by Rob Hart
So he appears with the Bud Sub Special. Now, this thing is a beast. Two feet long, with salami, provolone, ham, capicola, sweet peppers. Used to be I would get two. One to eat on the spot, one to save for later. But this time I only asked for one, on account of my appetite not being great. Figured I would eat just half. Save the other half for the next day. And I’m about halfway through this thing, about as happy as I can be, when I realize this is the last time I’m probably going to eat this sandwich.
I put it down and got a little emotional. What else had I done for the last time? I’m probably not going to find any time to go hunting or fishing again, which are the only times I ever unplug and refuse to answer my cell phone. Never going to have another Christmas morning with my wife and daughter. That weighed on me pretty hard, so I wasn’t really in the mood to write anything for a bit.
But the more I thought about it the more I accepted it. Just like everything else, this is the hand I’ve been dealt, and I don’t like it, but it’s my hand to play. I figured this was a good day to pop back on and talk a little bit about today. It’s Cut Day at Cloud. We only do this four times a year and yet people get so worked up every time. People call it barbaric. I don’t believe it to be. I talked about this a bit earlier: it doesn’t do anyone good for you to do a job that’s not a good fit, for you or your employer.
Not that I’m happy about it. I don’t want to let anyone go. But it’s better for them and it’s better for me, and it drives me nuts, the way people talk about it, telling all these stories that are untrue, of people getting thrown out on their asses or running in front of trains or something. Simply doesn’t happen, and if it does happen, it’s pretty rare, and anyway, probably a sign of some underlying issue. It’s a rotten thing to make us responsible for people like that, for the way people are on the inside, but it’s just another way to advance the narrative of Cloud as some kind of evil empire. I’ve got a pretty good sense of who does that—those same geniuses who were responsible for the Black Friday Massacres—but I won’t get any more specific than that, because I can already hear my lawyers having a collective aneurysm.
Point is, a job has to be something you earn. It’s not something that’s just going to get handed to you. That’s the American imperative: strive for greatness. Not: cry about something that someone else has.
Anyway, sorry. Like I said, lots on my mind lately. I’m trying to stay positive. I’ll do a better job of being positive here, because there’s no sense in burdening you with that. That’s for me to carry.
Important thing, though, is I’m doing pretty well on my trip around the country. After New Jersey we made it over to Pennsylvania, to one of the first MotherClouds I built, and I hadn’t been there in years, and it was a hell of a sight to see. Back then, there were two dorms and they were six stories high. Now there are four dorms, and they’re all twenty stories, and they’re still growing. In fact, the entire thing looks like one giant construction site. I love construction vehicles. The sound of a backhoe is the sound of progress. It was even nicer to see in Pennsylvania. One of their biggest industries, historically, was heavy machinery and construction equipment. I should know. I took over the trade there something like twelve years ago!
I got to walk the floor a bit and meet some real nice people, and it was a good reminder of why I was spending my final few months on the road, rather than sitting in my house, moping the days away. Because of people like Tom Dooley, one of the senior pickers.
The two of us got to talking, and we’re both old-timers, so we had a lot in common, and he told me about how he lost his home during the last housing crisis, and he and his wife ended up buying this clunker of an old RV to live in. And how they got to driving around the country, doing odd jobs, until one day they stopped at a gas station to fill up, but they had lost track of their finances—Tom’s wife wrote a check for something she forgot to tell Tom about—and their account drew empty. So here they were, stuck in the middle of Pennsylvania, no money, nowhere to go, barely enough food to make it through the week.
That was the same week the Pennsylvania MotherCloud opened. Talk about providence. He and his wife got themselves good-paying jobs and a place to live and they were so grateful, and I felt pretty good about that. He said it was thanks to me, but I told him, no, Tom, that’s not true. I told him he and his wife did it because they worked hard and didn’t give up. They were survivors.
Me and Tom got to talking for so long, we ended up grabbing a bite to eat in the cafeteria. I talked to a manager and got his wife, Margaret, off her shift in the tech support center and we brought her down and we had a grand old time. I bet they’re going to be pretty popular for the next few weeks. You should have seen all the people who wanted to talk to them after we finished up.
Tom and Margaret, thanks for your kindness, and listening to an old man jaw a bit. I’m happy to see you both doing so well, and I wish you happiness for many years to come.
Seeing them truly lifted my spirits.
Something else I wanted to report, too: I’m ready to name my successor.
And it’s…
…going to be announced in my next post!
Sorry, didn’t mean to tease you there. But it’s out of respect for the fact that this is Cut Day; there’s a lot going on and I don’t want to distract from what is generally a bit of a hectic day at our Cloud facilities. Point is, the decision has been made. Don’t expect any leaks though. I told one person: my wife, Molly. And I’m more likely to spill it before she would ever let anything go. So the secret is safe. You can expect to hear more soon. I think everyone is going to be pleased. It’s the most logical choice to my mind.
Anyway, that’s all I got for now. Onward, westward, for some more last experiences. I’ve found it’s important for me to think of it like that, because it taught me a real important lesson. To slow down and savor things, because you never know when they’ll be gone. Swear to truth, after I collected myself, that Bud Sub Special never tasted better.
I’m going to miss it, but I’m glad I had it.
ZINNIA
The girl fell to her knees and screamed.
Zinnia had been trying to get the yellow bar to turn green when it happened. She was engrossed, actively ignoring a twinge in her knee, but still she stopped to look. So did a dozen other folks in red.
The girl was in her midthirties. Dyed pink hair, her face an explosion of freckles. She was very pretty. Also now very sad. She looked down at her watch and sobbed, staring at it like whatever she was looking at might change if she looked hard enough.
Next to Zinnia was an older woman with silver hair curled into ringlets. She shook her head and tsked. “Poor girl.”
“What happened?” Zinnia asked.
The old woman looked at her like How could you not know? “Cut Day,” she said. Then she glanced down at the package she was carrying—a keyboard case for a tablet computer—and took off at a brisk pace to find the correct conveyor belt. Zinnia watched the girl for a few seconds more, until another woman who seemed to know her came over to console her, and Zinnia turned back to her task of finding a pink tool kit.
Even with the distance between them Zinnia felt the girl’s cry deep in her chest. It was primal. The kind of grief that usually didn’t surface outside a funeral or physical torture. Zinnia’s brain said, Stop being a baby and buck up, but she couldn’t deny, too, the feeling of a cold little finger poking her in the heart.
As Zinnia moved through the warehouse, she came across more people on their knees, or standing still, staring off at the newfound wreckage of their lives.
As she dropped a tablet computer onto a conveyor belt, she saw a man in red arguing with a man in white. Something about a foot injury slowing him down. The man in white was unmoved and the man in red clenched his fists, holding himself back, and Zinnia could smell the potential for violence in the air. It smelled like
blood. Liquid copper. She wanted to stay, just to see what would happen, but glanced at her watch and found the yellow bar creeping down.
Wireless earbuds. Fitness tracker. Book. Sneakers. Shawl. Building blocks. RFID-blocking wallet…
As she carried the wallet to the conveyor belt, the plastic clamshell case shifted in her grip. She held it up, found there was a slit in the side. The wallet looked okay, but she wasn’t sure what to do with damaged merchandise. She briefly considered going back to get another but the shelves had already repositioned themselves, and she’d forgotten the bin number. She raised the watch and said, “Miguel Velandres.”
Miguel Velandres is not currently on shift.
“Manager.”
The gentle buzz guided her through the warehouse floor and she walked for nearly a half hour. The bar paused, mercifully. She passed six people in white shirts, but still the watch prompted her onward. Which seemed wasteful, or maybe she was on her way to see a specialist.
She reached a long aisle of housewares and bathroom goods. Mats, shower caddies, curtains, toilet seat covers. The watch buzzed and kept buzzing.
“There you are.”
She turned to find Rick.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” she asked.
He smiled, showing off yellow-tinged teeth. “Well, you were just so pretty and nice I added you to my roster. That way I can be your point manager in case you need anything. See, Zinnia, you get treated better around here when you have a relationship like that.”
She wanted to punch him. She wanted to vomit on his face. She wanted to run away. She wanted to do anything other than what she did, which was hand him the package. “It’s open. I don’t know what to do with an open package.”
He took it, reaching farther than he needed to so that his hand would touch hers during the exchange. His skin was cold. Reptilian. Or maybe that was Zinnia’s imagination manifesting her distaste. She pushed back against the shudder in her shoulders.
“Let’s see here,” he said, turning it over in his hand. He found the cut in the package. “Might have gotten damaged coming in. But you were right to bring it here. We don’t want damaged items going out to customers.”
He took a step closer to Zinnia, held up his watch.
“What we do, sweetheart,” he said, slowing down, as if he were about to explain something to a child, “is we hold up our watch like so, and we say, ‘Damaged goods.’ And that’ll give you a conveyor belt, just like anything else.”
He smiled at her like he’d just shared the secret to eternal life. Zinnia could smell his breath. Tuna fish. She choked on her gag reflex.
“You really should have been told this by your trainer,” he said, raising his eyebrow, suddenly upset. “Can you give me his or her name?”
Zinnia thought about it for a moment. Miguel had probably forgotten. She didn’t want to get him in trouble so she said, “John something.”
Rick scrunched his face and shook his head. “You really need to remember things like that, Zinnia.”
“Oops.”
“Don’t worry, I’m sure you’ll make it up.” He raised his watch, tapped at the face of it. Her watch buzzed. She glanced down and saw it directing her to get a package of guitar picks.
“Now, you go on,” Rick said. “I’ll see you around. Off at six?”
Zinnia didn’t respond. Just turned and walked off.
She made it through the rest of her shift by focusing hard on the yellow-bar game. She had lost some time watching the people crying their way through the cut notification. No matter how hard she hoofed it, she couldn’t get it to green.
Through security and on the way to her dorm, she thought she should at least check into the lobby hallway, see if the coast was clear, if she could plant the gopher. But she knew the thing driving her at that moment was disgust, anger. Not the kind of emotions that should play into decision-making.
She made her way to her floor, which was busier than normal. She was used to seeing one or two people out, headed to the bathrooms, or out to shift, but there were a half dozen people crowded around a tall, elderly man with a buzzed haircut and sagging skin. He was holding a duffel bag over his shoulder and looking down at the floor while people consoled him, Cynthia included. Two security officers—a black man and an Indian woman—stood nearby, watching. The girl with the cartoon eyes was there, too. Harriet? Hadley.
Hadley the nice girl.
Zinnia watched the scene, which was taking place about a dozen doors down. It was a good-bye ceremony. Hugs and cheek kisses and back slaps. Clearly the man had been around for a while. There was a warmth to the interaction that made Zinnia feel that cold finger in the heart again.
The crowd lingered, as if they didn’t want to move on to the next thing, like maybe they could get stuck in that moment, until Cynthia clapped her hands, bringing everyone to attention. It was time to go. The good-byes said, the man left, the security officers trailing behind. Not close enough to be escorting him, just close enough to watch. As the man crossed her path, Zinnia saw his CloudBand was decorated with glittery dice. The crowd made for their rooms. Cynthia lingered, caught Zinnia’s eye, shook her head, like, Can you believe this? She turned her chair toward her room.
Zinnia stood with her hand on her knob. But instead of going in she made for Cynthia’s room.
At the door, Zinnia knocked. A few moments later the door swung inward. Cynthia smiled. “What can I do for you, dear?”
“I was hoping I could talk to you about something,” she said. “Confidentially.”
Cynthia nodded. Zinnia took the door and allowed her to roll backward into the apartment. She stepped inside and shut it. Cynthia rolled all the way to the back, against the wall, giving Zinnia some space to sit on the futon.
“Quite a thing, isn’t it?” Cynthia asked. “The cut.”
“Who was that?”
“Bill,” she said. “But everyone called him Dollar Bill, on account of he liked to spend all his time in the casino. Been here eight years.”
“What happened that he got cut?”
“He made it to the pension, to the adjusted work assignment,” she said. “Bill was still pretty spry and he liked to walk, so he elected to stay as a picker, and he got put on the senior pick rate.” She sighed, stared off, like she was looking after him, still trudging down the hallway. “But he was getting on in years, and he couldn’t even keep up with that, but he thought he could, and well…here we are.” Cynthia looked back at Zinnia. “Damn shame. He should have just taken reassignment.”
“How do you get reassignment?”
“If you get injured or can’t handle something anymore, you get moved into something else,” she said. “I used to be a picker, but I fell off one of the spinners. Paralyzed below the waist.”
“Jesus,” Zinnia said, cringing.
Cynthia shrugged. “I didn’t hook myself in, so it was my fault. I was lucky, though. Cloud kept me on and moved me down to customer support. I can still talk on the phone and use a computer. Anyway, point is, Bill should have accepted reassignment to someplace more his speed, and he wouldn’t.”
Zinnia sat back on the futon, the cold finger really digging in now. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
Cynthia shrugged again, gave a painful little smile. “At least I have a job, you know?” She leaned forward and patted Zinnia’s knee. “I’m sorry, dear, you said you had something to ask me and I made it all about me. Now, what’s up?”
“Well, I…”
“Oh god.” Cynthia put her hand to her mouth. “I am so rude. Would you like something to drink? I’m afraid you’ll have to help yourself, but still, I should have offered.”
Zinnia shook her head. “No, I’m good, thank you. I just…this will stay between us, right? I just wanted to take a temperature
on something.”
Cynthia nodded gravely, like they were about to be bound by a blood oath.
“I came across this guy,” she said. “A manager. Rick…”
Cynthia huffed. Rolled her eyes. “Rick.”
“So it’s like that?”
“It’s like that,” she said. “He lives down on the other end. Let me guess. He played the bathroom switcheroo on you when you went to take a shower?”
“How is he still working here?”
Cynthia’s chin dropped to her chest. “I have no idea. I figure he’s related to someone important. Or else upper management just doesn’t want to deal. All I know is a woman complained about him to HR—real sweet girl, Constance—and next Cut Day she was gone. Constance was in support, with me, and she was real smart.” Cynthia sighed. “I know this isn’t the most pleasant thing. I know it’s not the answer you were looking for. Just…you see him, walk the other way. Only use the ladies’. With any luck he’ll focus on someone else.”
The sympathy Zinnia had felt evaporated.
Luck. The word sounded malformed, the way she said it.
“I asked for a manager today for something and got brought right to him,” Zinnia said.
“He’s really taken an interest in you,” she said. “That’s not good.”
“How far is this going to go?”
“He’s not stupid,” Cynthia said. “He’s not going to force you into bed or anything. He’s just a creep. He likes to watch. My advice? Just…” She sighed again. “Deal with it.”
For a moment, Zinnia couldn’t decide who she was angrier with, Cynthia or Rick. But her anger was bigger than that. It was like a person, standing beside her, prodding her to do something.
She thanked Cynthia for her time, got out of the apartment before she could say anything she might regret. Stalked down the hall, swiped into her room, and plopped onto the futon, turning on the television, hoping the sound of it would drown out the noise in her head.