Flyover City! A Novel (with Superheroes)

30. Back to Work

This morning was a historic occasion in my life; maybe not the sort of thing they keep a card for at the Hallmark store (though if they do, I'm sure I've got one from my mom waiting in my mailbox at home) - but historic, nonetheless. For once, I was actually looking forward to coming back in to work, for a return to normalcy, devoid of any turbulence: an uninterrupted eight-and-a-half hours that I could navigate entirely on autopilot.

Instead, I got a fleet of trucks parked outside the office, and a scene of sheer, unbridled cluster-fuckery in the front lobby. Construction crews were loading huge boxes of equipment through the front entrance, moving right past the security desk, paying us 9-to-fivers all the attention that a worker bee gives to a common house fly - while we, on the other hand, were subjected to waiting in line in order to "sign in" - but only after our badges were inspected by a real live human being.

At least, I think they're human. Judging by the stoic glares, the crisp, no-nonsense uniforms, and the way they just stood there, like they were struggling to maintain their balance under the weight of their hulking shoulders - they could've been androids, for all I know. I wonder what they did with Leroy, the elderly guard who used to take time out from his rounds to tell dirty jokes to all the women on staff.

My badge thoroughly scrutinized, I was instructed, along with my fellow phone-jockeys, to wait outside an unmarked door beyond the service elevator, where we were left to exchange nervous looks, and theories about layoffs and severance packages, until we were called in, one by one.

When the list of names had dwindled down to the ass-end of the alphabet, a stocky woman poked her head from behind the door. She raised her eyebrows at me, causing the mullet-perm atop her head to slide back an inch or so on her skull. "Wyatt, Joel" -- a statement as opposed to a question, letting me know I shouldn't expect much in the way of interpersonal communication.

"Badge, please," she said when the heavy door shut behind me. She glanced at it for only a few seconds, before tossing it unceremoniously into a waste basket. "Congratulations, Joel. It looks like you'll be continuing your employment here at Vaig Communications. Come with me..." She walked through a door behind her desk, leading down an unfinished hallway.

"Wait, where are we going?" I asked, with no other choice but to follow her.

"New security precautions," she said. She stopped short at the room she was about to enter to nod to yet another door at the end of the hall. "Unless you'd like to go and discuss 'outplacement opportunities' with HR..."

If the whole scenario hadn't just dropped out of the sky, first thing on a cold Monday morning, I might have had the presence of mind to do the old Jack Benny bit: hand-on-chin -- 'I'm thinking, I'm thinking'. She's probably not the type to appreciate classic comedy, anyway.

Sitting at the center of the room was what looked like an optometrist's exam chair. The Mullet stepped behind a console and said "I'll be mapping your retina this morning. New security provisions, since there's going to be so many new people moving in and out of the building for the next few weeks. Go ahead and have a seat, please."

My questions were interrupted by a steel mask, fitting itself automatically over my eyes. From somewhere deep beneath our feet, the earth let out a low moan. Construction on the Hypercollider had begun.

-----------

I arrived at my desk a half hour later, with a packet outlining our new policies and procedures under my arm. Otherwise, the unspoken expectation was that we'd all get right to work, just like it was any other day. In spite of the doubled call volume. In spite of the newly abandoned cubicles, with their action figures and rosary beads and other fetishes gathering dust, looking for all the world like the roadside shrines along the highway after a fatal car accident. Gwen stayed at her apartment last night, so the first time I saw her was when she passed by me halfway through my first call, acknowledging me with a resigned shrug. Tim wouldn't even look in my direction. Truth be told, I was just happy to see them there at all. Yeah, Tim, too.

When my lunch hour rolled around I couldn't find either one of them. I didn't have time to go shopping over the weekend, so I hovered around the break room, contemplating whether to swipe a yogurt or frost bitten Hot Pocket from the fridge. I decided not to risk it, in case it had been rigged with a retinal scanner.

With only 45 minutes worth of break remaining, I made a decision: I needed to take care of some unfinished business.

---------

Of course I tried to call Kyle on Sunday. Tried and failed. I figured I'd be harder to ignore if I was pounding on his front door. When I rode up the alley to his apartment, he was standing outside - loading a pile of boxes from the ground into an open U-Haul. 

"Hey, what's up, you get a new place?" I asked, knowing full well what his answer would be.

He looked at me like I was there to deliver a fresh, piping hot case of herpes. "I was stupid, Joel," he said, shoving a box to the back of the truck, "I thought I could start over with at least the identity I was born with. It was a dumb mistake." He lowered his voice, "I called the Agency this morning to help me with relocation. Day after tomorrow, I'm outta here."

Watching him there, in his baseball cap and flip flops, it was hard to work up a passionate argument. In the history of mankind, no one - and certainly no man - has ever shown any sign of heroism while wearing flip flops. "So that's it, then? You're just gonna change your name, and become somebody else?"

"Why not? It worked for Spliff..."

"You're gonna turn your back - again, when it's clear that there's something big going down, right now, here in Denver. And you think that's gonna make all your problems just disappear."

"Oh, trust me, I'm well aware that's not gonna happen," he said, cutting me off, "whether or not I'm spending my nights prowling the rooftops in spandex and a utility belt. I'm done. I just wanna ride my bike, pull some tags, make some deliveries, and live my life. Finally. And, Joel... seriously? I hardly think you're in a position to preach to me about doing anything other than that."

He slammed down the door to the truck and stormed into his apartment - neglecting to invite me in.

I stood around for a minute, trying to look like I belonged there to anyone who happened to see me out their window. That's when I noticed a box sitting alongside the dumpster, filled with the sort of flotsam that gets thrown aside during a move; old CD's, magazines. I rifled through and grabbed a couple things that looked interesting. It's not like he'll miss them, anyway.

I got back to work twenty minutes late, leaving me with only two remaining "strikes", according to the new attendance policy. Great.