3AM

The shouting started and the District Human Resources Director Paul jumped from behind the desk we’d been seated at for no more than fifty-five and a half seconds before he made his way, sprinting through hallways past the water cooler and paper pushers just like me. At the corner where the stairs demanded anyone a sharp right he held his hand out where an unsuspecting four inch by four inch framed representation of Van Gogh’s Sunflowers was left skewed violently against the wall like the victim of some domestic dispute. From the window in Paul’s office, I watch him emerge from somewhere beneath me, out into the Parking lot where the shouting had emanated from. With my ring and middle finger I pulled down one more singular blind as to not aware Paul or any other parties of my surveillance. Not that I would be reprimanded for looking. I just would like to avoid as much confrontation as possible. Besides, what’s a scene without its audience? Three stories below Paul was arguing with an Asian man. Familiar, but I couldn’t place his face. The Asian man looked distraught and it seemed he had already halted a black Mercedes attempting to leave the lot in his distress. He pounded small fists down onto the bonnet of the shiny black Mercedes but as weak as the man looked the heavy German automobile remained unmarred. The District Human Resources Director Paul had a cellular phone pressed to his right ear, as his other hand motioned the man to stop his harassment of the vehicle. From Paul’s office, I could hear my associates leaving their chairs to crowd the windows. I listened closer as some of the blinds were pulled up frantically by their cords while others, remained silent, presumably by onlookers like me, who wished to remain anonymous. When I returned my gaze to the situation unfolding outside, the man was thrusting what looked like a knife or some other sharp utensil in Paul’s direction. Paul continued to talk into the phone and motion with his left hand to put down what I perceived to be a knife. Who was Paul talking to on the phone? If he was calling the police, why would the conversation between he and the operator last this long? Perhaps the operator had forwarded Paul to a Chief Negotiator and Paul was acting as a proxy negotiator until the police showed up. The windows between the me and the other spectators up here on the third floor silenced any noise these two made down in the lot below. The entire situation had lasted, from the initial yelling Paul an I had heard from his office, to the time the police arrived on the scene, almost nine minutes. I’m sure the eight minutes and some odd seconds felt like a lifetime for Paul, and a microsecond for the upset man with his knife. When the police apprehended him, he stabbed himself ferociously in the chest and stomach. I began counting the times the knife entered his chest and could hear others in the room next to the office counting also. It was more disturbing than you’d imagine, the way his arm thrashed the blade to and from his abdomen, his long-sleeve white shirt changing red with every jab. It was a terrible look of defeat on his face when the boys in blue wrestled the weapon from his hand. Back in his office, after the police and ambulance and shiny black Mercedes had all left, Paul settled back into the chair behind his desk where he’d arranged pictures of his wife and children, along with several knick-knacks he’d felt were funny but work-appropriate. A larger than necessary mug positioned beside his daily Dilbert calendar read, “Work is easy, when you have an unlimited supply of determination and labor.” The office suddenly felt quiet, though I knew it had been before we took our seats again at the desk. I folded my hands across my lap as District Human Resources Director Paul tapped a stack of papers against their edge and laid them on the desk in front of me.