Coyle's Blog (Lexington Avenue Express)

Coyle's Blog (Lexington Avenue Express) Review

Coyle’s Blog (Lexington Avenue Express - Short Fiction)

Robert Coyle clicked on the 'Accept' icon and posted the new entry on his fiction blog. As he rose from his chair his eyes narrowed, boring in on the sparkling Lexus sedan parked four stories below. The car was parked in a reserved space that should have been his; a space marked 'President.' Dark lines appeared across the pale, thin skin of Coyle's forehead, each furrow etched-deep by an invisible harrow of hatred, the tines honed razor-sharp by the simmering mixture of contempt and envy he had come to embrace.

Turning from the window, Coyle leaned back against his office credenza, palms flat on the oak surface, thumbs hanging over the edge, pointing defiantly toward the hell he accepted as his final destination. Such was his familiar pose; the posture he frequently assumed as he appraised those he hated more than he hated himself. As he focused his contempt on the unbroken spines of the books on the shelf above his work station, the echo of the telephone intercom interrupted the relentless boil of his hatred.

“Mr. Coyle, Mr. Faulkner's secretary just telephoned. He'd like to see you in his office at ten o'clock today.”

Coyle shoved himself upright and angrily snatched the telephone from its cradle on his desk. “Tell Mr. Faulkner's secretary that I have a prior commitment at ten. I'll be in Primary Fabrication supervising a tool setup.”
Coyle felt smug as he resumed his position perched on the edge of the credenza. I saved this company from bankruptcy after my father's death, he thought, and they repay me by bringing in a college boy to humiliate me. In reality, Robert's reputation as a reckless womanizer had thwarted his ten-year dream; in October, the board of directors had selected an outsider to serve as President of Coyle Metal Forming.

Robert Coyle continued glaring at the bookshelf but his thoughts were fragmented, cleaved by his loathing of new company president Paul Faulkner and his lust for Faulkner's secretary, Kimberly. He thought of her, his eyes crawling from one book spine to the next, Webster's Dictionary, 2011 Guide to OSHA Compliance, Thorne MBP-44 Safety and Operations Handbook, Atlas of New Jersey-- “just six more pounds and I'll be down to two-ten,” he whispered looking down at his stomach, thinking of her lying next to him, the sheets damp from their love-making. Again, the intercom interrupted his musing.

“Mr. Faulkner's secretary is on the line. Is it okay to ring her through?”

Coyle righted himself again, smiling this time. “Yes, certainly,” his voice was syrupy as he spoke into the telephone, “put Kimber … you may connect Ms. Pendleton now.”
*****
Seven hours later, Robert Coyle and three others were standing in the Primary Fabrication Building. The group was dwarfed by the three-meter maw of the computer-operated machine tool they'd been struggling to install throughout the day.

“Form at fifteen degrees, strike at twenty-two tons, confirm settings, over,” the foreman barked into his two-way radio as he glanced at the three-ring binder open on the work table in front of him. The setup project should have been completed hours earlier and the foreman's patience was growing thin.

“Form fifteen, strike two-two tons, over,” a young man in the glass-enclosed control booth above them repeated as he typed the settings into the console-keyboard. A few seconds later he added, “I've got a yellow-light here, over.”

“Confirm yellow light on local panel, removing safety key,” the foreman said. As the foreman spoke, one of the others slipped a heavy, bright orange safety bar from a slot on the front of the MBP-44. “Green light on local, over,” the foreman said.

“Green light on console, cycle in five seconds … four … three…” The men on the machine platform stepped back a few paces, each absently adjusting the safety equipment he wore. The man in the glass booth rested his finger on the button labeled 'SEND'.