by Jeff South
“I can’t tell you that right now. I need you to follow the Protocols and get to Corporate.” She whips her head around looking for someone or something that I assume must’ve been chasing her. “Tomorrow. Do it.”
“Can you tell me anything about what’s going on?” I grab her arm. “Is Jeff alive?”
“I can’t tell you that right now.” She flips a switch on her Multiblaster and it emits a whiny hum. She opens the door and before she leaves hands me a business card with only a phone number on it.
“Text this number for directions,” she says. She takes another bite of her candy bar and runs off into the darkness.
“This was a pointless conversation!” I shout after her.
I open my glove compartment and retrieve the copy of Something Wicked This Way Comes. I pull out the Kilroy Was Here business card poking from its pages and determine I have one more stop to make before going home.
*
The Kwench-Aid plant sits in the middle of the Poplar Bluff Industrial Park. Once I exited the scene of the Stalking Marlene/Encounter with Randi Fiasco, I decided I needed to do a little investigating. I enter the employee gate using my dad’s ID badge. I swiped it from the driver’s side visor in his car when I left the house. No security works that entrance since employee access badges get you in. My stomach flips and flops and hands tremble as I reach out and swipe the badge’s magnetic stripe through the reader. The security arm raises and I draw a deep breath as I drive through.
I pass the giant Kwench-Aid logo sign, a cartoon character of a glass of my favorite drink. The glass wears the kind of happy face that fills one simultaneously with joy and dread. The glass is named Kwenchy and he changes colors to match the flavor of Kwench-Aid. Kwenchy scares me. I glance in the lower corner of the logo sign and see another familiar logo. Corporate. Under the logo are the words “A Corporate Entity.”
I steer to a remote corner of the parking lot and pull the Kilroy Was Here business card from the book. Stolen shipments of green Kwench-Aid combined with this apparent message from Jeff can only mean one thing.
Somehow, he’s back.
I climb out of my car and creep toward the plant. Only a few workers are here for the night shift, which, according to Dad is responsible for loading the shipments for delivery. If Jeff is back, he may very well strike again. I wonder why he would need to steal so much Kwench-Aid, but chalk it up to Jeff being Jeff. He’s an odd duck.
I edge along the wall to the back of the plant where the loading docks are. I remember Dad telling me this is where tractor trailer rigs back into for the loading of Kwench-Aid to be shipped to stores. I don’t see anything except the smoke shack area where employees take breaks. Two men stand smoking cigarettes and complaining about their general existence.
“When he’s gonna hurry up with the forklift?” one of them asks, flicking his butt on the ground instead of using the receptacle. Only dicks don’t use receptacles.
“I dunno,” says the other. “He’s probably in there scratching his balls.” I marvel at how little male conversation seems to evolve from adolescence to adulthood.
The non-receptacle-using guy is pudgy and bald. He shoves his hands in his pockets and paces.
“I can’t believe we still have jobs after that robbery,” he says.
“Right?” says the one who made the ball scratching comment. “That was a helluva thing.”
“No one believes us.” The pudgy one lights up another cigarette and offers one to the other guy.
“Why should they?” Ball scratcher dude takes a smoke. “We told them a kid pulled up in a Vega, tossed a couple of metal balls out, and then a couple of minutes later sped off with a pallet of product.”
“I honestly don’t remember shit for like two minutes. It was like being blackout drunk.”
“Same here. I remember nothing.”
The sound of screeching tires echoes and the pair whip their heads toward the far end of the building where more loading docks are. I look, too, and see a small vehicle fishtailing around the corner and speeding toward us.
“Shit!” says the one who made the ball-scratching comment. “He got us again!”
“How does he pull it off?” the other says.
Another vehicle, this one a security car with lights flashing follows from around the corner. The escaping vehicle flies by and even though I only catch a glimpse I recognize it as a white 1976 red Chevy Vega station wagon with a wide white stripe on its hood. There’s no doubt it’s Miss America. I sprint the fifty or so yards toward my own car and start it up as soon as I get in. I mash the accelerator and head toward the gate. Miss America zooms out the gate and heads down the street away from the plant. The security car is close behind and I race to follow up the rear.
Our chase approaches a four-way intersection. Going straight takes us toward downtown. Going left takes us toward a soccer complex. The Vega turns right, which is the road that leads to the portal. The three vehicles weave the dangerous curves of a dark highway. We hit a straight stretch of road usually considered a prime spot for passing another driver. I calculate the speed I’ll need to overtake the security car and get behind Miss America. I swerve into the left lane as a sonic boom rattles my windshield. The rear of the Vega spits out a fireball and disappears into the night at an unimaginable rate of speed.
I slam on my brakes and lose control of my car for a few seconds. I skid off the road and onto the shoulder. I throw open my door and jump out. The security vehicle screeches to a halt a few feet ahead of me after the Vega’s transition into some kind of warp speed. Two guards emerge from the car.
“Did you see that?” barks the driver. “What the hell?”
“Hey, kid,” the passenger guard calls to me. “Did you see that?”
“I didn’t see anything.”
I get back in my car and sit for a moment. My nerves dance and my pulse pounds. I retrieve the passenger seat the Kilroy Was Here business card and the card given to me by Randi. I look at the phone number and sigh. I start the engine and drive home hoping the evening’s events will prevent the usual onslaught of nightmares about Grandor and apricots.
* * *
1 Ray Bradbury, Something Wicked This Way Comes (New York: Harper, 1962), 48.
CHAPTER FOUR
I crawl out of bed after a few hours of tossing and turning. No nightmares this time. Only obsessive thoughts about the After Hours Book Shop Affair (God, I hope it’s not an affair) and The Great Vega Escape. I shuffle down the hall still in my clothes from last night and hear Dad offer up a bellow of bewilderment.
“What in the actual hell?”
I assume now Dad is aware of another theft of Kwench-Aid packets from his plant. I enter the kitchen to find him possibly choking his tablet as he sits at the table.
“Chris,” chides Mom. “Don’t get yourself all worked up.”
“Another night. Another theft.” He stands and shoves the tablet into his briefcase and gives Mom a gentle kiss on the lips.
“Maybe tonight we could skip book club,” she tells him.
“No.” Dad’s response is quick and short, but not rude. “No. We need to go.”
“Three nights in a row,” I say. “You must really be into Game of Thrones.”
Dad only smiles and heads to the door. I stop him with my voice before he leaves.
“I think it’s time maybe I went back to work.”
My parents stare at me with wide eyes and open mouths. This is neither The Look nor The Reassurance I see on their faces, but rather something I would describe as The Perplexity.
“Are you sure?” Mom asks. “I thought you wanted to take the summer off and get your head clear.”
“Will they let you come back?” Dad asks.
“They said I could, yeah. I’m gonna call my supervisor in a minute to make sure.” Mom and Dad know nothing of my work at Corporate. They think I’m a mailroom clerk.
“If that’s what you want to do, honey.” Mom walks to me and rubs m
y arm.
“It would probably do you some good,” Dad says. “Mindless delivery of the mail to people in cubicles can be therapeutic. Gotta go. I’ll meet you at book club, Suzanne.”
“You’re on your own for dinner tonight, honey,” Mom tells me. She blows out a weary sigh and collects her own briefcase sitting by the front door. “I have to tour the fairgrounds today. The new carnival company is setting up the attractions for the River Luau. Yay me.”
“At least no one is stealing your Kwench-Aid,” I say.
“No.” She allows herself a slight half smile. “No, they’re not.”
Mom barely disappears out the door before I’m texting Randi Williams:
OK. I guess I need instructions or whatever.
My phone buzzes a few seconds later. It’s Randi’s response:
Follow Rube Goldberg Protocol 1118 and await further instructions.
I sigh and roll my eyes so hard I think for a second they might stay stuck in the back of my head because I hate Rube Goldberg Protocols so much.
*
Why am I here?
I don’t ask in the why-am-I-in-the-grocery-store-with-no-pants way or the why-am-I-waking-up-hungover-in-a-Turkish-prison way. I ask because I’m sitting in the drive-thru of a god-awful fast food restaurant called Taco Haus about to re-enter a world I want no part of. Except for the fact it might help me understand what happened to my friend. Do I really want to follow through with this? All I can think of while I stare at the Taco Haus is how much of an asshole Kierkegaard must’ve been.
Rube Goldberg Protocol is a Corporate method of delivering a basic piece of communication via the most convoluted method possible under the guise of protecting the public from the nature of the work we do. The rationale behind it is uses buzzwords like “proprietary information” and Protocol 1118 involves ordering a certain menu item from the drive thru at Taco Haus. I open the Corporate app on my phone and access the Rube Goldberg protocol documents but then set my phone down. I’m aware I suddenly know every single Rube Goldberg protocol as if I created them myself.
I ease up to the speaker box and spot the Corporate logo in the lower right corner of the drive-thru menu board. “A Corporate Entity,” the line under the logo reads. Several seconds of silence pass before the voice on the other end blares through the box.
“Welcome to Taco Haus, home of the Taco Meister. Would you like to try an Uber Grande Nacho Platter today?” The female voice sounds as if asking me about the Uber Grande Nacho Platter violates everything she hoped her life would become.
“Um, no,” I say. I refer to my Rube Goldberg Protocol manual for the proper 1118 scripting. “I need three schnitzel tacos, hold the guac sauce.”
“Anything else?”
“A Bavarian cream churro for dessert. Also, I need the Corporate discount.” I don’t know what all of this is supposed to mean and it is one of many reasons I wish I could quit this job.
“Hold on,” the flat voice says. Long seconds pass and I wonder if perhaps I have been forgotten. I start to remind her of my presence when her disaffected voice rattles from the box. “I have one #2 meal with a Bavarian cream churro for dessert. Pull forward.”
I obey the instructions and when I arrive at the window, a short, dark-haired Hispanic girl dressed in lederhosen hands me a brown bag. Her beauty is startling and I can’t help but stare. She does not smile and her eyes tell me she is either tired or wants to burn the Taco Haus to the ground.
“Here’s your schnitzel tacos and your churro. All with the Corporate discount.” She tells me to enjoy my lunch, but I don’t think she really means it. We have a moment where our eyes lock and she seems to telepathically tell me how much she hates her life right now. I want to tell her telepathically that mine sucks more, but I choose not to. Life Coach Gilbert tells me that I’m too competitive in my relationships, so I’m trying to fix that. Also, extrasensory communication is not one of my strengths, so I’m not sure the caliente lederhosen-wearing drive-thru babe would receive my message. I must be staring too long because she tells me I can take the bag now.
“Unless you need something else,” she adds.
“Just a new life is all,” I say in an effort to be pithy and flirtatious because I’m nothing if not pithy and flirtatious.
“We don’t have those here,” she retorts. “Clearly.”
I park my car in a space facing away from the restaurant and pull from the Taco Haus bag a small touchscreen device enveloped in bubble wrap to review a Power Point presentation on my assignment. I tap the screen and enter my Corporate log in credentials. The familiar Corporate logo of a white ‘C’ in the center of a blue vortex fades into view. A message flashes under the logo:
CLICK THE LOGO TO START THE VIDEO
I tap the screen and the logo swirls not unlike the portal on The Prom Night of Which We Shall Not Speak. I hold the tablet at arm’s length because I have a momentary fear the swirl is going to suck me into the tablet and I’ll forever be trapped inside it. A male cartoon character with eyes that are too large for his head steps out of the portal. He wears a golf shirt with the Corporate logo on the left side and what I assume are cartoon khakis. He wears a perpetual smile that doesn’t endear him at all. Rather, I imagine I will see this character in tonight’s nightmares. He will probably be eating apricots.
“Hi! I’m Terry the Corporate Trainer!” His voice is impossibly upbeat and enthusiastic. I’ll hear its voice in my nightmares, too. “I’m your virtual guide to the latest learning opportunity from Corporate.”
I look around to make sure no one is watching. I should view this training at home so as not to unwittingly divulge proprietary information, but I really don’t care. Terry the Trainer continues, but his voice is now so serious I’m afraid he’s about to tell me I have a chronic disease or warn me about the dangers of listening to rock music.
“What you are about to see is shocking footage captured on Corporate security cameras.” The screen dissolves to grainy images of a figure in cargo pants, a ruffled tuxedo shirt, and a top hat running through the halls of Corporate. Terry the Trainer continues his serious voice as I pull a schnitzel taco from the bag and take a bite.
“Some very sensitive intellectual property was stolen by the person you see here.”
I wipe some sauerkraut from my lip with a napkin and my mouth hangs open at the sight of what appears to be Jeff Harper running away from members of Corporate security. He turns and fires a laser at them and they freeze in their tracks. They don’t fall down in pain or writhe in agony. They are simply frozen.
The passenger door of my car flings open and I cry out with the fright of someone who was expecting hot water in the shower, but got cold instead. I turn to spot Randi Williams climbing in and sitting down. She twists and turns in her seat, looking out all the windows. She spots the Taco Haus bag and plucks a schnitzel taco from it.
“Please stop getting in my car without warning,” I tell her. “It’s not good for my anxiety.”
“So, you’ve seen the video?” She chomps on the taco and then holds it up in admiration. “These shouldn’t be as good as they are.”
“Is that…” I point at the figure on the video. I can’t finish my question because I know the answer.
“It’s Jeff,” Randi says with a mouth full of Mexican-German fusion food.
Onscreen, Jeff rounds a corner and fires a weapon at another group of Corporate employees. The victims don’t die, but rather begin dancing in a kick line like the Rockettes.
“We don’t know why the people are dancing,” Randi says, “but, they’re very talented. It’s possible Jeff has possession of behavioral alteration weaponry.”
“Why was Jeff at Corporate?” I ask. “Did he steal something from there, too?”
“I can’t tell you that,” she says, whipping her head around and looking out the windows. “You’ll have to come Corporate later today. We’ll meet with Max at two o’clock.”
“Not that again,” I huff
.
“What did you mean by ‘steal something from there, too?’” She takes the last bite of her taco and tosses the wrapper into the bag.
“I saw him last night. He was stealing Kwench-Aid from the plant my dad works at.”
“I’m sorry.” Randi shakes her head. “Did you say stealing Kwench-Aid?”
“Yeah. I don’t know why.” I tap the screen to pause the video and it freezes on the image of Jeff. “But it was definitely him. He was driving Miss America. I chased after him, but he sorta disappeared on the highway.”
“Interesting.” She peeks in the bag and then looks at me. “Are you gonna eat that last taco?”
“Take it,” I say. “Leave the churro.”
“See you later at HQ. Two o’clock.” She gets out of my car, heads to a strip mall across the street, and disappears into one of those stores where everything costs a dollar.
“This is a lot of work to schedule a meeting,” I say to myself.
I start my car and exit the Taco Haus parking lot, but not before taking a lap around the building in the hopes of catching a glimpse of the caliente lederhosen-wearing drive-thru babe. I don’t get a good look, though, because that’s my life. Leaving the parking lot, I spot an RV parked in the corner. The vehicle is black with orange flames painted down the side of it. A sign reading MIRROR BALL ENTERTAINMENTS is plastered on the driver’s side door. Five sketchy figures emerge from this tacky ride looking as if they’ve slept in the same clothes since 1974. Their faces are ruddy and harsh. One of them, a particularly grimy character calls back to the RV.
“C’mon, Mel! Get a move on!”
The one I assume is called Mel climbs out and rubs his face while finishing the task of putting on his pants.
Carnies. Not a fan. I don’t fear them the way I do spiders, but on my List of Scary Shit carnies are definitely in the top three between spiders and people in those mascot costumes at sporting events.
*
Corporate Headquarters sits alone along a private paved road about five miles south of town. The story goes that the founder of the company, a man named Simon Tybalt, bought up all the land to build this complex. You can’t see it well for the trees which line the road. A high, ivy-covered fence topped with barbed wire hides behind the trees. I steer my trusty Corolla off the road and onto the short driveway. A security gate blocks my entrance. My #2 value meal from Taco Haus included a hasenpfeffer burrito and a lanyard with an ID badge providing access to a sexual harassment seminar. The online information from Terry the Trainer provided clear instructions: