Wondering where your pants were was never a great way to wake up, thought Mr. Mortimus. Especially when it was midafternoon and you were being shaken awake by the Vice-President of International Investment, Mrs. Belinda Carlisle-Sneed.
“Good God, man,” she cried, throwing the contents of a half-full Old Fashioned in Mortimus’ face. “Get it together, the boss is gonna be here in five minutes!”
Mortimus tried to gather his wits about him and make sense of this confounding situation. He rested his head on the desk and tried to remember how he’d gotten here. The last thing Mortimus remembered was eating lunch at Lil’s Spigot, the new Medieval British restaurant that had opened next door. He was enjoying his bowl of Goopy Doo and then. . . and then. . . he was back here in his office, being pantlessly shaken awake. In between, he could remember nothing.
As Mortimus oozed out of his chair and staggered around the room in a daze, Belinda walked over to his mid-century chromium bar cart and fixed herself another Old Fashioned. She downed it, then quickly mixed a Tom Collins. “Where in the hell are your pants, Max?” she asked in between sips. “This isn’t gonna sit well with Old Man Kruikshank, you know. It’s the third time this week!”
“What?!?!” Mortimus screeched. “I’ve never lost my pants before! You’re not making any sense! I’ve always been known for keeping my pants on, and if not actually on, then at least always in sight! This is crazy talk! Look, look at this tattoo!” he wailed, pointing frantically at his upper thigh, where the words PANTS LIFE were scrawled in runic script.
Belinda glided across the room and grabbed Mortimus by the bowtie. “Look here, softie, I don’t know what game you’re running, but I’ll be damned if you take me down with you!” She flung Mortimus into the corner of the office with disdain, followed by a pair of wool slacks she’d pulled from her shoulder bag. “Put these on and get in the conference room,” she snorted, turning her back to him and walking angrily out the office door.
Mortimus stumbled into the proffered pants, still peering around the office in search of his own mislaid trousers. He thought a quick drink might settle his nerves. As he walked to the bar cart, the right leg of his ill-fitting new pants caught on one of his desk drawers. It pulled the drawer free of the desk and onto the floor, showering the area with paper clips, pencils, highlighters and coins. Mortimus’ head crashed noisily through the glass top of an art nouveau display case full of historic marmalades.
Lying on the floor, picking glass and jam out of his hair, Mortimus swore an oath of vengeance against the interior decorator who had talked him into displaying his precious marmalade collection in an office setting. As he considered ways to ruin Sr. Jacques’ credit rating, Mortimus noticed a file folder nestled underneath the display case.
He pulled the dusty folder out and opened it. Inside was a treasure trove of blackmail photos capturing none other than Old Man Kruikshank himself, in a variety of compromising positions with members of the rap group Salt N’ Pepa.
Who knew how this folder had gotten there, or how long it had been gathering dust underneath a case full of moldering marmalade? Why hadn’t the cleaning crew ever noticed it? For that matter, why would anyone leave photos like this lying around and then forget about them?
But Mortimus knew that these were the kind of questions you asked a short story writer who seemed to have pulled some random deus ex machina out of his ass, not the kind of questions you asked an empty, trash-strewn office in the real world. The bloodied executive crawled to the bar cart, took a long swig of Noilly Prat vermouth, and pulled one last shard of glass from his ear.
And that’s the story of how Mr. Mortimus got the corner office!
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