To Be King

John is next in line to inherit his father's job, but the wait is killing him. I wrote it for class, for a project on Macbeth...hopefully you can find the ties!

To Be King

    John Bynum heard his mother’s voice on the phone.
    “John, I’ve got great news,” she said. “Your father has decided to pass on the company to you once he leaves. You’ll be the next CEO.”
    John was surprised at first, although it made sense when he thought about it. His grandfather, Will Bynum, had started Bynum Industries when he was young, ran it successfully for 50 years, and passed it on to his son, Don Bynum. And Don was getting old. At 75, he must have realized that his time left for capably running a large business was growing thin; it was time to pick a successor.
    The idea, though, of running one of the national leaders in military protective gear was still new to John. The company, in his eyes, always belonged to his father. All the news articles, all the stories of new developments from the company featured Don Bynum’s face; his graying hair with his bright eyes, and a face that looked like that of a man who built tactical combat vehicles and survivability products- even at his age, he was strong, and you could see it all in his face.
    John hung up the phone in his office. He occupied a room across the hall from his father’s, although his was much smaller, much less decorative, and didn’t have the same view. Don’s room overlooked an expanse of Flagstaff, Arizona that was a picture of beauty; a flat stretch of untouched land, expanding into a forest of pine trees, backdropped by the blue San Francisco Peaks, still capped by fading snow in the distance. John’s windows looked out onto the back parking lot, from which you could trace the main roads going back to downtown Flagstaff.
     John prepared to leave as 5:00 came. He threw his bag over his shoulder, straightened his tie, and left, turning around to lock the door with the plaque reading John W. Bynum, CFO, in gold letters. As he walked to the stairs, he looked across at the most important door in the building- his father’s. He could only imagine what he was doing. Probably on some important call with someone from the military, lining up a negotiation. John could see his father in his large leather chair behind the computer, with a phone in his hand, persuasively convincing whoever was on the other end to “Trust Bynum, a family-run company for almost 100 years.”
     That’ll be you, thought John to himself. Enjoying the luxuries, the view, the pay. And having your face on all the news articles.
    His fantasies continued as he drove himself home, indulging himself on the thought of being the CEO of Bynum Industries.

    John lived alone; no woman, no pets, no nothing. The only calls he received were from his mother, occasionally, and from work. It was a shame, really. As the CFO, he made enough to comfortably afford a large flat, with room for a wife, kids, and a family pet. But for as long as he could remember, it was just him and his thoughts, and he found himself thinking to himself more often than he should. Additionally, his home provided almost no protection from the troubles of work, which seemed necessary in the business world. Instead of a fortress against the stress, the impersonal, professional way of life, John’s flat was the opposite- a welcome mat to thoughts, calls, and projects from the office.
    He sat down alone to eat the microwave meal he prepared, in the brown leather couch made big enough for five. Soon, his mind had wandered.
    Imagine it, John. Your face on the cover of magazines, on TV. You’ll be the hero. And the women. Mom used to be quite the lady, and Don’s job must have worked on her.
    John sat with his eyes closed and his plate on the coffee table in front of him. He could hear the patter of small, slippered feet running straight past him, he could hear the laughter, the comical joy of cartoons in the next room, the barking of a dog, the sizzling of a wife cooking a real meal for all of them. He could smell it. Chicken with rice and salad.
    And the kids, his kids, would be getting ready for bed by now. Running water in the bathroom, the swishing of a toothbrush back and forth, rinse, mouthwash, spit, and to bed. He tucked in the covers close around the peaceful face of his son, could feel the warmth of his body through the blankets, and watched as he fell asleep to the sound of a story.
    John got up, threw the paper plate in the trash, and put himself to bed. Half of a double bed lay empty next to him, and as he rolled over and saw nothing between him and the wall, no sleeping body, no family portrait, not even a painting, a window, a plant, nothing but the blank white wall, desperation welled up in the back of his throat, pushing on his Adam’s Apple, threatening to burst.
    It’ll all change soon. You just need that job, John.


    John walked into the double doors of  Bynum, past the blonde receptionist, busy on the phone, and started up the three sets of stairs to his office. At the top of the third floor he walked towards his father’s room, taking a left, instead of going right to get to his. The hallway was empty, and quiet. A buzz from the lights above were all that John could hear.
    Today was Saturday. Don never worked on Saturday. John walked to the large door of Don’s office and stood there, his hand lightly on the door handle. He looked down at what he was doing. Open it. He couldn’t. Open it. His impulses told him to go in, sit in the swiveling chair, look out the window at the view of the world in which he was so important in, and start making a name for himself already. There was no point in waiting. Inside, he wanted nothing more. But he couldn’t.
    He walked to his office and sat down.
    His office was plain, and full of things that had no relevance to him. All the light came from the lamp on the table at one end, which he turned on when he walked in, so the back end of the room was dark. Bookcases filled the walls, although he had never read anything in it, and his desk was cluttered with papers that he occupied himself with from nine to five. He tried to work, tried to focus on the matters of financing the company, but he found himself thinking of his father’s office, of the chair and of the view, the big windows which poured in light. Don’s at home, with mom. So why are you working?
    He couldn’t focus. His mind was cluttered by the thoughts of his father, enjoying a real life at home, while his consisted of numbers. How long, John? How long are you going to go home to a microwave dinner, sit alone, and come back to work in the morning? He told himself to stop, he couldn’t think like this. You know it’s true. Why are you living like this? A better life is across the hall.
    He grabbed the top of his hair, and tugged. This wasn’t what he wanted to be thinking.
    Really John. Tell me that this is how you want to live.
     It wasn’t. It wasn’t how he wanted to live.
    Tell me you can see yourself doing this for another ten, fifteen years until Don goes.
    He couldn’t see it. He couldn’t do it.

    He printed out the company’s most recent financial report, after making a few changes. To a business eye, it read that the company was slowly falling apart, losing all their money. He opened the door to Don’s office, closed the shade, and put the report on the large oak desk.
    When Don came in the next morning, thinking he was the first one in the building, John came in and shot him, from under the chin, blood exploding everywhere. He put the .45 in his father’s limp hand, looked at the wall of pictures of his family splotched with blood running down them, and walked out of the room.

    John sat in the large leather chair and looked out of his office to the San Francisco Peaks. He sat there for a while, thinking of the company. It would be successful. He would be successful. To John, the future was bright. He would be the face of the company, find a wife, settle down, fill his house, fill his office, and be just like his father.
    He sat down at the desk and got to work. He needed to work hard for the first few months. It would be difficult, immersing himself in work, never having time to think about anything else, but it would pay off. Work hard, play later.
    He opened up his email, and started filtering through, taking notes on a separate document. He filled one page of notes, then half of another, his hand scrawling out the company’s financial situation and information about possible contracts.
    Finished, he read over his notes. Everything was normal. He looked at the clock. It was ten twenty-three in the morning.
    John stood up, and walked to the bookcase at the other end of the bright, sunlit office. He pulled out two texts, one on maintaining satisfied, productive employees, and the other was the company’s product guide.
    He swiveled his chair towards the window and sat towards the sun, feeling its warmth on his face and hands. He flipped open the product guide first and began filtering through, starting on the section of personal protection gear. He looked interested, his head tilted sideways as he turned page after page, but soon let his mind wander, his hands repeating the motion without a purpose.
    Here you are, John. Right where you wanted. He turned a page. In the leather chair, looking out at the best view. Another page. Soon, all the benefits will come pouring in, all for the better. Page. And all you had to do to get it-
    He stood up and closed the book. He wore a paper-thin smile, his bright eyes slightly squinted in the sun, and shook the thought out of his head slowly. He pulled the blind on the large double-windows, casting the room into a semi-darkness, light glowing on the curtains, some of it filtering into the room. Swiveling back to the desk, he pulled out the text on employing, and turned to page one. He sat down, and, with all of his focus on the little black words on the paper, began reading.
    Soon, though, his mind began to drift again.