Breaktime Tales

The Fate of Progress

I watch the train roll by the station every morning. The sun rises and kisses the valley of dust and waves of grass below it. In the distance, smoke rises into the heavens and joins the clouds. Explosives for the mining operations. A few others watch the train with me, but they carry themselves away to whatever job they have in the suburb behind me. I turn and follow the workers into the island town of Reno. It is not much, but for a young switchboard manager, it will do. Perhaps I will even find a darling to call mine and settle down and watch the train together. Maybe even live long enough to see an airplane up close.

As I walk, look up and see dangling above me new copper lines the telephone company put in. Bell himself would have been impressed by the engineering feat it took to strap and hook these lines. The logistics office did well. The budding offices of the main drag all have these wires. I push myself away from the busy crowd, toward the dwellings. The wires stop. I continue to walk and dodge oncoming foot traffic, running into a group of fruit vendors. They implore me to purchase "pristine" oranges. I look at the fruit and count three brown spots, hardly pristine. I push past these salesmen and continue my way to the end of the main drag.

I approach my haven, straight across the town from the train station. A switchboard station sits just off the avenue, snuggly fit between two businesses. I check my gold pocket watch. The gold blasts rays to rival the sun, as it reads: "8:04." I am late for my first day. I pick up my pace, feeling the wind through my slicked hair. I approach the green door of the switchboard facility and see a fat cat standing just outside.

"You must be Alexander, right on time I see. I am Jim, the man you will be replacing." The portly man points his sausage finger at my face, "nice handlebar, son."

"Thank you, sir."

Jim pats his head and adjusts his leather suspenders, as I continue to stare at him.

"Is there something wrong, Alex?"

"I'm four minutes late, sir. I apologize. It is unprofessional." Jim and I pause and continue to stare at each other. Like a volcano, Big Jim's face grows redder. He finally gives in and throws his hands up and starts laughing. His laugh slowly descends into a cough. Jim frantically pulls out a white handkerchief and coughs into it, before throwing it to the arid ground.

"Oh you're serious, aren't you, Alex," he says, collecting himself.

"Yessir, I apologize. It won't happen again."

Big Jim wraps his ribeye hand around my slender build and pulls me to the front door.

"Son, there are two things you need to know when you are the manager of this switchboard station. One, you never have to worry about being late, that is for help."

Big Jim opens the loud, opera-singing door. There, inside the musty building, is a large room, with switchboards on the wall. Ladies and some men dance around them like they are playing some sort of game. A call will come in and they will plug a cable into another outlet and boom, you are communicating with someone across the region or even state lines. It's all remarkable engineering that flies over my head.

"It's marvelous, isn't it," Big Jim chuffs.

"Yessir."

"Just think about all the money we are making. Speaking of which, I need you in my office when you are done exploring. Just need to have you sign a contract, then she's all yours."

Big Jim walks to the end of the sweaty, musty room. A few minutes later, among the chaos, I hear him sigh– he has found his chair. I walk over to the switchboard workers and observe them plug and play with the new technology. The door behind me groans out and an old fellow strolls in. He is dressed formally like he is attending a ball. His face is just as red as Jim's. His fingernails are dirty and bruised at the tips. I walk over to him and stick my hand out promptly.