Howdy! Glad you somehow found me here. This is a novel I’m writing. Until it’s edited you’ll be able to read it for FREE! I’m not advertising, or sending it to my readership, but if you want to share with someone you think will enjoy it, I won’t try to stop you.
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Pasadena, CA
Rowland was chronically late. Nobody seemed to notice. Well, they knew, they noticed, they didn’t care. He wasn’t a time critical employee, as he had rationalized and proven. He shows up, work gets done, he leaves. He doesn’t stay unnecessarily late, nor does he count the minutes and sneak out early.
Rowland does his job.
Every performance review would say the same thing. Nothing was expected of him. He had considered that if the multinational conglomerate did finally get hit for its mis-dealings, he would be one of the first to be laid off. It didn’t bother him. Not much did. Life was so mundane, he was waiting for a kick in the ass. Rowland appreciated cosmic surprise, and welcomed new direction.
“You’re late.”
Rowland spun nonchalantly. “For what?”
His accuser was taken off guard. “Are you always this late?”
“No... that would make me on time, wouldn’t it?”
“Consistency doesn't make it ok. Are you are ever on time?”
“Don't get me started on time” Rowland rolled his eyes, noticing who he was talking to--another nobody in wide open nowhere, lacking important attire. His desk had a nametag: Rory.
“I figured they didn’t need my report, but whatever gets results.” Rory’s chin rose in self approval.
“You keep up the hard work, this company would be nothing without guys like you!”. Rowland paused, noting more un-notable trinkets adorning the open concept cubicle. He flicked at the name plate. “Rory.”
Rory was silent. He glared menacingly.
“You have a roaring day now!” Rowland scampered off to his closet office. There were piles already growing for him, yesterday's already coded and filed. He wasn’t an organized person, but the system was simple and he could daydream while completing his tasks.
It was a sort of meditation for him, where he could disappear into wild ideas and fathom endless possibilities—his own uninterrupted world—sorting who knows what for who knows who. It wasn’t even clear who profited from Aleraco. What did they do? Whatever the next publicity stunt was. It must be their largest division. Rowland was curious, but he knew any real digging would either uncover reasons to quit, or make him too distracted to finish his job lazily. It was important he not expend energy at his job, and not place too high significance in it. He liked going undetected about his business. No dramas, no accusations, nobody prying into his weird little life.
“Do you ever get lost in here?” Kimbal, Rowland’s only work friend poked, standing in the doorway.
“Too small to get lost.” Rowland stayed focused.
“You seem lost most days.”
“Is this about my tardiness?” The Rory conversation lingered.
“Huh?”
“Nevermind.”
“Did you see the new office they are building?” Kimbal rose in excitement.
“No.” Rowland made no attempt to show interest.
“It’s supposed to be the future of workforce development. Efficiency baked in. Focus chambers and interlink systems, and some really trekkie kind of stuff.”
“You know I don’t care.” A stoic glare didn't push away Kimbal. He was accustomed to it.
“You’ll care when you see it. It’s got this matrix like vibe, like they are going to suck our human life force to propel the machine.”
“This company feels more and more animatronic every day. Who even runs this place?”
“Shhhh, they are listening. The productivity overlords will not tolerate your petulance.”
“The overlords know exactly how much rebellion is necessary to keep us believing that we still have free will.”
“Damn, that’s hardcore.” Kimbal shrinked
“Yeah… well… I’ll cya at lunch.”
“K”
As Kimbal left, Rowland drifted back into his mental dungeon.
sometimes life feels like it’s in fast motion, like a time lapse camera with me in the center doing simple tasks, and all the buzzing little bees fly through the frame, some lingering, some bliping in and out like they were never there. it’s sad to think that all the commotion, regardless of duration or intensity, is meaningless
Aleraco
B1 placards were the only decoration on a near empty "first" floor. They called it the first floor because if anyone wanted to visit Aleraco, they would have to be onboarded rigorously. The steely, windowless, inhuman walls were even colder in appearance than touch. To a lay person, the labyrinth of corridors seemed unnecessary. To a veteran of business psychology, it presented as poor design.
A wake of overplump executives were being briefed by a too-young unsuited energizer bunny. In their universe, they would be circling this kind of poor fella, waiting for a meal. But this wasn't hunting territory, the rules were different here, rules made and broken by innovators the world will never know. Glad-handing and sales tactics were met by chamelonic mirroring. To a proud vulture capitalist, Alerco strategies were patronizing. To anyone clever enough to sense the deliberate nature of every tactic, they would know too late, already out-gunned and being drawn in for slaughter.
"These don't seem like security measures..." A similarly too-young assistant whispered in a too-old, too-fat, too-placated ear. "There aren't even cameras down here."
An intense, condescending glare spring loaded as the veteran mogul ratcheted his head. "Did I hire a security detail?"
"No sir." Jo straightened from her snaked hiss into an obedient marionette. Jo knew how to play the part, though her shrewdness seemed to sneak out when her spidey sense tingled.
"Let me remind you—"
"Just through here for badging. I know you are a busy busy bunch. Not to worry, your appointments are on schedule, you will be detail briefed on your itineraries by Orella."
"This is wild." Adam caught up to Jo, dittoing the whisper that had just been shut down by her boss. "I heard rumors about this place, but words can't really capture how it feels."
"There is no feeling in this dungeon." Jo's eyeballs darted sideways, sending shivers through Adam.
"Heh... heh... ya"
Adam was innocent in the way that rich kids are, an ignorant kind of way. He was a "good kid" and knew it, but that ignorance was more endearing than it was offensive. Jo could smell that he didn't care about his job and was more excited to see her than to see a paycheck. Adam wasn't sly about his advances. Jo wasn't cruel about it. In a different context, his boyishness was attractive. But this wasn't a soccer club. The two assistants were witnessing the dealings of faceless influence, the kind of dealings you can't commiserate over a light beer and casual hookup.
bummer... he's super cute
Jo allowed the silence to drag on Adam's dimply nervous smile. She waited for him to begin slunking away. Reaching back blindly she pinched his midsection, tickling an embarrassed smile out of him.
"Phew, still human..." Jo rounded her chin up and back, eyes trailing a steady glide. Crimson curls paraded away from her face. She thew him a friendly wink, a wink that said friendship, nothing else.
Adam laughed in relief.
Los Angeles, CA
1115
Steady scarlet digits filled the edges of a box clock above the register. Behind the counter was a—is he heavyset or muscular?—man with a lazy shave and hair sprouting from his 2 button pullover tee.
Maybe it’s the shirt, or the Eastern European haircut. He could definitely kick my ass regardless.
“Coffee, and the Powerball.”
“Choose.” The cashier’s finger bounced randomly on the see-through counter.
“Whatever, it doesn’t matter.”
The hairy cashier grunted as he poked numbers into his machine. The ticket/receipt spun on the tabletop as he turned to fill crinkly styrofoam with—cold? or one day old warm—brown liquid.
i’m not sure which is worse
The sun was blinding as a slender 30 something clunked out the door. A ring followed him.
i guess you would call that a door-bell too. that one actually looks like a bell, not just a little button with wire and a chime at the end, floating, taunting like a whimsical spirit, about the house to reverberate through every room.
do people still use door bells? i wonder what is more annoying: the honking and texting or a real knock. simple innovations are being taken over by handheld complexity.
“I knew I should have eaten earlier, all I see is taco stands.” Bert said to himself. He was his typical slow this day, despite wrenching back his 4th shitty coffee. He wouldn’t spend time or money on that habit, or else he wouldn’t have discretionary funds to feed his lottery addiction. He tossed the receipt on this dash as he slunked into the hatchback and fumbled with a CD collection.
things like cd players don’t break, unless you’re really mean to them
azz, some lukewarm caffeine, and mediocre attitude
whhhhatever, gotta start the day some type of way
After some sluggish churning and a belt squeal the Honda fired and hummed low. Bert meandered out of the lot, turning left on an empty street.
laws only count when there’s others around
1047 flickered a dim yellow-brown on Bert’s radio.
“Wow, I’m actually early.”
A memory flashed of some boss some too many years past hassling Bert about timeliness, when Bert seemed to be young enough to impress time upon.
time is irreparably lost in youth
"If you’re on time, you’re late!"
what does that mean..?
if you’re on time, you’re efficient and lucky. those are probably the two best things to be. every other attribute is a crapshoot
that guy needed to shave his head, nobody looks good with crispy whisps that are in danger of becoming one with the wind
Bert lit a cigarette. He pondered how long he could maintain that habit until the powers that be forced him to chew those stupid mint strips instead.
nicotine isn’t even the reason I like smoking
It was a cool afternoon, despite the cloudless sky. An air of stillness hung on the leaves, unswaying, unflittering. Soaking in the peaceful afternoon. Bert decided to do the same despite his anxious mind wandering to his phone to check the time every few minutes. He wasn’t used to waiting, despite convincing himself he was “good” at it.
in another life I could have been a monk, but mildly addicted video editor will do for this lifetime
A car puttered by. He didn’t know who he was waiting for. Besides the distant hum of a freeway there was no life to note. Bert lit another.
1103
well, now I wish I was the late one. why am I even doing this…?
Another car. Not the one he was waiting for. Time expanded, Bert became aware of his neuroses.
i wasn’t prepared to meet with myself before this obligation…
1109
A purple—is that purple, pimp sparkle purple, on a car…?—SUV rolled into the lot. A tall, domineering figure lightly egressed. Hair: fake. Eyelashes: could be seen from the moon. Pant suit: fashionable, somehow. Handbag: not annoying.
how is she pulling off this absurd get up?
Bert’s stained slacks and wrinkled button-down betrayed his lazy cheapness at the coin laundry.
i can’t even spare 30 minutes to properly fold an organize clothes, how do these people do it?
“Hey, hi, excuse me. I’m looking for a, hmm, ya, a… Bart?”
Bert had shifted his attention, relegating to the fact that he was here to stay, purgatory on this plane. His thoughts drifted louder than the clicking heels and clanking wrist rings.
“Eeexcaahuuse me! I’m looking for somebody.”
“Not a lot of sombodies here. I’m definitely not.”
“So you’re not Bart.”
shit.
“Bert, with an E.”
“Oh, goodie!”. The sizable figure clapped childishly and scrunched her face into—is that a smile?—one of those unnatural smushed expressions, maybe to keep from getting face wrinkles.
Bert’s despondency did not seem to bother the personality in front of him.
“You drive a purple car.” Bert said plainly.
“Isn’t it fab!”
Bert didn't blink.
“Anyways, I know this is short notice, but I really need your help. Amy said you were a magician.”
“Magicians aren’t really the helpful types, they’re better at distraction and illusion.”
"Oh staahhp!" Long decorated nails flailed limply, excessively.
“Gladly.” Bert reached into his shirt pocket. “Do you mind?” He motioned to his pack of Camel crushes. He liked the mint option, but rarely crumbled the filter to access the added tingle.
“If you’ll share.” The woman winked.
Bert noded, cigarette already hanging from his lips. He held the open pack forward, waiting for his companion. She flipped her hair and leaned forward. Bert lit hers, then his, taking a long drag.
After a dainty puff to get her ember crackling, the woman lifted the cigarette, pointing two fingers skyward, elbow tucked close to her wide hips.
it’s a fashion accessory to her.
“So I have this… Guy. I’m seeing a guy, and like, I don’t know what he does for work. Isn't that weird? He keeps telling me that he works at a publishing house, like he prints books, but I don’t know, something doesn’t seem right. I think he’s cheating.”
great.
More chatter ensued. Bert returned to his thoughts, a grumble emerging from his empty stomach. He didn’t feel hungry. She continued while Bert planned his evening, waiting for an important detail to surface. He listened, at most, to every fifth word.
“So all I need is for you to look up this company and see if he works there.” She handed him a business card, presumably of the man in question. Bert didn’t ask.
“How is this urgent.” Bert asserted, as if not a question, but an assessment.
The moment froze, Bert didn't flinch. A chameleon appeared before him. The demeanor, the phraseology, the tone. It was as if he had prodded too far, and whatever was behind the shell of acrylic nails and hair extensions was seeping out.
“I appreciate your candor.” The woman’s eyes stiffened. “I didn’t expect you would be of much real help.”
“Everyone wears a disguise.”
“Was mine so obvious?”
“I think the field is still level.”
“What do you need to know?”
“Look, I’ll do a favor for Amy. I owe her more than that. I don’t really care how you know her, or who you really are. I’m getting the sense that we’ll be reaching beyond childhood favors.” Bert took a final drag from his knub of a cigarette and let it flicker on the bounce before stomping it out. “Garbage in, garbage out.”
“You haven’t answered my question.”
“Suspected affiliations, that’s all.” Bert turned towards his car. “Last known location and a current picture will speed things up.” Bert slid low into his 3-door beater. “You probably know where to find me already. I’ll be waiting.” He rolled past the purple SUV, driver standing beside it, now aggressively smoking the bummed cigarette. He took no extra time than a final glance. His new liaison was tapping her foot confidently, watching him drive away.
uFIT, Washington D.C.
20 seconds into his stationary bike warm-up, Miles recounted his outburst. The scene ran and reran in double-time, as if he was a detective looking for the pivotal detail. His increased pedaling pace disguised the heat growing in his lower abdomen, sweat gathering in all the nervous places. If he was playing close to the chest before, that was over.
shit, was that a play by management?
shitshitshit, maybe there isn't even an assignment.
fuck. that contract being a ruse actually makes more sense than anything. bastards, what kind of mental fuckery is this?
If it was a game of wit, or any game for that matter, Miles knew he couldn't win. He had taken measures to distance himself from the company; he didn't use their gym, food courts, or other premium lock-you-in features that had become commonplace by corporate juggernauts like Aleraco. Amidst all that copycat style, there was something notably different about this company in that, nobody could quite put their finger on what made them different. Their unique feature was that they were... unexplainably unique.
That eerie anomalistic aura made Aleraco equally intriguing and terrifying. The balance was being tested today.
Miles knew the other players, he had been scouted by the top echelon his whole adult life. Aleraco was in the plan, he needed to have a behind closed doors understanding, and was too willing to sacrifice for it. He knew, that they knew, everything...
Until today, Miles had overlooked that he was a pawn in their scheme too, and pride had him in an emotional stranglehold.
hubris, the folly of man, how trite...
Miles was promptly off the stationary bike as his timer expired. His extended session would include some of the more exhausting exercises in his arsenal. This was not a strength training circuit, but rather a mental gauntlet designed to subdue him for the second half of the day.
Miles needed to be a machine today. He avoided checking the time, locking into the work ahead of him.
With his perception tuned, Miles returned to his locker for a routine swap. A chill ran down his spine, a very human, very ill timed chill. Details lit up in every direction. The lack of other humanly presence chilled him most. He checked his watch.
1254
prime post lunch check in, this place should be a zoo
didn't eat, foolish
Miles texted Sharon on his standard work mobile: "Need a pot on."
Dots blipped as she saw the message. "Expect a cup on your desk."
what a badass, how is she always there?
Shaking off the spinal alarms which violated his focus, Miles swept up his prepared lunch. Before he could process the spinal event he was at his desk sipping coffee and nibbling at his lunch. There was a lingering queasiness—rom the gym or the contract or the... the everything—impossible to pinpoint. Miles forced the calories upon himself knowing a blood sugar crisis, now, could alter his life forever.
He returned to the document with precision, combing through as if he hadn't already. He knew there wouldn't be a mistake, a loop-hole, or any sort of detail to exploit. This pass was for memorization. He needed any que when he accepted the assignment, and this contract held the only accessible information in the universe.
A focused task and lack of alternatives sharpened Miles in the way he was most comfortable. The queasiness faded.