Over The Edge

by vince kamp

Sheridan shook his wrist free from his double cuffed shirt sleeve and checked his Patek Philippe wrist watch. He couldn’t help taking a moment to admire the sweep of the second hand, in spite of his twisting and writhing stomach. A bead of sweat rolled off his nose and splashed against the sapphire crystal, magnifying the roman numerals in the meniscus.

As the lift doors rumbled open, he finally let his breath whistle through his teeth. He rubbed his eyes hard with the heel of his hand, then stared down the hallway in front of him. His eyes followed the soft yellow glow of the art deco wall lamps, reflecting in the perfectly polished marble floor, toward the doorway at the end of the hall.

The brilliant rectangle of white light, framed by a giant metal detector, looming in the shadows, sits between the dark outline of two security officers, responsible for the safety of the trading floor beyond. But nothing would keep the trading floor safe today. Sheridan Hackett had been pushed to the edge, and he was about to jump off.

The doors started close just as Sheridan stepped out of the lift and into the hallway. The solid leather heel of his Oliver Sweeny brogue clacked loudly on the floor. He hesitated, holding his next step inches away from the floor, overcome by the repellent force of the light at the end of the hallway. He was suddenly aware of his heart rate pulsing in his ears. His collar was tightening around his throat. He eased his finger between the sweaty skin of his neck and the stiff starched material of his shirt and pulled at the inflexible herringbone weave.

Not long now. Stay strong Sheridan, he scolded himself. Not long until he would never again feel the choking grasp of a freshly starched and pressed shirt, bound by the noose of a silk neck tie. He let his step fall to the floor and carried on towards the door.

Sheridan stopped six feet short of the metal detector; sweat spilled from his scalp down his temple and clung to his cleanly shaven fleshy jowl. He let his eyelids fall shut and allowed himself a moment to breath, to calm his nerves, to gather the momentum he needed to carry out his plan. He had to go through with it. He had no choice. He would show them all. They would be sorry....so damned sorry.

Sheridan had been at the bank for eleven years; working all the hours, sacrificing holidays, clawing his way up the ladder from lowly clerk, to where he was now; at the top, making six figure bonuses, living in an exclusive penthouse, capable of buying almost anything he wanted. The price of entry had been his soul and he had paid it without hesitation.

‘Everything ok Mr. Hackett?’ It was Lyle, one of the security guards, a monster of a man, no genius but he could tell something wasn’t right; instinctively, he eased his hand onto his holstered tazer.

Sheridan clenched his fists, digging his manicured fingernails into his sweaty palms.

One bad decision was all it took for them to throw him away. The market was tanking, the pressure was insane and something had to give. One bad call with a client’s investment portfolio and millions were lost in less than a day. The order to see significant heads roll was given and his was undoubtedly the one the client would want to see rolling first.

Well if you want to see Sheridan Hackett’s head roll? You’ll see it today. He had no idea how many he would take with him, it all depended on who was on floor at the time the button was pressed.

Sheridan’s eyes snapped open; he inhaled deeply through his nostrils and flashed his cosmetically enhanced smile.

‘Everything’s fine Lyle....just fine.’

Lyle shrugged and ushered him through with a wave of his metal detecting wand.

This room, always bursting with activity, the air thick with adrenaline and buzz, so appealing for years, meant nothing to him now. He hardly recognized his colleagues bent over their desks, hundreds of them, heads bobbing from one screen to the next, enslaved by the changing numbers. Had he really been one of them? Did they deserve to be saved... or spared?

A tiny elderly lady, dressed in a pinafore, slowly pushed her fully laden refreshment trolley across his path; she leaned into it as though it were a car out of fuel. The familiar squeak of the wheels and rattle of porcelain mugs had elicited a Pavlovian response for Hackett during those early days on the floor, when caffeine fuelled his every move. He missed that noise, and Maud’s wicked sense of humour, now that he had his own private office.

Maud gave him the slightest nod, unperceivable to anyone not looking for it. She closed her eyes momentarily and sighed in resignation. She was ready. She tapped the side of her cart gently - cargo on board - and carried on making her round.

The back of his shirt was soaked. In a moment the stain would show through his jacket. It didn’t matter anymore, he wouldn’t need it for much longer. The pressure of the last six months was starting to lift; soon he would be set free.

Tony walked urgently toward him, then changed course as he exchanged momentary eye contact. His eyelids were red and swollen as though he had been crying. He tapped his nose - ready - and squeezed his eyes shut to prevent further tears from escaping. Sheridan scoured the room looking for other signs of his collaborators readiness. They would prevent the security guards getting to him before he had a chance to finish what he had started.

Sheridan had spent the last two weeks planning. He knew they were coming for him today. The client was arriving at 9am. The sick bastard actually wanted to meet publicly here on the floor, no doubt to avoid some sort of emotional outburst, and witness the board of directors take him down. The rumour had spread quickly and so it was easy to find sympathy among his colleagues; this was brutal. Everyone knew he would never work in the city again and for someone like Sheridan Hackett, what else could he do?

There were several Rolex clocks showing the times in all the major markets, but Sheridan watched the sweeping second hand of only one. He subconsciously scrunched his toes in his shoes, tensing his feet. His hands clenched and unclenched, his jaw relaxed and dropped open, his shoulders started to sway, then his head started to bob rhythmically. The minute hand clicked into place, it was 9’Oclock.

‘Showtime’, he whispers. He turns on his heels to face the entrance and there they are. The client, CEO and several others from the board of directors. They march towards him, like officers of the Gestapo, no hint of expression on their faces. The room fills with escalating murmur as the news of the arrival spreads, then falls silent. Everybody stops what they were doing and watches.

Sheridan starts tapping his foot against the marble floor, breaking the silence. Then his fingers start clicking in time to the beat. As they come within metres, he holds up his hand to stop them, his face now shiny with sweat.

‘Wait.’ He says- a slight tremble in his voice. ‘Just wait.’

He reaches inside his jacket, there is an audible gasp from the room. He pulls out a long narrow piece of pink cloth and snaps it taught in front of them, then slowly brings it toward his face and ties it tightly around his head.

‘What the devil is the meaning of this Hack...’

‘Sshhhhh Monty... shhhhhh’, Hackett says, his head shaking, a finger pressed lightly on his lips. He slips his shoulders out of his jacket and lets it slide down his back to the floor. He pulls his tie free from his neck, the sense of freedom is instant. He whirls the tie around once and then lets it fly. Maud recognizes the sign, her face lit up by her toothless grin, and hits the play button on the stereo system fitted inside the coffee cart.

The 50w speakers punch out a classic eighties beat, it’s instantly recognizable as the theme from Flashdance. Hackett stares into the client’s eyes, licking the sweat seductively from his lips.

‘After all these years, this is how you want it? You want to just throw me away, like this?’ He waves his arms theatrically and makes a perfect spin, stopping to face the client again.

He kicks off his brogues and pulls off his socks, throwing them high into the air.

‘Well I’m not just going to lay down for you,’

He grips his shirt either side of the mother of pearl embossed buttons and rips it off, proudly revealing a bright purple leotard; his chest hair bunches out from the provocatively low neck line which hugs his flabby chest, the thin sequin straps tightly biting into his doughy shoulders.

As the intro gathers momentum, Maud turns the volume knob up a couple of notches.

‘If you’re looking for a fight’- Sheridan clicks his fingers, throws his head back then theatrically punches the sky. He spins, slaps his chest and beckons them closer, staring with wild eyes. ‘-I’ll give you the fight of your life.’

The lyrics kick in –

Just a Steel-Town girl on a Saturday nightLookin for the fight of her lifeIn the real time world no one sees her at allThey all say she's crazy

He turns on his heels, wind milling his arms as he skates across the smooth floor. He jumps and whips his modified trousers off in a single move. He slaps his buttock showing off the leotard’s high cut over the hips, the taught spandex diving into the cleavage of his ample behind. Tight pink spandex leggings stretch around his thick powerful legs, ending with purple knitted legwarmers bunched down to just below the calf. A squeal from a woman in the back of the room sets off a stream of wolf whistles and cheers.

He’s crouched over, swaying his body in time to the music, arms swinging before him, fingers clicking, his head up, nodding to the beat, waiting for the chorus. He races toward the board of directors and jumps into the air, whipping his heels up into his buttocks, throwing his arms high above his head. They recoil in shock... or horror, maybe both.

‘Because I’m a maniac, maniac for sure’, He sings at the top of his voice, ‘and I’m dancing like I’ve never danced before.’

He races across the floor as the music picks up. He leaps; throwing is legs high into impressive splits. As he lands, his feet lightly slap the floor and he instantly bounces into a cartwheel followed by a somersault. In spite of his excess weight, he lands gracefully on the floor sliding effortlessly into the splits again, his hands clasp around his leading foot as he throws his head passionately onto his knee. He rolls onto his back and scissor kicks his legs, feet elegantly pointed to the ceiling.

The crowd are clapping in time to the music, yelping with excitement as he pulls off each dramatic gymnastic move with perfect grace. The security guards are held back by his co-conspirators, but make no concerted effort to break free.

Sheridan skips along the desks, kicking paperwork into the air in time to the music. He somersaults off the last desk and now he’s a cat, his hands are bunched into claws, clawing at the air as he zig zags towards the client and directors, hissing at them and making small catlike leaps. One last prance and he’s right into the client’s personal space, bumping his chest against him. The client is rigid with fear. Sheridan waits a moment for the chorus, then seizes the flabby cheeks of his tormentor and licks his face from chin to forehead, gathering the half moon spectacles in his mouth. He turns, throws his arms into the air and dives into the first of several flips across the dance floor, catapulting the specs from his mouth into the mesmerized crowd.

Finally, the security guards are joined by reinforcements and they reluctantly flood the floor. A particularly big guard throws an arm around Sheridan’s neck, but Sheridan just keeps dancing, he’s so sweaty, he slips free. Everybody cheers, many abandon their desks for the dance floor. Soon the guards are surrounded by dancing bankers throwing down their own wild Flashdance moves. The directors have had enough; they push through the bopping crowd to leave. Sheridan sees them retreat and shouts,

‘What’s the matter? Don’t you want to fight anymore?’

The guards grab his arms and legs and carry him spread-eagled away. His former colleagues start chanting his name. Maud has turned the music to eleven and everybody is dancing. Sheridan relaxes. He is smiling. He is free at last.