

  Foot falls came towards the office seconds later, a door knob turn came after, and an inward swing of the door revealed Brent’s boss.

  Brent locked eyes with him and found his face in its usual half-scowl. He clutched the arms of his chair and grit his teeth as his supervisor approached the desk.

  “Morning,” said Brent.

  A condescending stare was his supervisor’s response.

  Brent’s boss placed his slim, leather bound folder on his desk and opened it. After several seconds, his eyes stayed fixed on its innards.

  “C’mon. . . it’s bad enough I spent the last coupla’ months in some half-way house, now you’re gonna’ give me the silent treatment?”

  Brent’s boss lifted his eyes off the folder.

  “So, how’d we do?” Brent’s boss started.

  “I want out—I’m serious,” said Brent.

  Brent caught his boss’ eyes return to the folder.

  “I guess we did fine,” Brent sneered.

  Brent’s boss got up and motioned toward the door.

  “Alright . . .” Brent said, sitting forward in his chair. “The Quinacrine-laced cigarette campaign is working like a charm. I’ve got more and more of the shelter’s men asking for ‘loose squares’ at least eight times an hour.”

  “And you’ve followed up with the chosen subjects?” asked Brent’s boss, sitting back down.

  “Yes . . . Trevor Johnson, Robert Washington and Craig Jones.”

  “And . . .”

  “The results came back positive,” said Brent.

  “Meaning . . . we don’t have to worry about these bastards creating any more mongrel children.”

  “Exactly.”

  Brent’s boss flipped over a page inside his folder.

  “You ran sampling studies afterward?”

  “Of course . . .” said Brent. “All three were unknowingly diagnosed, with the same result.”

  “Sterility.”

  “Yes.”

  Brent stared at his boss as he began writing quickly in his folder.

  “And which agents did you put on them?”

  Brent’s eyes shifted upwards and left, “Tameka Mullins, Sharon Simpson and Kathy Bernstein.”

  “And they gave you vaginal swabs and other semen samples?”

  “Just like before.”

  “And our lab confirmed them?”

  Brent glowered at his boss. “Of course they’ve been confirmed,” spat Brent.

  “How many times have I done this without a hitch?”

  “Procedure.” Brent’s boss replied.

  “Look, if you think I’m gonna’ be insulted like this . . .”

  “Do I have to remind you how well you’re being compensated?”

  Brent rolled his eyes and sat back.

  “And you’re sure the subjects were repeatedly intimate with the agents?”

  “Yes—repeatedly,” said Brent.

  “How repeatedly?” Brent’s supervisor asked, staring dead in his face.

  “Thom had sex with Tameka and Sharon five times. Robert tripped the light fantastic with Sharon twice, then Kathy three times . . . and Craig had sex with Kathy three times.”

  Brent caught his boss’ changed countenance.

  “Why wasn’t Craig tested more?”

  “Like I told you before, he’s in a long-term relationship.” Brent said matter-of-factly. “He held out on Tameka and Sharon, but once we put Kathy on him, well . . . you know those Black bucks can’t pass up a chance at a white woman,” snickered Brent.

  Brent stared at his boss as he continued to write.

  “Test Craig again.”

  “You gotta’ be kiddin’ me.” Brent sneered.

  Brent’s boss looked him squarely in the eye.

  “Hell no!” Brent seethed. “Get someone else to do it . . . I’m done!”

  “You’re not done ‘til all the subjects are properly tested.”

  Brent’s eyes furrowed down and his teeth clenched.

  “I gotta’ good mind to . . . “

  “Do what?” Brent’s boss challenged. “When you joined this fraternity, you swore an oath to perform any tasks . . . “

  “Don’t gimme that crap!”

  Brent eyed his boss’ throat.

  “Well, you can always try to leave,” admonished Brent’s boss.

  Brent’s glare made a slow descent to the carpet before he exhaled loudly.

  “That’s what I thought.”

  Brent’s stare went back out the window. He kept his eyes on a plane passing in the distance.

  “So how much longer?” Brent asked.

  “At least a month.”

  Brent shook his head.

  “So it’s gonna’ take a month to get this guy laid a coupla’ more times?”

  “At least.”

  “Listen . . .” said Brent staring through his boss, “If I gotta’ go back into that seedy ass, squalid place—I expect to be better compensated.”

  Brent’s supervisor met his stare.

  “How much better?”

  Brent gestured with his right hand, “To the tune of at least . . . two hundred fifty thousand—my daughter’s birthday’s in a week.”

  “I know.”

  Brent kept a hard stare on his boss as he began writing furiously.

  “Okay, a hundred thousand up front . . . and a hundred fifty thousand more when the job’s done.”

  “C’mon . . . “

  “Best I can do.” Brent’s boss said dismissively.

  Brent’s eyes bore a hole through his supervisor and kept the quick strokes of his pen in its periphery.

  “This is bulls—“

  “See you next month,” said Brent’s boss.

  Brent’s leather bound seat exhaled after he got up. While his supervisor’s eyes were on his paper, Brent saw the perfect angle where he could bring the chair down on his neck. It wouldn’t only sever a major artery, it would also rupture several vertebrae.

  Then he thought about what his fraternity would do to him. There’d be no place on earth he could hide.

  Brent strode away from the desk.

  I’ll make it up to her, he thought, after reaching his supervisor’s door.