“My heart rate goes up.”
“Yes.”
“I start shaking and my vision blurs.”
“I see.”
“What do you think?”
“I think,” she said slowly. “That I am not a psychiatrist. And that you need one.”
“Thanks,” Adrian said. He didn’t see himself going to a psychiatrist.
“You’ve been through a terrible ordeal, Mr. Beck. Of course you’re going to have reactions. Your body is in shock, your mind has been on drugs, your emotions are undoubtedly as bruised as your physical self. Why wouldn’t you have panic attacks?”
She looked at her watch, “I’ll get Charlene to give the X-Rays. I’ll be back,” She watched him with her almond eyes. “You’ve run too far, haven’t you?”
“Yes.”
“And too fast?”
“Yes,” he said again.
11 – Barton’s Rent to Own
After a croissant and coffee, Adrian felt able to face Thursday morning shoppers at Wal-Mart. This time he parked in a handicapped zone right in front of the store, wondering why he hadn’t thought of it before. He was having an extraordinarily difficult time adjusting to life as an invalid. So many things escaped his notice or occurred too late to do him any good.
He teetered into the store, passing the old greeter, who eyed him warily. Adrian made a wide arc and hobbled to men’s wear without incident. He picked out a pair of blue jeans, two Colorado Rockies shirts and packages of socks and underwear. Carrying just these items nearly unbalanced him and he arrived at the checkout line gasping with exertion, his ribs rubbing together like bent sticks.
He carefully chose a line with a female checker and paid with a credit card, ignoring her sideways glances and the stares of people behind him. He heard someone whisper, “what happened to him,” but didn’t turn to look.
Outside, he walked slowly to the truck. Two men, typical suburban, dressed in jeans and a slick blue suit jackets were standing behind it. They stood, glaring, when Adrian shambled up.
One of the men said, “This is a handicapped zone, you know? Asshole’s not supposed to park here.”
“But I think I am.” Adrian spoke from behind the man, who jumped at the sound. They both turned, obviously angry and ready to argue, but stopped suddenly at the sight of Adrian.
“Jesus!” said one. He stared wide eyed as if Adrian was a three legged cow.
“Hey, man! I’m sorry.” said the other man. He ogled Adrian up and down in disbelief. sizing up the crutch, the casts, the bandaged face and the slowly fading bruises. “What the hell happened to you?”
“Car accident.” Adrian said softly, “You got a problem?” he felt no sense of fear, but he’d stopped a good ten feet away.
“Problem? Hell, no. I just saw the space and thought you were one of those assholes, you know. Park in handicapped spaces? But never mind: you’re exactly who this space is intended for,”
“Yeah,” Adrian agreed moodily. And isn’t that a bitch?
“Over there.” Adrian said to himself: Barton’s Rent To Own Furniture. He parked far from the handicapped spaces.
Inside, a young man in a brown suit with a mustard yellow name tag sewed on the lapel—Ron—came over eventually and asked. “May I help you, sir?”
“Do you have a saleswoman?” Adrian said, his hand still on the door handle.
“Sure,” said Ron, with a shrug. “Would you like to step this way?”
‘‘No.’’
“What?” Ron looked bewildered. Adrian gestured with his crutch, swung his leg and raised an eyebrow.
“Oh, of course. I’ll go get Tina.”
“Thank you.” Adrian sat down on a cheap display couch. It felt like sitting on fabric coated concrete. Tina turned out to be a young black girl of twenty-three wearing a plaid skirt and white blouse. She stopped a few feet away and stared.
“Car accident,” Adrian said with resignation.
“What is it you need?” She seemed reassured enough to step closer.
“Everything.”
After an hour he had negotiated a terribly high contract for the six month rental of an entire house load of furniture. A single bed, dresser, couch, even a washer and dryer. Tina happily took his order, pleading endlessly to get a television, astounded and woebegone at his refusal.
They wanted to deliver in two weeks. Adrian paid extra and received a promise of Saturday at ten, measured in delivery time, which meant between eight A.M and eleven at night. Or Sunday.
He returned to the van and stopped at a Seven-Eleven for milk and cereal. Darkness fall un-noticed, slipping from bright to black without a seam. On a whim Adrian bought a single white rose, because it looked forlorn in a plastic wrapper, He hopped to a liquor store and bought an inexpensive bottle of California Burgundy from a shelf near the front.
The checkout clerk, a young man with rings in his eyebrows and shoulder length brown hair, glanced at his injuries without curiosity.
The house was dark, and completely unappealing. Without furniture it was simply grim. Adrian clicked on lights in the bedroom and kitchen and wished he had the furniture already.
He placed the rose in a plastic McDonald’s cup filled with water and set it on the counter next to the stove. The sharp white of the fragile flower clashed against the avocado appliances, struggling—like Adrian—to maintain a tenuous hold against a sea of adversity. The metaphor depressed him and he opened the wine.
He sagged his back against the wall and stared at the rose. He didn’t want to live like this. Running had brought him to this awful house, panic had pushed him into this solitary life.
He poured some wine into another cartoon character cup. He let himself slip down to the floor in his brightly lit, empty avocado kitchen and drank until he fell asleep.
Friday after lunch his eyes fell on the envelope. Puzzled, he looked at it and on impulse, shrugged and tried to open it.
The seal proved stubborn. Adrian wrestled with it for several moments before the tape gave in and the package opened. Inside was a stack of papers that he leafed through with mounting surprise. On the top was a note from Jack, handwritten in a familiar scrawl.
Adrian, I’m sorry. Let start with that. I know you‘re going through an unimaginable time and I know I made it worse. I only hope you can understand. I did what I had to do. The company couldn’t survive without those contracts.
As I said, I’m sorry. You’re been the best employee I’ve ever had and more. I consider you a friend.
I have included a list of companies and a letter of recommendation to each. All of them are a long way from Ohio. We both know you can’t work here anymore.
I know the owners of each of them and they owe me favors. I can only hope that one of them will be able to do what I can’t and hire you.
Good luck. Jack.
He inspected the list: Hart Electronics: Atlanta, Georgia. Culberston and Sons: Boise, Idaho. Max Boydlam, LLC: San Diego, California. Control-logics, Denver, Colorado.
There were more but Adrian stopped reading. Control-logics, of Denver, Colorado.
It was like coming across a supply chest full of supplies on the deserted beach. Hadn’t that happened to Crusoe? Filled with everything needed to survive. Except, of course, a chair.
Adrian looked at the door for nearly ten minutes before approaching it. A thousand panicky thoughts demanded he not go in. Desperation for a job goosed him forward.
He entered a well decorated lobby and approached a long receptionist desk.
“My name’s Adrian Beck. I’m an engineer. I have a letter from Jack Southerland; he’s a friend of Mr. Clooner.”
A young woman looked up with wide-eyed interest. “You’re an engineer?” she said.
“Yes.”
“And you’re looking for a job?” She sounded amazed.
“I am, yes. I have a letter from Jack Southerland.”
She looked disbelieving. She had big hair and long red painted nails, a pretty cloth scarf ar
ound her neck, a fashionable blue sweater and tan checkered skirt.
She picked up a clipboard and said, “I have to ask you a few questions, okay?”
“Sure.” Adrian shifted on his foot to settle the aches.
“You’re applying for an engineering job?”
“Yes. “
“Do you know PLC’s?”
“Yes.”
“Instrumentation?” She read from the list as if she had no idea what it meant.
“Yes. I programmed—”
“Programmed?” She sounded surprised. “Good. We need a programmer. Can you program HMIs?”
“Yes.”
“Are you employed now?”
“No.”
“What happened—?”
“Don’t ask,” Adrian said.
“Okay. I’ll put you through to Wally.” She picked up a phone and dialed.
A few moments later a small man, with thick tan hair neatly groomed back from his ears like a wave, wearing tan slacks over brown loafers man emerged from a door in the hallway to the right.
“Adrian Beck?” His voice boomed. His shirt was green with a tiny yellow polo player stitched above the breast, open necked and casual. His cheeks were round circles, as if he was sucking tiny sour golf balls. He resembled a badger.
He reached Adrian in three quick strides, held out his hand to shake and quickly pulled it back when he saw the cast. He looked flustered, staring openly.
“What the hell happened to you?” It appeared he wasn’t interested in the answer. “Car wreck? Jealous husband? Run in with the mob?” He laughed at his own wit. “I’m Walter Clooner. Call me Wally. The office is this way.”
Adrian followed into a huge beautifully decorated office. Size and opulence hit him with the force of a hammer blow. He stopped at the doorway to collect impressions while Wally Clooner streaked like a runner through the room to settle behind an enormous dark wood desk.
Thick blue carpet underfoot muffled sounds, the walls were covered with pine in an angled pattern, starting low and coming to a point mid room at the ceiling. Along the walls, framed pistols, from Colt revolvers to ancient powder guns, gleamed beneath galley lights.
Behind Wally’s desk squatted a short credenza made of oak with a silver ice bucket and a tray holding tall green bottles of Scotch and Vodka. Above the credenza Indians attacked buffalo in an oil painting.
Adrian wondered if it was an original. And the guns—real or copies? Seeing the room, Adrian didn’t think Wally believed in copies. The business must he thriving, he decided, to support its owner.
Adrian eventually settled into a stuffed red leather chair. The distance from Wally’s desk helped keep the anxiety at bay.
“You say you’ve got a letter from Jack Southerland?”
Adrian got up and handed him the letter, which Wally read with indifference.
“Resume?” Wally held out a hand without waiting.
Adrian handed one across the desk.
Wally read quickly, eyes darting back and forth. He frowned and peered up over the top of page two and said sharply, “you’re slumming.”
Surprised, Adrian couldn’t think of anything to say. The silence dragged on. What job did Wally Clooner think he was applying for? As an interview this was already a disaster.
“Why do you want to work here?” Wally gestured with the paper. “You’ re obviously over-qualified. So why?”
“What am I overqualified for? Don’t you want an engineer?”
“A controls engineer.”
“I’m an engineer.” Adrian said quietly. “I can do this job.”
“I’ve no doubt.” He looked over the resume again. “Says here you have a Master’s degree?” He made it sound offensive.
“Yes, from—”
“Columbia. I see. And 12 years’ experience at Techtronics.”
“Yes; I worked for—”
“Jack, right; I got the letter, Why’d you stay there so long?”
“I liked working there.” It sounded lame. but what could he say? He thought they always asked why you left a job, not why you stayed.
“Why’d you leave it?”
I killed a kid and the boss fired me. “I had an accident.”
Wally grinned. “You sure did, didn’t you?” Just as quickly the smile vanished. He made a waving gesture with the resume to cover all of Adrian’s appearance. “That why you left? Cause you got banged up a little?”
“A little? It’s more than a little, I’ve got a broken leg, a couple of—”
“Yeah, sure. I don’t care. What I’m asking is, can you do the job?”
“Since I’m overqualified.” Adrian said slowly. “I guess I can.”
“I guess you can,” Wally mimicked. “Of course you can. With this resume you could run this company and damn near any other except maybe Johns Manville. But why do you want to?” He leaned forward as if this was the answer he was most interested in.
Adrian thought of various answers: I want a job quickly, I’m new to the area, I’m desperate, but chose, “I’m interested in learning new things.”
“Bullshit.” Wally said it like he expected people to lie to him. It was neither accusatory nor angry, merely accepting. Sure you’ll lie, the word said, but I know that and I don’ t care. “Are you applying anyplace else?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I just moved here,” Adrian said. “I got here on Saturday from Cleveland.”
“Do you have relatives here?”
“No.”
“Friends? A girlfriend?”
Adrian shook his head twice.
“A boyfriend?” Wally said it as if he honestly didn’t care.
A bit stiffly Adrian said, “No, I don’t have a boyfriend.”
“What did you do to your face?”
At least he was off the resume. Adrian thought about telling him, just for a moment. He could say Well, I got into a fight with a gang on a bus; they were trying to rape this girl. And there’s this crazy reporter who calls me the Jesus Killer and the gang, the Lords—get it? Jesus and the Lords? They want to kill me now and every—and I mean every—wacko in the state of Ohio is calling me. So here I am ready to lake a basic engineering job and you’re right—I’m slumming. I have to because I’ll go completely nuts if I don t have a routine to settle into.
Instead he said, “I’ve got this letter,”
“From Jack Southerland,” Wally said. “Yeah; I know Jack. Bit of a prig.” He sat back in his chair and stroked his chin absently, leaving Adrian uncomfortably aware that, as an interview, this resembled Bingo night at the Alamo.
“Can you program?” Wally asked.
“I can do some C programming, and I’m studying Fortran on my own, and of course, I know ADA....”
“I mean PLC programming. Ladder logic, not that fancy shit.”
“Yes.” Adrian felt out of his depth. Was Wally considering him, or not? How could he tell? This meat axe approach had him off guard. “I’ve done, well...I’ve programmed, I mean...yes.” The sentence trailed off.
“When do you get off that thing?” He pointed to the crutch.
“About 6 weeks. Eight maybe.”
“You got a problem with travel to other states? For jobs I mean?”
“I just got here from Ohio.”
“So you did. You wanna know what the salary is? Or don’t, you care about that either?”
“Of course I’d like to know the salary.” Adrian was blowing the interview but it was going so fast it rattled him.
“Fifty-two thousand.” That was nearly sixty thousand a year lower than what Adrian had been earning at Techtronics. It was an insult and Wally knew it.
Pride and self-knowledge of his professional worth competed with desperation for a split second before panic won. He had to have a job. He couldn’t bear another week without work. “I could work for that,” Adrian said slowly.
Wally stared at him as if reading his mind. He chewed the insi
de of his lip. “You got banged up and you left Ohio. You gonna leave me in the lurch, too?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I d-don’t—” Adrian stammered.
“All right. You’re hired,” said Wally.
Adrian was astonished. This was the oddest hiring practice he’d ever seen. “Just like that?”
“Just like that. Can you start today?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Today,” Wally said, as if this was a normal way of doing business. “1can see you ‘re confused. Let me explain. I’m a man who makes decisions and I trust my own instincts, if you understand what I’m saying. So, you look like you know your stuff,” he gestured with the resume. “I like what I see, except maybe the fright show look,” He smiled briefly. “So I make you an offer. If you work out. I’m a clever businessman. If you don’t, I know it real soon and I fire your ass right out of here.”
“What are you hiring me as?” Adrian asked. From somewhere not far away a high speed drill began shrieking. It sounded like a mosquito on helium.
“Engineering, that’s what. I’ve got a project that’s behind schedule. I’m short engineers. You’ll be doing everything. Data sheets, submittals, a panel design.” He paused. “You ever do any panel design?”
“No.”
“Doesn’t matter, you’ll learn it. We’ve got our own fabrication shop. You tell them what to make, they make it. You ever do fab drawings?”
“No.”
“Doesn’t matter. Your job is to get it all to work.”
“I can do that.”
“I need you to start today.”
“I have a lot of things I need to do. I don’t have any furniture—”
“You can get your personal life together on your own time.” Wally sensed victory and moved in. “I need someone now.”
“I need a car. I’ve got doctor’s appointments, and telephone...” Adrian’s voice trailed off. This was so bizarre. “I can’t start now.”
“Fine.” Wally Clooner pushed harder. “If you don’t want this job, plenty of others who do. Make a decision and stop wasting my time.” His tone was harsh and, Adrian realized, intentional. Clooner knew he could easily accommodate Adrian. After all, he had no expectation of someone else walking in to fill the position today. For a moment Adrian thought of refusing. He should walk out, leave this low paying tyrant with his controls engineering job and do...what? There was something odd almost sinister happening here. He should get up and walk out.
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