Mr Varney – Part II (fiction)
‘What is this? No really, what is this?’
The annoyingly high-pitched whine belonged to Morton Montgomery. Now, when he’d been a boy at school, Morton had been the chap whom everyone called ‘tattle-tale’, ‘teacher’s pet’ and other, indescribably more vile things. And he would’ve gladly carried on this role into his adult life, except Mr. Cameron made for a rather unpredictable teacher and it was rather difficult being on his side, when often enough, Mr. Cameron himself didn’t know which side he was on.
So, Morton, a staunch believer in the ‘adapt and improve’ ethos had cheerfully taken on the role of mascot/unofficial group leader.
Of course, in terms of distinction, that would have been Mr. Varney, being as he was, Mr. Cameron’s right hand man. Except Mr. Varney hadn’t really been a joiner sort of fellow. More of a ‘let’s get through this’ sort of fellow, preceded by an immense sigh. Sort of man who whenever asked was munching on a scone of some kind, yet remained for as long as he’d been with the company, rake-thin. You follow? Good. Good. Wouldn’t do to have you wondering off. Never know what…skeletons you might find.
And so it was that Mr. Varney begrudgingly tolerated Morton Montgomery’s…montgomeryness.
But now, the little man was getting on his nerves.
‘It is a crease,’ Mr. Varney enunciated, his face frozen in a killer grin.
‘Yes, I can see that. And so will Mr. Cameron. Are you insane? He’ll be here in less than twenty minutes. You know how he is Fridays.’
‘It’s Thursday.’
‘But he doesn’t know that.’
It was true. Mr. Cameron rarely took into account the day, the month or indeed, the season. Too often, they’d arrived at the office to find the big man playing golf in appropriate attire in the middle of December.
‘He won’t notice.’
‘Won’t notice?’ Morton mimicked. ‘When, in the seventeen years you’ve worked for this company, has he not noticed?’
‘Montgomery,’ said Mr. Varney, trying to signal the end of the conversation. ‘I do believe we have bigger fish to fry, so to speak. And that the crease in my pant leg is rather irrelevant to Mr. Cameron’s overall well-being.’
Montgomery, together with the rest of the small congregation, hesitated.
‘Here, take mine,’ he offered, already unzipping.
‘Are you insane?’
‘You stand up more, always prattling about. I won’t stand up at all, and he won’t even notice.’
He would’ve liked to snub the proposition, he really would have, but the truth was, he was far too worried about Mr. Cameron, and the crease had been giving him heart palpitations. As he watched Morton Montgomery unfasten his belt and reveal two stringy, white chicken-legs, Mr. Varney cast the die and made his choice.
‘But the jackets won’t match.’
It was purely a formality; he knew what Morton would say all along and before he knew it, they were both in various stages of undress, hurrying into each other’s suits. And it was at this moment, in typical Cameron fashion, that the boss chose to walk in. The first thing he noticed was the crease – now doubled in size by all this jostling – in Mr. Varney’s $400 pants.
‘Nasty,’ he remarked and winked at Mr. Varney, who, in his spare time, doubled as Mr. Cameron’s best friend. ‘You should really get yourself a new pair, Varn. Lord knows I pay you enough.’
Admittedly, it wasn’t the reaction they’d expected. The two men finished dressing in a hurry, content for the moment in each other’s shoes (quite literally, I’m afraid) and sat down at Mr. Cameron’s round table.
‘Right, gentlemen. What do we think about these markets?’
It must’ve been the pressure, or perhaps the unfamiliar waist band, but things seemed to have gone all screwy inside Morton Montgomery’s brain. There was an almost-gasp around the room – he should’ve known better than to ask that, he really should have.
‘For Lord’s sake, Montgomery,’ exclaimed Mr. Cameron. ‘You know the whole subject tires me.’
‘I do, sir, of course. I’m sorry.’
It was an understandable mistake – sometimes a man can’t hide what’s really worrying him, even when he knows he really should. Of course, with Montgomery’s little accident, their price went down another 3000. It wasn’t much, but what with the $7000 they’d lost last week when the new intern had taken Mr. Cameron’s parking spot (by mistake, the boy had later pleaded), they were out a good $10,000.
Mr. Varney checked discreetly, under the table, as he always did.
‘Right, then. Methinks it’s time for another joke contest,’ he announced to the room, forcing a smile. No, forcing himself not to look like he was forcing it. Mr. Cameron always knew when one of his employees was walking on egg-shells around him and if there was one thing Mr. Cameron disliked – and there were many things – it was being treated like an idiot.
He was not an idiot, he was in fact, remarkably sharp at times. He was just, sensitive.
And with the issue of that woman still unresolved, Mr. Varney didn’t want to see his friend in any more…distress.
‘What a capital idea, Varn. Since you’re the one came up with the idea…’
Well, there was the one about the man who really hated nicknames like ‘Varn’, but he wasn’t going to tell that. For the moment, Mr. Varney scrambled, thinking back to this morning, reading the paper, searching his mind for something funny. He was one of those old-school people who still bought the paper on actual paper. It didn’t show the markets, not the most updated ones, at least, so for all intents and purposes, it didn’t show any markets at all. Come to think of it, perhaps that’s why he preferred it old school.
‘Uhm, right. And the lord said unto John, “Come forth and you will receive eternal life”. John came fifth and won a toaster.’
‘A decent attempt,’ Mr. Cameron said, after a small chuckle. ‘Even though that was more of a pun, Varn, than an actual joke.’
Yes, it was a difference Mr. Varney never could quite remember, especially as the newspaper people seemed to only know puns.
‘My turn,’ said Mr Cameron.
And when it was Mr. Cameron’s turn, everyone laughed.
to be continued
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