Chapter 12 : The Jacket
The hallway outside Tracy's dressing room smelled like smoke.
Not a lot of smoke. The ventilation had already moved most of it toward the ceiling and out, which is what ventilation was designed to do, and whoever had deployed the fire extinguisher had hit it fast and early. But the residue was there: a particular sharpness in the air that meant something had been on fire that shouldn't have been, and recently.
Albert rounded the corner and found Kenneth standing in the hallway holding what had been his page jacket.
The jacket was charred from the left shoulder to the lower hem on one side, the navy gone to black gone to something that wasn't fabric anymore. The NBC peacock pin was still attached — it was metal, it had survived whatever had happened — but the lapel around it was gone. Kenneth was holding the jacket by the collar with both hands, not looking at it. He was looking at the middle distance with the expression of a person processing information they had not fully processed yet.
Grizz was six feet away with a fire blanket folded over one arm.
"What happened," Albert said.
Grizz's expression had the particular quality of a man who had seen a great many things in Tracy Jordan's employment and had made his peace with most of them. "Tracy was demonstrating sword technique for a sketch pitch," he said. "The sword was on fire."
"The—"
"He'd had it modified."
Albert looked at the jacket. Then at Grizz. "Modified."
"For the sketch," Grizz said. He offered nothing further.
From inside the dressing room, Tracy's voice carried through the door with complete sincerity: "Kenneth, I want you to know that I feel very bad about this and I'm going to dedicate a portion of my next charity event to jacket safety awareness."
Kenneth did not respond.
"Also," Tracy's voice continued, "the sword worked exactly as intended for the sketch. So that's good news. The sketch is going to be great."
Albert came back three minutes later with a cup of coffee from the service cart — not as an errand, just because it seemed like the thing to have in your hand. He handed it to Kenneth.
Kenneth took it automatically. He was still holding the jacket.
"I've had this since my first week," Kenneth said. He was not performing distress. He was just describing a fact with the particular tone of facts that didn't have anywhere to put themselves. "My mom made me promise to take care of it. She said an NBC jacket was a responsibility." He turned it slightly. The charred section caught the hallway light. "She was right."
"It's a jacket," Albert said.
"It's my first one." Kenneth looked at him. "I know that sounds — I know how that sounds."
Albert knew how it sounded. He'd been in this building for a month. A month of watching Kenneth navigate chaos with a clipboard and a peacock pin and a smile that somehow wasn't exhausting. The jacket was the physical object version of what Kenneth had said on the first day — this place is a gift, this is the greatest job — and the fact that it was gone because Tracy Jordan had set a sword on fire for a sketch pitch was just a 30 Rock Tuesday rendered material.
"How do replacement jackets work?" Albert said.
Kenneth made a face. "They don't, really. The uniform department processes replacements through a request form that goes to HR that goes to Operations that goes to — it takes about six weeks, and you have to explain the circumstances." He looked at the jacket again. "I'm not sure 'flaming sword demonstration' will be accepted as a standard circumstances explanation."
"Is there a faster process?"
"You can order direct from the supplier. It's just — expensive. And they need the page ID number and the size and the—"
"What size?"
Kenneth looked at him. "I'm not going to let you—"
"What size," Albert said.
A pause.
"Medium," Kenneth said.
The NBC uniform supplier was in New Jersey and had a website that looked like it had been built in 2001 and maintained only through benign neglect. Albert found it at his desk in the writers' room during lunch, cross-referencing the employee directory for the correct page ID format. The jacket was $180 plus $20 rush shipping for next-day delivery to the 30 Rock receiving dock.
He put it on the host body's debit card.
The host body's savings account, which he'd been treating like a drawer belonging to someone else, turned out to contain $2,300. Not a lot of money. Enough. He'd look at it more carefully after the assistant salary started coming through.
Two hundred dollars for a jacket that wasn't his to give, for a person who had told a search committee that a page named Albert Myers seemed sharp, because he'd watched Albert deliver coffee and decided to advocate. Albert closed the laptop and went back to Frank's rejected sketches.
The jacket arrived at 10 AM the following day.
Albert intercepted it at the receiving dock before Kenneth's morning rounds could take him past it and signed for it himself, then brought it up to the page bullpen. Kenneth was doing the lobby attendance check when Albert set the garment bag on the desk.
Kenneth looked at it. Looked at Albert. "You didn't."
"The supplier said the rush delivery adds a week to the standard wait but they can do it same-day if you pay the premium," Albert said. "I paid the premium."
Kenneth unzipped the garment bag.
The jacket was crisp and navy and fully intact. Kenneth picked it up with the same care he'd held the charred version, but different — the difference between holding something lost and holding something returned. He turned it over. The peacock pin bracket was in the correct location. The NBC logo on the breast pocket was new enough to have its original contrast.
He put it on. Straightened the lapel. The fit was right.
Then he reached into the garment bag and found the small zip-lock bag Albert hadn't noticed in the packing material — the supplier had tucked something in, which was unusual. Kenneth opened it. Inside was Albert's old page ID badge, the laminated one from his first week, which Albert had forgotten was still in his blazer pocket when he handed it in at HR during the promotion paperwork. Somehow it had ended up in the replacement order's package.
Kenneth held it for a moment. Then he opened the jacket's inner breast pocket and slipped the badge inside.
"There," he said.
Albert didn't ask what that meant. He had a reasonable theory — placeholder, talisman, a thing that had been present when the jacket arrived and therefore belonged inside it — and the theory seemed sufficient.
"You're going to be in trouble if Tracy's next sketch involves a flamethrower," Albert said.
"Tracy's very sorry about the sword," Kenneth said, with the serenity of a man who had processed both the event and Tracy's version of accountability. "He told me this morning. He said he's going to write a song about jacket safety. I told him that wasn't necessary." A pause. "He's doing it anyway."
"How many verses?"
"He said at least four. Grizz is producing it."
Albert picked up the garment bag to throw it away. "I need to get back to the writers' room."
"Mr. Myers." Kenneth said it quietly, not in the announcements voice. Albert stopped. "Thank you. Not just for the jacket."
Albert nodded and went back to the elevator.
The writers' room had a production scheduling printout on the whiteboard when he returned, Frank's handwriting at the top annotating the week's sketch load. Albert settled into his chair, picked up the afternoon's task list, and scanned the bottom of the scheduling document where the week's meetings were listed.
Friday: Corporate Strategy Meeting, Executive Floor. Guest attendee — VP Development.
The name next to that title was Devon Banks.
Albert set the task list down.
Devon Banks, who had felt the WRITERS ROOM ACCEPTED broadcast two days ago and had not had a passing thought about it. Devon Banks, who collected people and secrets, who had a Yale MBA and a professional interest in understanding what Jack Donaghy found valuable enough to keep close. Devon Banks, who was going to be in this building on Friday and who was, from the Entertainment Archive in the Palace, very good at identifying things that didn't quite fit the pattern.
Albert picked the task list back up.
He had two days to decide what version of himself Devon Banks was going to find.
Support the Story on Patreon
If you are enjoying the series and would like to read ahead, I offer an early access schedule on Patreon. I upload 7 new chapters every 10 days.
Tiers are available that provide a 7, 14, or 21-chapter head start over the public release. Your support helps me maintain this consistent update pace.
Patreon.com/TransmigratingwithWishes