by Andrew Roe
Ron, who does not have an English accent but John still can’t get the Bowie thing out of his head, launches into an overview of the state-of-the-art and newly installed phone system. “The TeleTech 500,” boasts an awed Ron. “Here’s how you route, here’s how you transfer, here’s how you get an outside line.” Ron fires up John’s computer, clicking, double-clicking, configuring, typing with all fingers blazing (vs. John’s single-finger chimpanzee approach), working the mouse and keyboard with shortcuts and a flurry of effortless moves, all the while continuing to narrate. Here’s how you take orders, here’s how you submit orders. Click. And drag. Save. Then Save As. Import. Toggle over to other program. Alt-Tab. Alt-Tab, I’d highly recommend. Saves time versus the mouse and plus it cuts back on the chances of RSI and CTS, which has destroyed some of the best wrists of my generation, sadly. File, open. Copy, paste, again. Save. Submit. Easy, see? John blinking, staring. Ron wears a high-school class ring about the size of a small crustacean. This, John finds, is highly distracting, making it even more difficult to follow along. It’s all pretty simple. I’m not too worried, John. You seem like a bright guy. You’ll be good to go in no time.
Next, Ron escorts John to an empty, echoing conference room. The large oval glass table where he sits is black and shiny and frosty to the touch. He can see himself, vaguely, in the surface’s reflection. Ron cues up the video, which is an infomercial. It opens with a man and woman—husband and wife, presumably—who are ho-hum and beaten down, with a very male voice-over, which sounds like your pissed-off Dad, asking “Is this you?” and rattling off a bunch of symptoms posed as questions: “Tired? Burnt out? Lethargic? Listless? Unfocused? Disengaged? Forgetful? Moody?” The man and woman turn to the camera and simultaneously nod yes, that’s us, guilty as charged; after this admission, there’s a cut to two suited men seated talk-show style, lounging in white leather recliners, a square glass table between them, with a vase of imposter flowers, a pitcher of water, and two cups.
“You know,” begins the man on the left, “they talk about the miracle of birth, and that’s one thing, and then of course you have the miracles in the Bible and whatnot, and that’s another, and I don’t like to use the word lightly, but hey, that’s really what we’re going to be talking about here today with our special guest: We’re going to be talking about a miracle.”
The special guest is identified as a doctor. And as the conversation with the host ensues, the doctor gets increasingly worked up about neurotransmitters and people sleepwalking through their lives and the national crisis we’re currently facing—a brain starvation crisis, is what he calls it. Which is why we’re always so tired, so unsatisfied all the time, he explains. The product in question is some kind of pill, and when John asks a question and refers to it as such, as pills, Ron stops him right there, stops the tape, crosses his arms in football-coach disgust, and says don’t ever refer to the product as pills, as drugs, but only as “the product” or by its proper name, Mira-Cure, or as “a revolutionary new dietary supplement and/or life enhancer,” but never, ever pills. John adequately shamed, Ron continues on and un-pauses the video, which lasts almost an hour, and then it’s practically lunchtime.
But before that, Ron introduces him to his coworkers, the members of his “team.” There’s Deidre and Mary and Mary Anne and Alexa and Lupe and Randall. Handshakes, waves, nods, gestures of neutral welcome. They all wear headsets and wrist braces. Security badges dangle from their necks. These are the people geographically near him and with the same job, more or less: Customer Service Representatives Class II.
“Where’s the bathroom again?” John asks, and everyone points toward the elevators.
For lunch he goes to the food park across the street and shells out $9.50 for a “gourmet” grilled cheese sandwich, no drink. Someone in line behind him saying how he’s finally vesting and the future is monetization and the future was like yesterday.
STILL FIFTEEN MINUTES left of his designated lunch break, and so John locates some shade in front of the building to wait it out. People are returning from lunch, grouped in clusters, chatting and laughing. Many carry colorful Styrofoam cups from Jamba Juice. He roots through his backpack, trying to look purposeful. And there. There it is: The postcard he keeps in the front zippered pocket. A reminder. It’s a postcard he’s never sent, a picture of the Nevada desert at sunset, the lights of Vegas gleaming in the distance. On the blank side he’d written, weeks ago, in his capital-lettered, nearly illegible elementary school scrawl: I WANT TO COME BACK IF YOU’LL HAVE ME. PLEASE.
“Don’t leave,” Karen had said many times over the years, whenever things got wobbly and complicated and cold. “Promise me that, if nothing else. Promise you won’t leave. That’s what my father did. Once is enough. Once is enough for any person.”
“I won’t,” John had replied. “I promise. I won’t leave.”
But, of course, he did.
AFTER THE ACCIDENT, they had to give lengthy depositions, required by the insurance companies (there were either three or four involved, he was never sure exactly how many). The lawyers interviewed them separately. Lawyers with briefcases and ties and eye-watering aftershave. All dudes, the same age as John. Or younger, even. They were asked a series of questions, deep, personal probings into their lives and marriage and daughter. Trying to trip them up, uncover inconsistencies, as if they’d engineered this whole fucking disaster for profit and a bullshit lawsuit. What kind of husband/wife was he/she? What kind of father/mother? Does he/she drink? Does he/she yell? Does he/she ever disappear for days? It had left Karen in tears. They debriefed in the parking lot of a Home Depot, the car still running so they could have the AC on. Karen’s deposition lasted three and a half hours; almost three hours for him. At one point, they were each asked: If you could describe your marriage in a single word, what would that word be? He had answered, “Regular.” She had said, “Evolving.” There in the car, after, he had kept his hands on the steering wheel, as if he were still driving, as if they were still going somewhere.
FOR THE REST of the afternoon, he’s told by Deidre, Ron’s robotic assistant who reeks of cat and perfume, to “get familiar” with his computer and the order-taking software, and to also continue going over the collated stacks of training materials. He reads about Mira-Cure, about the company that makes it, which was actually a division of a larger company, which itself was owned by an even larger company, a multinational corporation located in Dearborn, Michigan, one of those companies that scarily does everything (energy, fast food, diapers), which was in fact this particular company’s slogan: “Altco: We Do Everything.” He examines the sample bottle of Mira-Cure that Ron had given him. It’s about the size of a large Tylenol bottle, and features a sticker with a background hallelujah splash of bright light. He puts a handful of I GOT THE CURE!® refrigerator magnets in the top drawer of his portable file cabinet.
By 3:30 he’s done all he can do. Neither Ron nor Deidre are around, and he doesn’t want to bother his fellow hard-working, fast-typing CSRC IIs (the place is big on acronyms), so he detours onto the Internet. Stumbling along. Trying to remember what Phil taught him when he first started at TempPeople. Launching something called Netscape. Typing in searches—that’s what you do, right? Hunting for the right keys, one finger at a time, pecking at the keyboard like a caveman. He tries his daughter’s name. A-n-a-b-e-l-l-e V-i-n-c-e-n-t. Stares at the incomprehensible letters. Another language, it seems. He’s almost afraid to click on the Search button, afraid of everything that has previously been hidden and now will be fully revealed.
Search.
The results are numerous, scary. He can’t believe it. So much written about Anabelle. He scrolls and scans and reads, quickly, glancing over his shoulder every now and then. There are stories by news organizations and also stories on people’s websites. Pictures, testimonials, quotes from those who’d been to the house. Anabelle cured my arthritis. Anabelle took away t
he hurt in my heart. Anabelle gave me what no one else could: hope. One link turns out to be a video. It starts automatically. He doesn’t know how to stop it. There’s nothing he can do but watch and hope that no one in the office hears or comes by.
The video jumps and flickers. Then footage of his neighborhood, the graffitied stop signs, the vibrant weeds, the high ratio of cars parked and forgotten on lawns—the kind of neighborhood you want to get away from if you can, if it’s possible, which in their case it was not. The traffic, his street congested with a long line of idling vehicles, neighbors interviewed (he doesn’t recognize them) and complaining about the disruption this is causing. Then it’s Karen lowering the guardrails of Anabelle’s bed, leaning closer, touching their daughter’s face, Anabelle’s empty eyes aimed away from the camera, as if seeking to avoid capture. Karen appearing even more tired than she looked in the TV report he’d seen, her hair more frizzed and frazzled. And that earlier glow seems to be receding as well. She’s talking now about the people who are sleeping in tents and sleeping bags on the lawn and in their cars, wanting to be the first to see Anabelle that day. Karen adding that some people have been stealing stuff from the house—candles, strands of hair from Anabelle’s comb, clumps of dirt from the yard, anything. “It’s getting out of hand,” Karen says. “We’ve tried waiting lists and scheduling appointments, but that hasn’t worked. People keep coming. I don’t know how long this can last anymore. But everyone’s been so generous, donating money, wanting to help. It’s truly amazing. Donations and any money from interviews and media and such first goes toward the cost of Anabelle’s care, which is very expensive. Everything else goes into a special account we’ve set up for Anabelle. We’re doing our best.” There’s a young guy in the kitchen. He’s saying he’s worried about the toll this is taking on Karen. Bryce. His name is Bryce, identified as one of Anabelle’s Angels, a network of helpers and believers. One more shot of Anabelle, still as ever, hair framing her face, and the video abruptly stops.
Search and ye shall find.
After all that, he needs to clear his head, step away from his cube. He stands, looks around the open office space, and it appears that his fellow coworkers are still busy, buzzing right along with their computers and phone calls and 10-key Zen mastery. He’s got to do something (people are turning, noticing him standing, wondering about the new guy and what he’s up to), so he defaults to the bathroom even though he doesn’t have to go, poses at the glistening urinal, unzips his fly, and pretends. Not that it matters, but there’s an automatic flush. Everything in the bathroom is shiny, factory fresh. There’s a red light blinking on his phone when he returns to his cubicle. He’s never seen such a head-scratching phone. Buttons and codes and voice prompts. It’s the size of a briefcase. The red light blinks and blinks and he doesn’t know how to stop it from blinking. Oh well. He closes out the day with a few minutes of pen and paperclip organizing.
Back home at Desert Piss, he pulls out the bottle of Mira-Cure from his backpack. Takes one. Then two. Why not? Has a sweet taste, kind of like Advil. The color of cotton candy. Couldn’t hurt, the pills. He definitely isn’t eating right. His brain probably way starved. His neuros, neurons, whatever, all fucked up, too. He thinks of the part in the video where they showed Karen and Anabelle, Karen placing a hand on their daughter’s forehead, a gesture that’s simple, profound, beautiful; that sends a surging ripple in his blood—part warmth, part regret, part guilt. Was it too late to go back? This is always the question. And now there’s a new question: Who the fuck is Bryce?
He swallows a third pill. It’s a Monday night and it’s too early for bed. The options are minimal. Dinner will likely consist of frozen crinkle fries and a peanut butter sandwich. Next door his neighbor’s stereo thumps its familiar rap-inspired thump. John walks over and puts the palm of his hand against the wall separating them, and he can feel the wall vibrating. There’s a person very close, his neighbor, another soul, only inches away, who he knows nothing about. They’ve never spoken or even seen each other. John closes his eyes and waits there. The music. The closeness. The distance. He needs something. Most definitely. He needs, he now realizes, the cure.
THAT NIGHT HE doesn’t sleep, not a wink, not a lick, nothing.
TUESDAY, HE FLASHES his security badge at the pierced receptionist and rolls into the office raccoon-eyed and carrying a very large cup of coffee. He’d been up the whole night, unable to shut his brain off. Maybe the Mira-Cure had given him too much brain food, too many nutrients. From one extreme to the other, starvation to plentitude. Deidre already there in the cube next to his, her headset on, a flurry of fingers, bracelets, and polished nails that clicked and clacked as she typed.
“Morning,” she says as John sits down.
“Morning,” he replies.
His other coworkers haven’t arrived yet, the office quiet and undisturbed.
“So,” Deidre says, “you survived the dreaded first day and you’re back for more?”
He notices the red light still blinking on his phone.
“I survived,” he answers, trying to sound upbeat and light but it comes off sighed and weighted, like he’d been through cancer or something, and unexpectedly had beat the odds.
“Let me know if you need anything,” Deidre says. “Ron’s away at a corporate training thing all day. You should be all set with e-mail and access. I’ll start routing calls your way once you get settled in. Good luck.”
He settles in, turns on his computer, feels like he might be getting the hang of surfing the Internet. And why not: He takes another Mira-Cure. His body feels both massively tired and pulsingly pumped, both easy listening and heavy metal. He does a quick search for his daughter, reads first-hand accounts of Anabelle’s healing power.
“Are you ready? For calls?” Deidre eventually asks.
He’s supposed to say yes, he knows.
AS THE WEEK millimeters along, he manages, after some trial and error and plenty of how-do-you questions and Gilligan floundering, to make a few sales, mostly to disoriented elderly women who’d recently lost their husbands. He learns about his coworkers: they’re divorced or in the process of getting divorced, bitter and more than happy to recite the faults and fallibilities of their former spouses. He learns that Ron isn’t around all that much, is a bit of a mystery man, one of those managers whose presence is defined by his absence. He also learns why he hasn’t been sleeping.
Wednesday afternoon, while in the break room with Randall, Mary, and Mary Anne, he asks what he’s been wondering about ever since he saw the infomercial his first day: “What’s in it?”
“You mean Mira-Cure?” says Randall, whose reddish neck and jowls suggest regular use of a low-end electric razor.
“Yeah, you know, the product.”
“Well,” Randall explains, “there are these things called neurotransmitters.”
“I saw the video,” John says. “What is it really?”
Randall continues preparing the holy pot of afternoon coffee. Along with acronyms, they take their coffee very seriously here. Posted next to the refrigerator there’s an elaborate chart, outlining who’s responsible for buying and making coffee for each week of the month. Randall glances over at Mary and Mary Anne, who both nod, as if agreeing to reveal a sinister family secret. John has had a tough time figuring out which one is just “Mary” and which one has the extra “Anne.”
“Speed, basically,” Randall says.
“Speed?”
“Caffeine. Crazy-ass amounts of caffeine. It’s what gets you all hopped up, makes you feel like you’re Superman, makes your brain think it’s smarter than it really is. Wait a minute—you haven’t been taking it, have you?”
“Too late.”
“Dude, stop taking that shit, pronto.”
WHENEVER HE HAS a chance, he’s back online, covertly looking for more information about Anabelle. He watches the video multiple times, scrutinizing each frame like it’s the Zapruder film, p
ausing, replaying, pausing again. Was there something, a secret message perhaps, on Karen’s face, in her expression? Was she trying to tell him something? Was Anabelle trying to tell him something?
Clearly, someone was trying to tell him something, because later that afternoon an e-mail went out to all his coworkers:
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Cc:
Subject: FW: FW: FW: Do you believe in miracles??????
hi all, you probbaly heard about the “miracle girl” on the news -- the little girl that got paralized & put in a coma then this strange stuff started happening like weird clouds in the sky & people with cancer suddenly getting better etc etc etc. i dont know if you believe in this kind of thing (not sure what to make of it myself to be honest w/ you!), and i know we all our very *respectful* of our religous diferences among tohers. But a friend sent me the link to this wonderful website which is the miracle girls website. its pretty inspirtational, i think (just imho), & it doesnt really matter so much how you define/dont define your own Personal Higher Power cause bottom line we could use more of this (hope, love etc) & not all the horible things you see and here about most the time. ok thats all promise. if you want you can read about the girl & check out some pictures there to. you can even post your ownn prayer. sorry this is so darn long. super sorry if this offends anyone but i thought why not we could all use a little pick me up in the. morning;-)
btw i brought bagels. there in the kitchen. yes miracles really do happen!!!!!
xoxxoxo,
mary anne
>> Have u seen this website? Very inspiring!
>> http://www.miraclegirlanabelle.com
He’d checked out the site before, but he’d mostly been reading news stories. So, as instructed, he clicks on the link in the e-mail and then, for the rest of the day, amid a spattering of phone calls, spends every spare moment checking out the Official Anabelle Vincent Web Site, over 2 million visits and counting.