by Nace Phlaux
See, you’ve never had a job, Bri, so you wouldn’t know about all the political horseshit that goes on in a workplace. Dad had the shop long before either of us were born, and as soon as he saw you soaked up the car stuff like a sponge, you were set for life. Me, I’ve never been able to keep it all in my head. I’m good with my hands—that’s why I went to All-Lite. But which side the oil pan’s on on a Chevy or a Ford? It just never stuck, no matter how bad Dad wanted it to. And I guess I was the freak in the family for not having that kind of brain.
But whatever. He’s long dead. And...Well. We’re not. Not yet, anyhow.
The night’s young.
So Getsinger calls me into his makeshift office in the caf. He and I started about the same time years back and got as close as he’d let anyone get. Tough guy to like is all I can say. He never got involved in the lunch line or any of the dramas going on in the place. He didn’t catch on to the different machinations of the place as quick as I did, though. So as he rose through the ranks, we kept a bit of a relationship: He got lessons on the machines and then firsthand news of any uprisings on the production floor. I got the primo choices of new stations and vacay around the holidays, not to mention some hungover latenesses ignored.
“All business decisions, I’m sure you know, numbers on a page.” He spoke to me, leaning over on his bare forearms and clasped hands, talking real soft like he was confiding secrets to me and didn’t want the rent-a-cops to know. I, of all people, he said, should understand. George and Derrick stood silent; no matter where they turned their gazes, I knew an eye stayed on me the whole time. That was all right, though. I did understand. I understood my severance package would give me a sweet little vacation until one of my old connections could hook me up. The yellowing folder under Getsinger’s hands and marked “Mazzaro, Edward” could attest to that.
The boss man had me sign documents, including a noncompete and a promise I wouldn’t sell all the company secrets or blame them in my suicide note. “The usual fine print,” he said. He slid a folder across the lunch table, telling me it had suggestions and information for displaced worker benefits, and said, “Between you and me, I’m thinking this is temporary. You’ll see. They’ll be calling you back here in no time. Maybe with a different contract in place, but it’ll happen. They’ll want you back.”
The whole time, I kept thinking: The body language, the gentle conversation. If the folder of paperwork was a bouquet of grocery store flowers, the setting would be complete. The company was telling me it wanted to date other people but leaving me enough hope so it could get in my pants again later. I was a corporate booty call.
I sneered at the thought, and suddenly the rent-a-cops tensed up. Getsinger sat back in his seat and said at a normal volume, “Well, it looks like we’re done here. George will take your badge once you’re in the parking lot.” Both guards stepped forward, and the older of the two motioned for me to go first toward the exit. As I reached the door, the Dutchman added, “And feel free to include me as a reference.”
* * *
I wanted to stop for a pack of smokes on the way home, but I didn’t. I looked out the window at Gleason’s, contemplating getting a beer, for God knows how long. I even thought about giving you a call so I could come over and talk to somebody, but the thought of your wife saying something like “The universe doesn’t close a door without opening a window” made me want to retch.
Maybe it was for the best my brain was still doing loop-de-loops. It couldn’t stop to focus on any single thought or emotion long enough for me to get angry or depressed at what was going on. But it still wouldn’t let me relax either. Finally I grabbed one of the books from the shelf and flew through it. Thanks to your wife, I have a small collection of trivia books I guess you must’ve told her I liked as a kid. The strings of unrelated bite-sized factoids worked perfect for my confused head.
I woke up in my recliner with a trivia book on my chest and a string of drool running down my stubble. Sunlight filled the room, making me jerk out of my seat before I realized I wasn’t late for work. I took a long shower, made myself breakfast with the scraps I had in the fridge, and tried to enjoy myself. Daytime television was god-awful, so I looked around the apartment, registering all the cracking paint, dust bunnies, and scratched furniture I’d left alone for too long.
Somewhere in the third hour of fixing flaking paint and clearing cobwebs, a series of knocks came through the dining room wall sounding like the Morse code for the letter K. I set down my brush, knocked the code for the letters A and S, and headed up the hall to my neighbor Richter’s door. Once there, I knocked the code for the letters C and T, this time gently since I knew he’d be standing close to the entrance.
I should probably explain a little about Richter: I hear there’s a show on about guys prepping for doomsday or a zombie apocalypse or the kind of emergency where unofficial militias and one-man tech squads will be necessary. Well, Richter would be candidate numero uno if it was up to me to host that show. The guy talks and looks fairly normal—tall and thin with short hair and glasses covering up his mousy little eyes. He doesn’t have anything against the government or what you’d usually think of with these whack jobs. He’s just completely convinced he needs a small arsenal of guns and homemade security equipment.
We met in the laundry room of the apartment building shortly after I moved in. He was putting clothes in a dryer and rambling to himself. He did that when he was mad, but I didn’t know that at the time. All I knew was a guy I’d never seen before was angrily throwing his underwear into the drum while saying something about resistors and diagrams. It was when he shouted “How am I supposed to solder anyway?” that I stepped in.
I don’t know what made me pipe up back then. Maybe it was someone needing one of the few things I’m good at. I’d like to think I wouldn’t drop all my crazy alarms just because I have a skill the crazy man needs. I’d like to think that. But there we were an hour later in his living room, putting together the final touches of a trip wire across the threshold of his front door, the first project of dozens of other schematics he’d ask me to work on and the same trip wire I stepped over the day I was cleaning my apartment.
“The complex sent out a letter,” he said with a knowing look. I’d learned pretending to know what he meant made things easier, but this might’ve pertained to me. I hadn’t reached the part of the living room where I keep my basket of old mail yet, so I didn’t know where Richter was heading. I asked what it said, and he threw me a white envelope with a red letter inside and his apartment number on the flap.
The black bold ink on the red paper, like a Valentine a kid would give his mom, said the Orangewood Park Apartments were sold to the Village of Pennbrook Corporation. According to the small text toward the bottom of the page, they appreciated our patience during the transitional times. Sounded like something Getsinger would’ve told the All-Lite crew, but otherwise straightforward. I’d lived in a VoP location before, and it wasn’t too terrible. Richter obviously thought more was going on than the couple of lines let on. And he wasn’t far off.
You know those trees all the bill collectors are trying to save nowadays? Everyone wants you to have automatic debits for your so-called convenience and the environment. But a month doesn’t go by where the news isn’t doing a report on a company getting hacked or phreaked or whatever the shit it is and losing all your credit card numbers to scammers. Call me paranoid like Richter, but I didn’t want any computer handling my money.
Except one. It was part of the lease, after all. And I figured if something happened with the automated payments, it’s not like I’d have to go far to complain. It’s not like the apartment complex would accidentally drain my bank account, overdrafting it until the bank’s automation locked the account, preventing anything from coming in or out, including my severance.
So you see, Bri, that first job we did at the old VoP site? That one wasn’t so much a crime of opportunity as it was good, old-fashioned revenge.
But most of the robberies after that one? They were just for the fun of it. The Mazzaro brothers’ weekly bonding time. All this blood on me and the burning lumber yard next door? That’s what I need to talk to you about.
Initiative: Carol Lee
Call Log
January 3, 2013
Emp. ID
Answer
A07F1P
One of those voicemail messages where each roommate says a word. You can tell the guy (the two others are women) is dying inside.
A1ZCG8
No answer.
A1ZDFD
Straight to voicemail.
A1ZF2T
Answered by pocket. Listened to a woman singing along to country music for 4 minutes 51 seconds. Likes to replace words. Ex: “All my besties live in testes.”
A12Z79
No answer.
A1ZDYE
Long pause before saying I had the wrong number. Needs investigation.
A10EGH
Straight to voicemail.
A09VX0
No answer.
Voicemail not activated.
A11TGL
Answered with a lot of activity / noise in the background. Shouted to the room whether there was a Carol Lee in the “joint.” After a moment, came back and said “Naw, man. Wrong number.”
The Express - Public Safety Log
Friday 01/04/2013
BENSALEM
Arrests/Citations
Anthony Woloniuk, 33, 12000 block of Dunksferry Rd., Philadelphia, 6:47 p.m. Wed, retail theft on 2500 block Knights Rd., released on $2,500 unsecured bail.
Greg Everham, 37, 700 block Emily Ave., Bristol Township, 4:22 p.m. Tue, disorderly conduct on 3200 block Tillman Dr., to receive citation.
BRISTOL BOROUGH
Arrests/Citations
Juvenile, 15, 7:30 p.m. Thu, disorderly practices on 900 block Mansion St., cited.
Court Log
Michael Stanya, 52, Royersford, pleaded guilty to retail theft Jul 23. Sentenced to confinement of 3-23 months 15 days, ordered to pay costs.
Sandra D’Souza, 28, Bellmawr, N.J., pleaded guilty to retail theft Jul 22. Sentenced to probation of 90 days, ordered to pay costs, have no contact with victim.
Jesse Hendricks, 26, Levittown, approved for ARD program for 1 year on charges of accident involving damage, related summary offenses Jun 10. Agreed to complete community service program.
Marlon Coleman, 58, Willingboro, pleaded guilty to robbery Oct 25, 2012; Nov 2, 2012. Sentenced to confinement of 30-60 months, given credit for time served, probation of 7 years, ordered to pay costs and $445 restitution, maintain treatment, have no contact with victim, undergo drug/alcohol and mental health evaluations and abide by recommendations.
LOWER SOUTHAMPTON
Arrests/Citations
Kelly Hoffman, 20, Feasterville, 12:58 a.m. Sun, also unattended hit and run after an accident on unit block Woodbine Ave., Feasterville.
Kevin Marchiondo, 44, Philadelphia, 4:56 a.m. Sat, on 1200 block Bridgetown Pk., Feasterville, to receive summons.
Eddie 2
A couple days later, I was climbing up the freakin’ walls, so I got Richter to go over to Bristol Lanes with me. I still hadn’t called you or stopped by, and I can’t say for certain why or why not. If I had to, my first guess would be Hayleigh. I didn’t want to see the offhanded look when I told you I got laid off, like she saw a lifetime of me being at your door looking for a handout flash before her eyes. And I sure as shit didn’t want her to sniff me and say something like, “So what happened to your cloud of smoke?”
The woman’s a goddamned nightmare, Bri. I wouldn’t say that if I knew for certain you were awake. Eh, maybe I would. But only because it’s the truth. Anyway.
So me and Richter go over to the Lanes, and as we’re walking in I ask his paranoid ass the usual: “So who’re we tonight?”
He thinks about it for a sec and says, “You be Jimmy Vane, and I’ll be Alan Campbell.” I don’t know where he comes up with the names most of the time; I just know he gets uppity about putting what his mama would call him into anything electronic. But, of course, we gotta answer to the names on the screens; otherwise why the ruse, right? It’s like being one of those drama nerds I used to smoke with in high school.
So I paid for the two of us with the last bit of cash in my pocket, and we go over to find an empty lane, and I’m just dying, man. The place hadn’t had smokers in years, back when they used to pass around those little two-and-a-half square inches of tin and call it an ashtray, but it was one of those unnaturally warm winter nights and the heat in the place was cranked. So the front door’s propped open, and the smoke’s just billowing in.
We bowled a few frames, and Richter’s talking about a pickpocket alarm project he wanted my soldering skills for, and the whole time I’m thinking, “I wanna burn one. But if I burn one, I’m not gonna wanna stop. But I’ve been good. But I just started sleeping again.” My head kept battling itself, barely hearing anything Richter said. Passing someone on the street or walking through the doorway, I could hold my breath. That constant smack in the face of smoke, though, was driving me crazy, and I started to feel nauseous. Then I saw what was on the next lane’s table.
A beer.
A beer I could have one of, I figured. I had to drive us back to the apartments, so I couldn’t get too shit-faced, right? Right. So I excused myself from whatever the hell Richter was talking on about and went over to the bar. The only open spot was at the opposite side of the register, so I’m already halfway through my first bottle when I see the bartender having issues with my debit card. After swiping it a few times, he comes over and tells me it’s not going through.
And I know he swiped it and tried it multiple times, but we have to do the dance. So I tell him to do it again, and he says, “I already tried three times, buddy.” And I slam the half-drunk beer into the bar, and a few people hear the noise over the music and crowd and look up, but most go on doing what they’re doing. And finally I tell the guy to hold on while I get Richter. The guy walks away with Richter’s cash in hand, looking over his shoulder and eyeing me over like I’m the asshole, and the dance is done.
Once I told him what happened, Richter went back and picked me up another six pack, saying he’d drive us back. “You can pay me back once you get this straightened out,” he told me, right before going back to describing the soldering job he needed. Some people, huh? I didn’t care though. I couldn’t do anything ‘til the bank opened in the morning, so why not have a beer? Why not finish off the goddamned six pack myself? And so that’s what I did, nodding along and promising Richter I’d solder his asshole shut, for all I know.
* * *
The Jamaican lady at Bank of America was nice and all, printing out my transactions from the last thirty days, but I guess I got a little indignant. She highlighted the line where a debit drew a lot more money than my account ever had. I asked what the fuck the Description field meant since it was mostly symbols, dashes, and the partial word ORAN; but it was when I asked her to print out the goddamned sixty day report that she tensed up and asked me to watch my mouth.
I found the line from the previous month’s rent, but it didn’t look anything like the mishmashed line screwing me over. The note Richter got from the complex flashed in my head—I still don’t think I ever got a copy of that—and I got a hunch the new owners may’ve had something to do with what was going on. I said that to the Jamaican lady and asked if there was anything she could do about it, but I guess I asked a little more colorfully than I’m describing it now.
“You’ll have to talk with the debtor or contact our customer service,” she goes, and then without even looking at me, she shouts, “Next customer.” She just went straight from her computer screen to the line behind me. I stood there like a moron with my mouth hanging open until I saw her glance at the door where a guard was standing. I got the hint and left, figuring I’d go see the people responsible anyway. But it would’ve been ni
ce if they’d just given me some credit, you know? Then none of this would’ve happened.
I drove back to the complex with my eye on the dash the whole time, watching as the fuel gauge quivered lower and lower. I knew it was all in my head since I was only driving a couple miles, but without any access to any money, my mind kept thinking about all the bills that needed paying soon and all the daily expenses I had. I don’t know when the cycle started—when my stress wanted me to drink, wanting to drink reminded me I didn’t have any cash, not having cash stressing me out—but I couldn’t get it to stop.
When I walked into the office at the complex, the place was a disaster zone. With just a desk and a water cooler, the room’s already cramped. But it looked like someone had tipped over the cooler since the top of it was missing and towels were layered on the floor. Someone had tacked up wet pieces of paperwork all over the walls, and they fluttered any time anybody came or went from the entrance to the administrative rooms behind the desk. Apparently I wasn’t the only one having issues.