by Welke, Ian
~
I sink into the dark brown leather couch in Pete’s office.
Pete’s decorated his office as if to distinguish it from the cubicles as much as possible. I’m pretty sure his desk is real wood and did not come from IKEA. The plants his wife brought in are dying, but he’s kept the glass on his framed wall posters clean. The posters make his office seem like a middle school boy’s bedroom: red Italian sports cars, football players, and a frame with no picture.
I stifle a laugh realizing that Claire must’ve made him take down his bikini model poster.
“How’s your day?” Pete asks from behind his desk.
You called me in here to ask how I’m doing?
“Fine,” I lie.
“Look, I’m afraid we’re a bit short handed today, so we really need everyone to buckle down and dig in and take calls a bit faster.”
Oh god, he’s fondling his Jaguar key again.
The Jaguar is Pete’s latest purchase. Two weeks ago we had a meeting about mandatory overtime to make up for man hours lost to layoffs. That meeting was followed that afternoon by more layoffs. Later that afternoon, Pete disappeared for a few hours, returning in the evening with a brand new Jaguar.
Which isn’t as bad as the company picnic. Whenever I get really angry about work, the picnic story bubbles up.
One Friday afternoon the company bought burgers and hotdogs and offered to barbecue them in the park. Under other circumstances it would have been pleasant enough, but we’d been working overtime and we all knew that the hours lost to the picnic would have to be made up working that night and that weekend, and the picnic was mandatory. There’s nothing like mandatory morale building to sap morale. Then Pete got mad at two people he felt weren’t being positive enough and yelled “You’re both fired” loud enough that everyone could hear. He left a few minutes later. The story rapidly circulated that he left to go out on his new boat. A boat that he’d just purchased with a bonus check he’d received after the last round of layoffs.
“We need to make it a late night tonight. I’ll see that the company gets dinner.”
Another night of unpaid overtime. Great. These were one thing when the company was ordering the occasional decent meal or even pizza, but the food budget has long since run out, and the quality has deteriorated to drive-through and worse. One night last week, Pete had Claire go out and buy sandwich fixings from the grocery store, but he hadn’t given her enough money, and the ingredients ran out before everyone got a chance to eat. I had a bread and iceberg lettuce sandwich for dinner that night.
“And we need everyone to cut back on breaks. I know that if you have to use the bathroom, you have to use the bathroom. Obviously, we don’t want to have accidents in our office chairs, but be cognizant of how long you’re in there.”
Do you have any idea how many calls I could’ve taken during this little meeting?
“Will do boss.”
~
When lunchtime finally arrives, I eye the clock and stay at my desk.
I wonder how long I’ve spent in the last week looking at numbers on digital clocks.
How long until it burns into your retina?
I open my backpack and fish out my sandwich. Swiss cheese, pickles, and tomatoes on sourdough.
Marie’s head pops up over the edge of her cube like a meerkat, and she wheels her chair over to my desk.
I smile at her and make space. Marie always has the best gossip.
She’s younger than I am, by at least a couple of years. Blonde and perky, and yet to hit the big three-oh, Marie isn’t someone I’d be likely to hang out with outside of work. She’s a sorority girl. She’s cheery and outgoing. My opposite. She seems harmless though, and her stories are a needed distraction.
“Did you hear?” Marie begins. All of Marie’s conversations start out this way. The only exceptions are: “Did you see what he tweeted? Did you see what she posted?”
There’s an announcement on the PA system I can’t make out. Something about breaks, but the rest of the words are garbled in a buzzing fuzz. The message ends in the shrieking feedback that’s the reason no one uses the PA system.
Marie doesn’t stop talking through the feedback. If she realizes I haven’t heard what she’s said, she doesn’t show it. “You look exhausted,” she says.
“I haven’t been sleeping.”
“I know what you mean. I don’t know what was going on last night, but I kept having these screwed up dreams.”
I try not to laugh. If only there was someone to take a bet that Marie would turn things back to herself without pausing to breathe.
“Anyway, I kept dreaming about this man standing over me in my bedroom. He was sort of strange looking, but mysterious. He kind of reminded me of that college kid I told you about, the one I hooked up with after karaoke night at the Tiki bar?”
“Marie, the man you dreamed about… Did he wear a ball cap?”
“You know I can’t remember the whole dream, but I think he did wear a hat. Not sure if it was for a team, but then I’m not much of a sports fan. I just like my Lakers, but I’m sure it wasn’t a Dodgers cap. Where was I?”
“The guy in the room.”
“Yeah. So I’m pretty sure we did it in one of the dreams.” As Marie says this her voice hushes and red patches flare in her cheeks. I can’t tell if she’s embarrassed or slightly aroused or a mix of both.
“One of the dreams?”
“Yeah, I woke up a few times, but I kept coming back to the same dream. And it was hot. You ever have one of those dreams?” Marie stops and does her meerkat impression again. “Sorry. I had to make sure that creepy Chad isn’t in earshot. But you know the sort of dream where you wake up feeling like you’d really been with the guy?”
I don’t answer. Instead, I draw two circles then the rest of the symbol on the back of an old order form. “Marie, did the symbol on his cap look like this?”
“I think so. Did you have the same dream? That totally happened with me and sorority sister once. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I’m not feeling well.” I put my head down on the desk. The wood is nice and cool.
“You should go home. It’s going around. Half the office has it,” Marie says, backing away.
My phone buzzes. I don’t recognize the number, but the text says: “It’s too late— Michael.”
CHAPTER THREE
I’ve set up my laptop on the coffee table in the living room so that I can watch the TV behind it. It’s not the most ergonomic position, hunched over the computer on the couch, but I’m not planning to type much. If I were, I’d sit between the sofa and coffee table and use the couch as backrest. I fire up the search engine, and get stumped at the prompt.
I can’t really search for “Michael.” Might get a few too many hits.
The number the text came from doesn’t match any numbers in my contact list. Frustrated, I walk into the bedroom, flip on the light, and roll open my closet doors. What I’m looking for is in one of two boxes. The boxes are full of sentimental things, books mostly, that I don’t have shelf space for, but I don’t want to leave at my mother’s house. For some reason I need to know that these things are close, even if they’re boxed up in my closet. I’m pretty sure what I need is in the box on the left. It’s sealed with several layers of packing tape, loose from many moves. I can’t open it without stopping to spend time with each item inside. The first precious memory I pull from the box is an old D&D Monster Manual. It would probably be worth something on EBay if it were in better shape, and I could stand to part with it. It takes me back to the gaming table when I was in middle school. It’s odd that a thing that’s associated with being unpopular reminds me of spending so much time with friends, being happily unpopular together. The next book is my first real art book, How to Draw Manga. A script book for the third season of Buffy the Vampire Slayer reminds me of my friends and me in my dorm reading the lines together, while I tried to work out the pacing in my head during the q
uarter I took script writing. In the bottom of the box, with some cardboard game pieces, dice, and the corpse of a spider, I find what I’d been looking for, my old address book.
I open it carefully. The pages are dusty and cracked with age. I’m afraid that if I turn them too hard they’ll dissolve into dust. The laptop speakers ring Jane’s chime for an incoming message. I set the address book down on the coffee table next to the laptop before checking the message.
Jane: Hey! You there?
Annie: I just got home a little bit ago. I’m still a little wobbly.
Jane: Good time?
Annie: Not as such. I had to work late.
A fit of congestion comes out of nowhere. First, a sniffle. Then my eyes water. I reach over the edge of the couch and grab the box of tissues from the end table and set it on my lap. My nose runs a trickle, then the faucet opens up. By the time I’ve cleared my head, there’s a pile of snotty tissue on the coffee table. I want to go throw them out right away, but I realize I haven’t answered Jane’s message and I don’t want to be rude.
Jane: Work late? On Friday?!?!!?
Annie: My company has a different concept of the work week.
Jane: At least tomorrow’s Saturday! You don’t have to work tomorrow do you?
Annie: I hope not. Hey. Do you remember a Michael or a Mike from high school?
Jane: There were a couple of guys named Mike in our senior class.
Annie: I got a weird text today from a Michael.
Jane: Wrong number?
I sneeze and for a second worry that another sinus attack is coming on.
Annie: I don’t think so. I’m sure I know him. It’s like there’s this thought I can’t quite grasp. It’s just out of reach.
Jane: I hate that! Did you try texting him back?
Annie: Yeah. I got no answer though. Not yet anyway. I can’t stop thinking about it. It’s like having a bad tooth. I keep playing with it; I can’t leave it alone and wait for the dentist appt.
Jane: You never went out with a Mike?
Annie: Nope. No Mikes. A Phil, a Sean, and a couple of Marks. Mark is as close to Mike as it gets.
Jane: Maybe someone from work? Or after I knew you. I mean, college.
Before I can reply, she sends another line.
Jane: Or it’s sleep deprivation and you’re imagining it. There seems to be a lot of that going around! People so tired they’re starting to lose it!
Annie: Yeah it could be. You can’t always trust your senses. Hang on.
Jane: !?!?!?!
Annie: A good friend of mine in college was named Mike. I haven’t spoken to him in years. He was the one that told me that I can’t always trust my senses.
Jane: Sounds deep!
Annie: We were full of mushrooms at the time :)
It hits me that I’ve never mentioned drugs to Jane before. I’m not sure how she’ll react, even if that was all back in college. I eye my monitor looking for the “Jane is typing” symbol, but nothing comes up for what seems like a long time.
Annie: You AFK?
Jane: Naw. Just coming down with a head cold I think.
Annie: Ugh. I think I got it too. I guess it’s going around.
Jane: Plague! Cold, insomnia, and fever dreams.
Did Jane have the same dream? No. Stop being crazy.
Jane: It seems like no one can sleep. And when they do, everyone has screwed up dreams!
Annie: Have you heard other people say what their dreams are about? Are all the dreams similar?
There’s a long pause before she responds.
Jane: Only that they’re all weird. Hey! Don’t freak out! It’s just one of those things. Everything goes strange for a while. We start seeing coincidences where there aren’t any because we haven’t been sleeping. We’ll get sleep, and everything will go back to normal.
Annie: Yeah.
As I log off, I tell myself that Jane’s right. And I tell myself this again and I shut off the light.
~
When I crawl out of bed, I’m not sure if I’ve slept at all. I only know that time has passed because it’s light out. I didn’t set an alarm. It being Saturday I figured that if by some miracle I slept, I should give myself the chance to keep sleeping. I put on my Saturday bum-around-at-home outfit, my grey sweatpants and a white cotton T-shirt. The light coming in from the blinds is dull, early morning gloom. I look at the clock; it’s still early. I realize I’ve slept a little. I’ll take it. Even if I don’t feel more rested, it’s nice to know there’s hope of sleep.
My phone rings.
I recognize Pete’s last name on the display just as he starts to speak. “Annie?” he says before I can say hello, “We need you in today. It’s all hands on deck. We’re shorthanded.”
I don’t say anything, but he keeps on talking.
“We’re not planning on opening up the phones for new calls, but we’ll need you doing call backs and email support.”
“Ooh, I hate to let the team down, but my car’s broken down,” I lie.
“No problem. I’ll come get you. I’m five minutes out.”
Caught in the lie and wanting to keep my job when the next round of layoffs start I blurt out, “Give me thirty. I need to shower and get dressed first.”
How does he even know where I live? Probably got it off my contact info. Or he’s had us all GPS tagged in our sleep.
I put the phone down, cursing myself for not saying No, and I head to the shower.
I’m still dressing when the knock comes on the door. “Just a minute,” I yell, pulling on my second pant leg, I stumble to the door. Its coolness feels strangely comforting as I press my face against it to look out the peephole.
Pete’s standing outside, looking annoyed and playing with his Blackberry. I open the door. “Hi. Just give me a second to get my shoes on and grab my purse.”
“One second.” He taps his watch.
It’s hard to tell if he’s kidding.
I’m so annoyed with the smug expression on his face as he tapped his watch, that I’ve put my shoes on, gotten into his Range Rover, and we’ve driven away before it even occurs to me that he’s asked me to work Saturday without so much as a thank you or an apology.
Something new to be mad at.
Plus since I’m on salary, there’s no overtime pay for this.
We’ve driven for ten minutes before I realize we’re going the wrong way. “Are you lost?” I smile to try and make it seem like I’m joking.
“I have to pick up something on the way.”
It’s anything but on the way. From the 91 he gets onto the 55 and takes that to the 5 before getting off in Irvine. He has right-wing talk radio on for the whole drive. I do my best to zone out, to not pay attention. I pray for deliverance while he rants along with the radio. He keeps looking at me instead of the road, like I’m supposed to be impressed with his argument. I’m paying attention to the road, and I wince and brace myself at each lane change. With so many lane changes, he goes farther horizontally than forward.
At last we exit the freeway. He turns off the main road into a series of cookie-cutter neighborhoods. Like the houses where I grew up, these were all built on the same model. Unlike my old neighborhood, these are painted and landscaped the same way as one another to the degree that I can’t tell how people know which house is theirs.
I fidget in the passenger seat. Planned communities have always given me the creeps, and Irvine is the archetypal planned community.
Better not think about it too much. The Irvine Company Thought Police could come peeling after me at any minute.
I put the window down. The engine roar, wind, and clicking of the lawn sprinklers merge together helping to drown out the radio.
Pete’s neighborhood is full of large houses with housing-association approved lawns and paint jobs. He parks the Range Rover in his driveway behind the Jaguar. “Come on,” he says, unbuckling his safety-belt.
“I don’t know,” I say, trying not to sound
nervous. “Are you going to be long? I thought I might just rest my eyes here.” I point to my temples. “Got a headache coming on.”
“Come inside. Meet the wife and kids. You don’t have kids, do you? They’re a treat.”
I shake my head and watch him head up to the house. My reflection in the rearview mirror stares back at me accusingly as if it knows I’m doing something stupid. I shrug and get out of the car, following my boss into his house.
The tile of the foyer is clear, but the order stops there. In front of me the floor is entirely covered in toys. The flight of stairs to the second floor has a skateboard, a roller skate, and a wagon on it, like the stairway is prepped for a pratfall. In the living room there’s a large plastic fort and slide. Amongst a sea of clutter there are several iPads on the floor. I step over a stuffed elephant, a fairy princess doll, and I have to catch my balance after stepping on a bat under a coloring book.
“Back here. In the den.”
There’s no sign of his wife or the children who all these toys belong to. The realization that it’s just us dawns on me as I follow the sound of Pete’s voice through a large kitchen and into the den. The kitchen is spacious and would have plenty of counter space if this too weren’t covered in children’s toys. In the center of the kitchen there’s an island with a stack of cookbooks on top. The cookbooks are covered in turn with carry-out menus.
Pete’s in the den with his arms outstretched. “What do you think?” He gestures to the home theater system that covers the wall opposite him.
It hits me that I’ve been expecting the worst of him. While he might be a crappy boss, he is only human. I’m wasting my time hating someone for making a few crappy decisions, even if those crappy decisions are coming from the man in charge. “What is that a sixty-five incher?”
“Seventy.” He turns back to me, beaming. I’ve never seen a man so thrilled. “Full stereo, and check it out.” He opens a cabinet and points to the bottom shelf. “Networked PC all hooked up.”