What Ever Happened to Phillip Randolph?

My first impression of Phillip was the he was blessed with ignorance. After all, someone so impertinent, so irritating, so self-absorbed and yet so completely lacking in self-awareness was most certainly better off not knowing it.

He had the most grating personality I’d ever encountered, and almost from the moment I did I knew I’d be hard-pressed to avoid his intrusions of personal space and tireless attempts at witticism. He was the sort of man who walked about the office talking loudly on his cellular, as though he needed everyone to hear him bragging about this or that new toy to make-believe friends or making reservations at expensive restaurants with what could only be imaginary dates. You know, the sort who told extremely impolite and downright crass jokes about the things he’d like to do to the receptionist’s rear-end on days that the poor, young girl wore tight skirts, then pointed finger-pistols at you, winked and made clicking sounds through his teeth.

Then he’d say “eh?” expecting some degenerate sign of agreeability towards his rudeness. It was inconceivable that anyone so vile and so utterly despicable could fumble through life with no clue of it. On the contrary, he was astonishingly satisfied with himself as a human being, when in fact; the man was simply an uncivilized animal in expensive clothing.

The very sound of his voice was almost enough to reduce anyone in earshot of him to tears from pure embarrassment of having heard one his asinine insights or observations on the ways of the world, or the opposite sex. And it was practically impossible not to hear him. The man’s husky, booming, ivy-league football player voice carried to anyone within four cubicles of whichever one he’d forced his way into for conversation. Worst of all, he frequently insisted upon recounting his fabricated conquests of the previous night in excruciating detail, often in spite of his coworkers’ meek pleas to mind the office environment and quiet protests against the inappropriate subject matter.

“Hey Floor-shine!” he’d say, walking into my cubicle and depressing the hold button as I’d stare in disbelief at the blinking light that represented my call, now on hold. From the day I’d met him he’d thought that little play on my name quite the hilarity.

“It’s Florsheim, Phillip,” I’d correct.

“You should’ve seen the beautiful baby I took home from the bar last night!” he’d say ignoring me. “Boy oh boy, I tell you. What a rack on that one!”

“Thank you, Phillip,” I’d answer as politely as I could, though quite uncomfortable beneath the gaze of his puffy, bloodshot eyes and the wafting stench of the whiskey he’d been drinking, no doubt alone after repelling all the female patrons, one after another and sometimes in pairs, at said bar the previous evening. “But I really must see to this account.”

He’d ignore me and go on, describing dirty things she purportedly did, and dirtier things yet that he’d done in return. Combined with the stale stench of day-old liquor it was downright nauseating.

Even his appearance was a noxious cloud that hung about him dizzying whatever poor, unfortunate souls chanced upon him. His helmet of gunk-filled, slicked-back, black hair and that awful goatee, his loud ties and what seemed like two gold nugget rings per finger, glaring beneath the fluorescent lights of the office – it was all just too much to bear! Other than his questionable choice in neckwear, his suits were always impeccable and of the finest designers. Of course, he insisted on fostering the obnoxious habit of dropping the brand and the price he’d paid for them every time he came in with a new one, which was at least once a week. And that was to say nothing of his newly purchased footwear – always Salvatore Ferragamo or Bruno Magli – which always sent him raving about the delicate craftsmanship.

People around the office would simply roll their eyes as he walked away in what he most assuredly thought of as triumphant attempts to woo the public at large, all of us poor white-collar, middle-management types. Naturally, no one dared say anything. How could we? He was the Phillip Alan Randolph III, and we were after all, gainfully employed by Randolph Investments, so lest we wanted old man Randolph to put us out on the street, we knew we had best tolerate his son as best we could.

But it was no easy task. From the very day he walked into the office, his crocodile-skin briefcase in hand and a look of utter smugness on his stupid face, despite the fact that he was wet behind the ears, not two days out of Brown, it was apparent that he simply would not do to work with. And a vice president no less! To have to report to him to any degree at all was unthinkable. It was the ultimate nepotistic slap to the face of all who’d worked here year after year, diligently breaking our backs and dutifully browning our noses to get ahead. From that very moment it was painfully obvious that he did not belong here, among the people of this office, most of who were hard working decent people with families. I knew something would need to be done about young master Randolph if we were ever to return to a state of peace and politeness within this corporate machine. His residence on the organizational chart of Randolph Investments would need to come to an end if we cogs were to resume turning the gears of commerce.

But it wasn't until later, probably much later than it should've been, when I finally realized exactly what needed to be done.

The realization began to set in right around mid-fall of the year following Phillip’s inception at the firm. Or at least that was the beginning of the series of events that would bring me to the revelation – that was when Trudy started in the finance department. She had a radiant beauty that was downplayed by her mostly businesslike demeanor, the silhouette of a delicately feminine figure moved smoothly just beneath the surface of her iron-colored power suits and windows to a passionate soul hid behind her horn-rimmed glasses. Her skin was fairest porcelain, soft and pale, but somehow still exuding certain warmth. Her hair, deepest chestnut and though pulled back in a bun, rebel strands escaped near the back of her neck and at the corners of her forehead, giving testament to that which the silken sheen of her hair only alluded to – that beneath her veneer of professionalism rested a beautiful, vibrant woman.

Kindly do not misconstrue my description of her. Trudy was not frigid or unfriendly. She was no ice queen. In fact, she was quite friendly and had a lovely sense of humor emphasized by an insatiable laugh that made it seem she enjoyed a joke more than anyone else. She merely exhibited a poise often found in women preferring to be taken seriously in the workplace and to climb the corporate ladder, than to gaze up at it prettily from below a glass ceiling. The truth was I admired her for it.

In any case, we quickly became friends and I found myself imagining us more than that at night when I was having dinner alone in my loft, or staring at the web of pipes along the ceiling from my bed below. Not that I ever acted on my fantasies, mind you. Far be it from me to subvert the carefully crafted exterior she'd created to defend herself during the daily grind.

So you can imagine my surprise when she asked me one morning as we casually chatted over our morning coffee if I'd like to meet her for drinks after work. I accepted with a smile and we had a wonderful time, tossing flirtatious glances back and forth and laughing at one another's jokes. In the following weeks we began to see more of each other and even began to spend the night at one another's place, on occasion.

Truth be told, I was becoming quite smitten with her. As was she with me, it seemed. Naturally, we kept our relationship to ourselves. No displays of affection where we could be seen, no flirtation around the workplace, but in private things were quite different. It’s not to say we were serious, just enjoying each other’s company.

Then one day, in walked Phillip, arrogant and obnoxious as ever. He’d started making rounds, annoying employees at their desk, and finally, he came to my cubicle.

“I’m really quite tied up, Phillip,” I warned preemptively, hoping to diffuse the need to endure his incessant yammering. “Got a lot to finish up before the week’s out.”

“Gotcha, Floor-shine,” he said. Finger-pistols, wink, click-click and I thought that would be the end of it, or at least I hoped.

But he made no move to leave.

“Know Trudy?” he asked. I felt the blood rushing to my head and a voice deep within me pleaded that he not do what I was expecting. Yet, somehow I found the words.

"Yes," I answered, "I know her. Why?"

Now I could hear my heartbeat hammering its steady beat inside my skull, picking up speed by the second. I'd heard him speak rot about her before – he'd done it to every woman in the office multiple times – he'd point out what could be seen of her shapely legs beneath the hem of her skirt or the tiniest bit of cleavage in the recesses of her silky blouse.

But this time was different. We'd shared so much, Trudy and I. We'd gotten so close. I really felt a bond had formed between us and there were feelings there, and I didn't think I could bear him ogling her this time without telling him what I really thought of him once and for all. Not if he was going to talk about my girl.

I hadn't really thought of her like that until now, but I guessed she was after all. Had we not been spending nights having dinner, then wrapped in one another’s passion until we faded off to sleep, awaking early in the morning, just enough time to make it home to get ready for work? Surely these nights meant something. Who cared if no one else knew what there was between us? I knew!

Then he said those words I'll never forget, though they became a blur almost as quickly as the story tumbled from his slow-witted lips.

"You should've seen the fun we had last night!"

And just like that the world went dark on me. My body felt numb and I heard everything as though from beneath the water, distant, far off. My eyeballs burned in their sockets, fury rose in the pit of my stomach like mercury. He was a pig. Still, it could be true. I wasn't with her the night before. Was she wearing the same blouse? I couldn’t be sure, but I could feel my knuckles whitening beneath the pressure of my clenched fists. I didn't think it could be true, but by then the specter of doubt had already reared its filthy head. The taste of copper was hot in my mouth and I knew I’d bitten down on my tongue or the inside of my cheek, or perhaps it was just my gums protesting from the strain of my gritting teeth. I was overtaken by a sickening dizziness and I thought I'd fall right out of my chair. The room seemed to be spinning, my cubicle reeling around me, readying to wretch me out into some cosmic wasteland where I’d float in limbo forever, lost forgotten, alone. Underneath my three-piece suit I could feel perspiration dampening the inside of my clothes as hot and cold flashes raced the length of my extremities, sending chills coursing up and down my spine. Just like that, my whole world had been knocked off its axis by this swine’s simple allusion to a midnight tryst with my sweet, sensuous Trudy.

And just like that I realized that I was left no choice but to kill Phillip Alan Randolph the III.