The Man Who Almost Blew His Top

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For Daniel D. Hunter it had been such an incredible beast of a Thursday that he wondered why he hadn’t broken into tears of pure frustration.

At quarter to six, after the rest of the office staff had left, he hung his coat over his sticky arm, plopped his straw hat onto the back of his head and glared at the grill which would have filled the office with cool air all day — if the air-conditioning system hadn’t, broken down in mid-morning.

One of the bigger clients had gone elsewhere, his secretary had been weepy all day, old Gunnison had given him an entirely unwarranted chewing-out, the new assistant was definitely not working out, the carbon of an important letter could not be located, and he felt stale, old, tired and fumbling.

All day he had baked in the brass bowl of the city. The air-conditioning would not be working again until Monday. Monday was an incredible distance away.

He checked the lock on the main door and plodded down the hallway to the elevators. He rang, and nothing came. The blind fury came so quickly that it frightened him. He wanted to kick the wall, smash things, stomp on his hat. The sudden flood of adrenalin made his heart pound, made his hands shaky, his knees weak. These fits of rage seemed to be coming more frequently lately.

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