by Dan Dillard
Chapter 2
If the brain works on electricity, maybe we're more like computers than you think, our DNA is like a BIOS, simple programming to tell our bodies how to act. Everything else is programming. Maybe life is a constant recording of experiences, and at the end we are no more than the combined results of nature and nurture. Is it possible we are simply acting on a complex series of if-then statements with the goal being survival?
-Ethan Jacobs-Electronic Journal Entry #14
Ethan tapped a yellow Ticonderoga pencil on his space bar. The eraser bounced it back like a drum stick off of a well-tuned snare drum. The smell of stale coffee and toner permeated the cube farm and he eyed his mug, wondering if another cup was necessary. He’d gone straight from the ‘sleepy’ phase to the ‘apathetic’ phase, and coffee wasn’t going to help. Getting to work late had put him on his boss's shit list and ruined what he'd hoped would be a good day.
Ethan pushed himself back from the desk and leaned out of his cube so he could see a bit of daylight through the window at the end of the aisle. According to the weather widget on his blog, it was partly sunny. The light streaming through the window agreed and made him wish he was anywhere else.
A gentle warble of his desk phone brought him back from his work-hating funk.
“Jacobs,” he said with vasectomy patient enthusiasm.
“Really? Jacobs? What…is that new?” came the voice on the line.
Ethan smiled wickedly, “Hey, Aaron. How's that rotting prick of yours?”
“Classy. You still coming tonight?”
Ethan looked at the ceiling and then at his calendar, which was marked ‘Aaron, 8PM’. He had issues with punctuality and Aaron thoroughly enjoyed pointing out his flaws. This weekly phone call had become a friendly tradition.
“Yeah. I’m there.”
“Don’t be late. I’ve got a surprise for you this week,” he said.
“Really? Do tell."
“Nope. The word is 'surprise', buddy. Look it up.”
Ethan smirked and stared at his computer monitor, which had gone on to its screensaver five minutes before. A box in the center told him to press ‘ctrl-alt-del’ to log in. Aaron's voice on the phone pulled him from his momentary daze.
“Hey, Ethan?”
“Yeah?”
“Quit staring at that blank screen, buddy. There’s nothing there.”
The line clicked as Aaron hung up, then the drone of the dial tone took over, but Ethan didn't hear either.
There’s nothing there. The words were familiar and haunting, something his father used to tell him when he was growing up. He had heard those words in his head ever since his father passed, wondering if they were true.
The notion caused his office to fade into a colorful blur, and in his head he was five years old again, sitting on the couch in his parents’ living room. The subject was church and his mother had just stormed out of the room. Young Ethan looked at his father, seated next to him in a blue suit, tie pulled loose.
Young Ethan said, “How come people go to church?”
“People want to talk to God, son.”
“Why?”
“They want answers,” his father said in a distracted, monotone voice, his eyes focused on an imaginary spot in the distance.
“What kind of answers?”
Ethan's father blinked in annoyance before looking young Ethan in the eye, then placed his hand on the boy's shoulder.
“It makes some people feel better to speak to God. It's called prayer.”
“Does it make you feel better?”
No answer. Just more staring, uncomfortable staring.
“Daddy?”
Ethan moved trying to get into his father’s field of view.
The man turned to face the boy again, “What, son?”
“Does it make you feel better, Daddy?”
“No.”
The word thumped in Ethan's gut like a thunder clap. He felt sorry for his father and didn't understand his manner, his sadness. After a moment, he spoke up once more.
“Daddy, where is God? Is God in the church?”
“No, son.”
Ethan chanced one more question. “Then where is he?”
“He is nowhere.”
His eyes must've shown his wonder and that his mind was full of questions, because his father spoke again, words that stuck with him for the rest of his life.
“There’s no God, son. There's nothing else out there. There’s nothing else, and no one is going to help you ... but you.”
He could see his mother standing in the hallway with tears of fury running down her cheeks as his father stood and walked off, disappearing into the kitchen. It wasn’t the last time Ethan had that or other, similar, conversations with his father. It explained where he developed his need for proof—truth. The hope for something more had definitely come from his mother.
A stack of papers landed on his desk and snapped him back to the present.
“What's this?” he said.
“Code from the First National account,” said his manager.
“I finished these last week,” he replied.
“There're some change notes in the folder on top. I need these today if at all possible.”
Ethan nodded and stifled the urge to scream and shove the pencil into his boss's throat. Then he spun the Ticonderoga around and scratched a few words on the bottom of his desk calendar.
There has to be something else.