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Pasadena, CA
If it were any other day, Rowland would not have been bothered by his inefficiency and distractions. His lunch bubbled audibly through the afternoon. There wasn't anything particularly wrong besides his mood, it had drooped following some particularly dissociated thought patterns during his lunch conversation with Kimbal. He had mostly forgotten the superficial details of the interaction, and now alone, was descending further into a philosophical vortex.
His work was in a parallel gyre.
Hours bled by imperceptibly, Rowland now finding his groove. The hum of waning work hours, although not at their height for the day, drummed on outside his cozy office. He let the noises and bodies drift by his door without recognition. Rowland had his back to the open door, sorting his most recent batch of inputs.
"...news this morning?"
Rowland's ears perked up, catching what he thought were passerby pleasantries.
"I think the Cogs are gonna make a run for it."
sports, ya, duh
Rowland returned dutifully to his task.
"Rowland?"
"Huh?" Rowland twisted, picking up a figure over his shoulder.
"I know you take your tasks seriously, but I am your boss."
"Mr. Truss, my mistake, I cherish my focus."
"You sports man, Rowland?"
"I was never much of an athlete."
"It's a spectator sport."
"Is there something you needed, Mr. Truss? I'm a bit behind."
"Yes, well, no, but I keep receiving 'updates' regarding your work performance. I was hoping I wouldn't need to get involved."
"I suppose that's on you." Rowland's impatience seeped out of his blunt dismissal.
Mr. Truss hardened professionally. "You have nearly free reign in this backwoods office, Rowland. I don't need to remind you how fortunate you are to have this position."
yes, how gracious of you to keep a peasant like me around.
Rowland's eyes drifted into a corner. Mr. Truss wasn't a bad boss, but he wasn't good at his job. Mr. Truss took his position for granted. It was no secret that he thought he had made it at middle management and would likely stay there until retirement.
"These reports are coming from one of your co-workers. I don't tolerate workplace drama, understood?"
"Drama is an interpersonal activity. My job doesn't involve people."
"Then you should have no problem keeping personal situations at home."
"Wilco!" Rowland tossed a fake half-smile and sarcastic thumbs up into the void.
Mr. Truss hung in the tenuous silence, attempting to process how his simple expectations had fell so swiftly apart.
"Good, yes. Good chat, Rowland. Carry on."
fucking tool
If it were a Friday, Rowland would have taken these interruptions as an excuse to leave some work un-done. With his boss now becoming aware of his existence, and the somehow continuing to pile tasks, he relegated to staying late.
eh, nothing to do tonight anyways.
Aleraco
"Mr. McCall, I'd like to remind you that my shift ends in 20 minutes. Do you require any assistance before I depart?"
Miles, bewildered, returned to this planet and glanced at the clock. "Sharon, you're amazing, enjoy your vacation."
"Thank you sir, best of luck."
"I'll... yes..." The end of his new contract taunted him. At this point, he was the document, and having exhausted his entire day, remembered that he would have to set up his new equipment if-when he signed the contract.
a walk, I'll risk being human for a few minutes.
Miles had a favorite floor for walking. He knew that the company knew he wasn't needed on that floor, but never needed to justify the break to managment. The decorative 58 placard met him on his favorite floor, the only one he knew of with an abundance of decorations. It was the brightest floor, and rarely had anyone working on it. Of anyplace in Aleraco, it felt the most free, if that was possible. Miles began his stroll. New workstations had been added, ones that he didn't quite understand. No screens, no keyboards, no workstation stuff, just floating pods. He liked the pods, they looked like spaceships, or aliens, or alien spaceships.
how did they get them to float???
Miles was never of an engineering mind, and was confused what creativity meant. To him, these installments were a manifestation of productivity, and if they arrived here, they were created, so he deduced that creativity was productivity, and the inverse too.
sure is strange that they rarely use their new designs.
That's what Miles liked about this floor, it seemed like a storage unit. A biological storage unit. It was scarcely the same when he visited, but he never saw the floor being altered in real time. There was almost never a soul on this floor, and of those who came, they were not interested in conversing. He could have studied the innovations, but instead used his visits as respite from his tasks, moments to let the mind wander.
Wandering felt safe on floor 58.
Mile's eyes softened, his gait lengthened, slowed.
is this what old age feels like? I bet I'm gonna be a chill old dude.
His discovery lingered on more trinkets. Miles stood, thoughtless but mindful; a standing meditaiton of sorts.
monks do walking meditations, maybe this is my version.
Miles smiled, but before he could enjoy it, the chill returned. He pulled up his head, snapping into tunnel vision. His eyes locked with the chilling inspiration, pupils dilated, sponging details. Tight dress, almost too tight to be professional, and too colorful to be Aleraco. A high school style zip up binder was clutched loosely between two spindly arms, decorated appropriately, if they were attending an Cosmic Divinity course (if that was even a thing). The details seemed to filter into his subconscious while his attention stayed fixed on what seemed to be multicolored eyes. Too odd to escape him was a single mallard, in flight, dangling from her left earlobe.
They both blinked, losing focus.
"Hi." Miles blurted as the wave of chills hung on every vertebra.
"Hi." Jo reacted. "You must work here, cool stuff."
"Ya, and uhhh, you clearly don't?"
"What gave it away?"
Miles nodded downward, widening his eyes when he reached her flat bottom hand woven slip-ons.
"Professionalism is in the personality, not the attire."
"I present, exhibit two." Miles swept his arms low, bowing with wide arms while he approached.
"I'll keep my personality, thanks."
"Ya, you toooaatallly belong here."
"It seems, on this floor, I do." Jo smirked. Miles stayed locked on her eyes, butterscotch streaks radiating, sparkling from a deep azure, as she peered dreamily around. "You, however, do not work on THIS floor. Am I right?"
Adam rolled childishly between them, riding his magic carpet, ergonomics on wheels. "Yooooo, check out this chair!"
Miles made an obvious blink, motioning to Adam's gleeful spin. "Exhibit number three. I presume you know each other."
Adam rocketed from the chair, swaying elliptically. He shoved an open hand awkwardly close, nearly poking Miles in the gut. "Adam Driver, no relation."
Miles grinned reflexively, infected by Adam's boyishness. He welcomed the goon, clasping one hand in strong grip, the other in an aggressive shoulder squeeze. "Steady, mah boaayy. Miles McCall."
Adam beamed back.
Miles logged the official Aleraco badge in his periphery, still attempting to locate a similar key-card on the eccentric woman impatiently shaking her head in the background. "So, a jolly group of misfits meet on floor 58. None belong, but all know that there is little probability of being granted access to THIS floor without diligent review."
"This isn't a game of clue." Jo scoffed.
"Pegged you for the fun one."
Adams Labrador expression bounced between them.
"A fun expert, Aleraco's brightest." Jo continued.
"You win, it's late, I'm intrigued. People don't chat on this floor. What are you doing here?"
"They let us stay after the meeting!" Adam blurted.
"Allocation management." Jo added.
"Finance? I can make time for this."
"Above your pay grade." Jo's eyebrows danced above receding lips.
"Didn't catch your name."
"She's Jo. Don't mind her, she caught the serious bug working with Thurgston."
Cogs turned noticeably behind Mile's eyes.
i know that name, but they don't need to know that.
"Adam—" Jo lost her composure.
"We're normally in Argentina, but Alera—" Adam's well styled hair detonated into frays as Jo's hand met the back of his head.
"Time to go, wonderful meeting you!" Jo up-pitched her goodbye through clenched teeth.
"HEyyy, I was... owww... could you—" Adam protested as he was dragged away.
Miles, unperturbed, watched the two shuffle off, comically bending the corner
thurgston, thurgston
An elevator bing rang from the hallway. Miles was reminded of his chills as they faded.
fuck thurgston, who was she...
Chesterfield st.
Sharif’s phone buzzed on her coffee table. That was rare these days, but she was even more irritated with interruptions now.
From her couch she poked her neck high to see Carol 🤗🥹😘🤞🤞 bannered across the screen
“Hiiii!” Sharif mustered the excitement from an unknown place.
“Sher, where have you been?”
“What…?”
“I’m kidding, how is the retired life?”
“I watch a lot of Lifetime.”
“Hey, I actually like bad acting and cliched heart throbs.”
“I know, I just couldn’t say RomComs.”
“How’s, what was her name, your new girl?”
“Gone.”
“Already.”
“It’s raw, can we not.”
The line went silent.
Carol breathed high into her chest. “I’m just checking in, you staying active?”
“No.”
“You know I hate giving advice, but…”
Sharif interrupted, “bullshit.”
“Maybe a trip, the leaves are changing. I’m sure the mountains miss you.”
“The mountains are harsh. Indifferent. They need no companionship. They are beautiful in their own right. They don’t need me.”
“I said miss, not need. I don’t need to tell you how beautiful you are.”
“Self aware beauty always degrades the value.”
“It’s hard to talk to you like this. I can do coffee tomorrow. What do you think?”
“Not sure when I’ll wake up.”
“I’ll be at Murpy’s all morning. Open invite. I hope to see you there.”
Sharif’s eyes drifted downward in an emptiness that could be heard.
“Sher, I love you.”
“Love you too. Bye.”
The freedom of an empty other line brought Sharif to tears. She relented, allowing the warmth to fill her cheeks. The sob was heavier than her too-recent goodbye. She suspected the grief wasn’t shared, at least not outwardly. Sharif always fell for the stoic types, the aloof, the hardened. Somehow, she believed she had the gift to penetrate the hard exterior. It was an unconscious challenge, a curse of sorts, something that haunted the ends, but never stayed obvious enough to avoid beginnings. She wanted to pick up the phone already, but she knew better. She wasn’t a lovesick kid anymore.
maybe I need some hardening. at this point i hope she doesn’t call, i know what this process is like. it will be faster this way.
She dug through a record collection, grabbing her fluffiest blanket and a notebook, just in case. It was too early to write about it, they would all be love notes, but she wanted it nearby for comfort. Dusk dragged on like days. Transition hours held an ominous significance in Sharif’s world. Times of the timeless.
oh, i know
Sharif tossed the blanket aside and unearthed old work records. The pile was shuffled between bank statements and emails. She had printed some correspondence before she lost access to her work email. There was something missing from the severance, not in terms of money but in a sense of closure.
ugh, no more themes, i’m not looking for life lessons tonight.
Nothing wrong with the contract, every project was accounted for, even the insignificant ones. Strange, nobody is this tidy.
She had sold her shares to a new partner who, unlike any of the other C suite or founders, had an iron CV.
this person just doesn’t fit
Sharif had a weird sense about the new executive, an unexpressed sense. She was ops, she didn’t make organizational decisions. She was too close to the founders personally, deliberately avoiding seeding doubt in their new acquisition, especially with the results which followed.
But the results seemed to line up perfectly for her replacement. In a Wellness company, outsourcing committed warm bodies to a tech firm didn’t feel revolutionary, it felt sleezy. Some of those emails didn’t even seem like people. So hard to tell with text correspondence.
maybe trusting my feels is causing more trouble than good.
The obsession was a good distraction. Sharif knew she couldn’t go back. The contract was air-tight, and she benefited too much from the exit.
too much…
Sharif didn’t like conspiracies. It wasn’t like she was a threat. She kept her head in the field at work, and didn’t put her opinion where it wasn’t asked. If anybody, she was an easy person to keep.
maybe just for the shares?
Sharif had negotiated future shares in the company for a startup pay cut. She had recently had a good out from a wrongful termination and barely had a family. Barely had a family she cared to interact with. It didn’t much seem that the company had public value. Sharif didn’t care. The founders were well intentioned, young and energetic. She met them at a friend’s wedding, a couple with rose colored glasses and no shame. The dance floor knew who they were.
The paper shuffling kept Sharif busy. Time blended. Pretending to be a sleuth was a fun accompaniment to her eclectic horror vinyls.
Darkness approached.