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The Former Things

By Allen Steadham

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THE STORM

It would have to be raining on my first day of work, wouldn’t it? THOOM! The window glass rattles at thunder that could wake the dead. My mouth is dry like a desert; my tongue feels as rough as sand; and there’s a dull throbbing in my head. I figure I probably snored again. Water bursts against my bedroom window. It must be really coming down in waves outside. I sit up and check the weather app on my phone. Like I figured, the county is under a severe thunderstorm warning.

“Well, that’s encouraging,” I gripe. Even so, I’m grateful it’s not worse, like a tornado warning.

I force myself to stand up, only to stumble into the bathroom. I wait for the water to get truly cold before I dip my hands into it and splash it on my face. That shocks me awake even more. I follow it up with a quick, hot shower that invigorates me to full consciousness. Revitalized, I then eradicate the presence of overnight grime buildup on my teeth. As a final touch for my cleaning regimen, I swish around a shot of sharp-tasting mouthwash for half a minute.

Still barefoot, I cross the soft bedroom carpet, enter my closet, and flick on the light switch. It only takes a minute to get dressed in the clothes I set out last night. I like the crisp feel of my dress shirt over my undershirt, the reassuring touch of its collar around my neck. A glance in the mirror convinces me that navy blue is a good match with my black slacks and dress shoes. I considered adding a tie, but that wouldn’t be “business casual.” I make a few combing tweaks to my hair and smile at myself. Now, I look ready to go to work.

Out of habit, I check on Sparky before I leave. He’s my imaginary Cocker Spaniel. I know he’s not real, but I can’t afford the pet fees or the effort to take care of an actual animal. Pretending I have a fun and scruffy little buddy helps ease a bit of my loneliness. I glance at the metal food and water bowls in the kitchen next to the pantry. Each night, I take comfort from the idea of this happy, golden-furred guy sleeping at the foot of my bed.

I lean over and act like I’m scratching Sparky behind his ears for a few seconds. I imagine his brown eyes brightening with joy as he leans into it. “That’s my boy, Sparky!” I tell him. “Keep the place safe while I’m gone, okay?” I envision him barking in response and smile at the thought.

I just wish I didn’t have to walk through this monsoon to get to work, even though Prosaic Industries is only a block and a half away. I secure my black trench coat and grab the umbrella on the way out of my apartment.

As soon as I’m outside, the frigid wind and rain slam into me. I wipe away some of the water that blew into my eyes. I realize my poor umbrella won’t last two seconds in this mess. I keep it closed and make it around the corner to find warm and dry refuge inside Greenbacks Coffee. As I stand in line, I verify the time on my phone. Cool, I’m running a half-hour early.

“What can I get you?” the short, blonde barista asks, shining a smile that contrasts sharply with this weather. She looks younger than me.
“A smoked bacon and egg sandwich, please.” “Anything to drink with that?” she adds. “Yes,” I reply. “A medium caramel macchiato with an extra shot of espresso. No sense in being hungry or sleepy this morning, right?”
“Absolutely!” she beams. How much coffee has she already had? I wonder.

. . .

At a quarter ‘til eight, I practically swim up to the local office of Prosaic Industries. This powerhouse storm isn’t showing any signs of weakening. The lightning is near-constant, making me wince occasionally. As I enter the building, I see a handful of people in the brightly lit lobby near the front windows. They’re probably talking about how bad the weather is. They sound muffled, huddled together as they are. They’re also all as drenched as me. The drumbeat of raindrops against the windows taps away against the glass.

My phone’s weather app demands my attention with a shrill beep. Great, we’re in a tornado watch now, I think. Just my luck. Shrugging off my concern, I focus on my job instead. I see the elevator mere feet away, but I can’t risk using it. What if the power goes out? I’d be stuck in there. Then again, if we lose power, how will we do our jobs? I sigh. You’re thinking too much, Sean. Focus. Let the coffee kick in. Just then, I spot the stairs. I grip the wooden rail tightly as I ascend the slippery steps toward my work area on the second floor. Opening the wooden door to the Call Center, I’m relieved to see carpeted floor and several dozen people already working. There are a few coat racks near the entrance, and I’m happy to hang mine up to dry on one of them.

“Good morning, Mr. Winter!” A bright and cheery female voice pierces through a busy chorus of my fellow employees. “Are you ready to start helping our needy customers?”

I recognize my supervisor, Jessica McCormick, as she walks toward me. I think she’s in her thirties. Her lips are smiling, but her amber-eyed gaze is no-nonsense. She projects kindness and confidence, along with an air of warning. Combined with her imposing stature, it makes me hope I never disappoint her. She’s wearing a wine-colored pantsuit with a white blouse. It compliments her hazelnut skin and dark, braided hair.

“Yes, ma’am,” I say, returning her smile.
“How about you call me Jessica, and I’ll call you Sean?”
“Sure, Jessica.”

Satisfied, she leads me over to the cubicle area. I think the whole Greenbacks Coffee building would fit into this room. It’s a full call center, immersed in more bright lighting and filled with dozens of desk areas separated by half-partitions. Each wall has a number of widescreen monitors. Most of them display call queue information. A few show varied pictures of perfect-looking Prosaic Industries “employees” at their desks and overlay them with encouraging company slogans like, “Our customers are like family to us” and “All problems have solutions. Do your best to provide them.” I’m inspired to see that my decidedly average-looking coworkers sound pleasant as they talk to customers while operating their computers. They look like they’re taking their jobs seriously.

I’m pleased with how dry my shirt is. I put my hands in my coat pockets and pull my arms closer to combat the chill in here. That doesn’t do anything for my drenched hair and lower half. I hope I don’t get sick. Jessica stops next to a husky man with short, curly, blond hair. He looks a few years older than I. The nameplate on his cubicle reads “Keith Farris.” Jessica waits for him to complete the call he’s on. Then he maneuvers his mouse and clicks something on screen.

“There, I’m out of the queue now,” he says, rolling his office chair to fully face me and Jessica. He seems a bit stressed but forces a smile. “What’s up, boss?”
“Keith, this is Sean Winter,” Jessica answers. “He just started, and I’d like him to train with you today.”
He nods, standing up before he offers me his hand. “Welcome aboard, Sean.”
Accepting with a firm shake, I reply, “Thanks,” and then let go.
Jessica puts one hand on my shoulder. She motions toward Keith with the other as he sits back down. “Keith’s been here a few years, and he’s my best trainer,” she says. “I’ll check in on you later, okay?” “Thanks, Jessica.”
With that, she leaves, and Keith turns his attention to me. “We use Gzelle desktops running the latest Pane operating system,” Keith tells me. “But Prosaic makes its own ticketing software. Have you worked with ticketing systems before?”
“No,” I reply honestly. “But I’m pretty comfortable with computers, and I learn quickly.”
“Okay,” he says, relieved. “You should do fine then. Let me take you through the basics.”

After Keith demonstrates how to edit an existing ticket, he lets me listen in on a few calls so I can watch him make tickets from scratch. His voice is warm but raspy, and his demeanor is very professional. “I’m sorry to hear your services are out, sir,” Keith says to a customer. “Let me take a look at your account. Can you please confirm your phone number and address? Thank you. Well, it looks like your payment was due yesterday. Yes, sir.”

Keith is surprisingly quiet as the customer begins to curse him out, slightly grimacing only for a moment. “Now, sir, we can turn your services back on,” Keith assures him. “If you can make that payment now, I’ll take care of everything. That’s right. I can restore service in less than a minute, once we receive payment.”

The customer ends up complying, and he restores his service. I’m impressed that Keith never lost control of the conversation.

Thirty minutes later, a tremendous boom overhead makes a lot of us look skyward. A second later, the lights flicker and then fail altogether. The computer screens blink out next. I hear several people gasp in response while others begin to murmur and complain. I have no clue what to say, and apparently, neither does Keith.

This shouldn’t be scary to me. I’ve been in power outages before. But there’s something different about this time. I have a sinking feeling in my stomach, like something bad is about to happen. I clench my fists at my sides: was the building struck by lightning? Are we safe? Could things get worse? A sense of dread builds in my chest, constricting me slowly.

“It’s all right,” I hear Jessica’s voice resound above the commotion. “The generator should kick in soon!”

I follow the voice to where she is on the other side of the room, her face illuminated by the flashlight she’s holding. I hear a whirring sound and a few clicks, but it stops. The power isn’t coming back, at least not right away. Jessica mutters a curse. Then she sighs and takes in a breath.

“Everyone, stay calm,” she continues. “I’ll see what I can do about the power. Just stay put. This is the safest place any of us could be right now.”

She’s right. There are no windows in the call center area. We’re literally in the middle of the building. It would take something worse than rain and lightning to threaten us.

Nervous, I stand up and peer around. I can see small lights from people’s phone screens. The thunder continues to threaten overhead. My coworkers mostly look like silhouettes, and their unease is palpable, like another presence in the room.

I startle as a strong hand grips my shoulder.

“Sorry about that,” Keith says. “I just wanted to see if you’re all right.”

Am I okay? My whole body is rigid like a statue. When I touch my arm, it’s ice cold. I decide to sit back down. Keith does, too.

“I guess I’m more spooked than I thought.” My voice is surprisingly shaky.
“Probably not the best experience to have on your first day,” Keith sympathizes. “Don’t worry. This happened last year, too.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. The engineers jury-rigged the generator until the power came back on, but the higher-ups didn’t want to buy a new one.” He shrugs. “So, this was bound to happen again.”
“Wow,” I respond.
Keith pats me on the back reassuringly. “Trust me. Either the generator or the power will be back up in an hour or so.”

I appreciate the confidence in his tone. I want to believe him. “Sure, Keith.” I turn on my phone’s light and set it between us on the desk. The thunder outside is colossal now, almost deafening. Keith and I exchange a glance acknowledging the storm before I change the subject.

“So, uh, how long have you worked here?”
“Four years. How long ago did you graduate college?”
I sigh. “That obvious, huh? In December.”
He smiles. “Don’t feel bad. It’s common knowledge that Prosaic likes hiring college grads.”

There’s a moment of awkward silence between us. I don’t know anything about him, and I’m not sure what to ask. Even in this barely lit room, I see a small, framed picture beside Keith’s phone. It appears to be a blonde-haired little girl. “Keith, can I ask you a personal question?”
“Sure.”
“Who’s that a picture of?”
“My daughter, Karen. It’s from a few years ago. She’s seven now.”
“That’s cool. She looks sweet.”
“Thanks. She is.”

I’m glad for him. He’s clearly proud of her. But as I continue to glance at the photo, an old sadness claws at me from within, a sense of loss I thought I’d left behind.

Turning away from the photo, I squint, even though I don’t mean to. I know I’m trying to block the bad memories, but it isn’t working.

“Is something the matter, Sean?”

I’m terrible at hiding my feelings. The chill of the past creeps up within me, and my anxiety builds. I resist it, but it’s hard. The darkness from the power being out is pressure enough, but the storm outside is screaming like a monster. The awful combination pummels me from every side, emotionally overwhelming me. I feel clammy. I need something—anything—to distract me from it. Normally, this wouldn’t be my first choice, but maybe talking to Keith will help.

“I envy your daughter. She looks happy, like she had a good childhood. I . . . didn’t,” I admit, still not sure if this is a good idea. I grip the right armrest of my chair. “My mother died when I was pretty young. I was raised by my grandparents.”
“I’m so sorry for your loss,” he replies with a sincere voice.
“I was about the age your daughter is now, so I barely remember my mother,” I add.

A wave of bitterness washes over me. In the low phone light, I see him contemplate my words. When he looks at me, he seems like he’s trying to understand me. I guess he’s a compassionate person.

“Actually, I do want to know, Sean. You can feel free to talk with me.”

There’s a new roaring noise outside. It’s incredibly loud, like metal being torn apart and glass shattering, a nightmarish freight train barreling through the city. People start screaming and hiding under their desks. I already know it’s a tornado.

I’m locked in combat with my anxiety now, and I’m losing! I’m afraid that this building will start shaking. And if it does, I know that’s the beginning of the end. I imagine the ceiling or walls suddenly ripping away, and that’s it—we’ll all get sucked up and killed by the twister.

I shake off that painful thought and look at Keith. He appears concerned, but he’s calmer than me. He’s closed his eyes, and his mouth is moving. Is . . . is he praying? I can’t tell. I listen closer, and a moment later, I can understand his final words: “In Jesus’ name. Amen.”

My mouth hangs open, and anger seethes in my heart. I can’t help but feel betrayed. I thought he was a good person. But I was wrong. He’s a Christian!

Keith looks up and sees me. He seems genuinely perplexed. “What is it, Sean? What’s wrong?”

It takes all of my will to keep my voice low. The tumult outside has started to move away, but my nerves are strained to their limit. I can feel my heart pounding in my chest. I want to hit something, but I can’t move.

“You,” I almost growl. “I thought you were normal. I was . . . really starting to respect you. But you’re one of them.” I see his brow furrow in confusion, and I spit the words at him: “a Christian.”

Keith’s only visible reaction is to blink in stunned silence. He puts his hands in his lap, lowers his head, and takes a deep breath. It’s a few seconds before he looks up and says anything. “Yes, I am a Christian,” Keith replies slowly.

“What about it? Why does that bother you so much?”
I release the armrest of my chair and clench my fist in my lap. “It bothers me because it’s a placebo! There is no God, and religion doesn’t solve anything.”

Keith waits to respond again. In a way, I’m grateful. It gives me a chance to calm down a little. The tornado sounds are gone now. All I can hear is the rain lashing against the sides of the building and occasional thunder. Most of our coworkers are out of sight, probably still under their desks. I can hear some of them whispering now and then. I don’t see or hear Jessica. She must be out of the call center, probably trying to see who can get the power back on.

Just then, Keith slowly leans forward in his chair. He’s actually pretty calm.

“You’re an atheist then?” he finally says.
“Yes.”
“If you don’t believe in God, that’s your choice,” Keith continues. “And I respect that.”

That’s surprising to hear.

“But let me ask you something, Sean. Why does it matter to you if someone else does believe in God?”

What? Did he really just ask that? Is he stupid? This is making me madder.

“It matters to me if I see someone is choosing to be a mean, selfish hypocrite, yeah.”
“So, all Christians are mean, selfish hypocrites to you?”

I stare at him, my irritation simmering. I take a deep breath.

“There is no evidence of any Supreme Being ever existing,” I tell Keith. “But there is plenty of evidence to support rational and scientific explanations for what used to be attributed to superstition, gods, and other silly belief systems.”
“Science has helped us understand a lot of things,” Keith acknowledges. He’s serious, at first. Then he smiles, amused. “We know the Earth isn’t flat, for example.”
I sigh. “We know a lot more than that.”
“Do we know everything about everything?” he asks.

If the power ever comes back on, I’m asking Jessica to sit me with someone else.

“No, of course not,” I reply. “But we’re learning more all the time.”
“Granted. Will that be enough?”
What is he talking about? “Enough for what?”
“Enough to satisfy human knowledge and curiosity. Will we ever know it all?”

He’s carried this debate further than I thought he would. Maybe this isn’t such a bad way to pass the time.

“No, I doubt we’ll ever know it all,” I suggest. “Humans will always have questions and seek knowledge.”
“I agree,” Keith adds. “But is intellectual knowledge enough to satisfy us humans? Can we live off of knowledge alone? Or do we need more?”

That’s an interesting question, I have to admit.

“I suppose we need emotional satisfaction also,” I answer.
“How do we attain that?” Keith inquires.

I give that some thought.

“By accomplishing goals we set for ourselves.”
“Like what—school, work, marriage, and family? Things like that?”
“I guess. I mean, not everyone wants to get married or have kids. But there are all kinds of goals people can set for themselves.”

He looks as intrigued by this discussion as me. It’s also relieving to hear the rain finally dying down outside.

“And what if a person fails to achieve their goals?” he asks me. “Are they a failure and doomed to be miserable for the rest of their life?”
“Obviously not,” I counter. “If one goal doesn’t work out, a person can always make up new dreams to follow.”
“New dreams,” Keith repeats, nodding. “What’s your dream, Sean?”

I don’t mind the question. It makes sense. So, I oblige him.

“The only dream I’ve had so far is to live on my own,” I tell him truthfully. “And I’ve achieved that.”
“Good for you,” he replies with a smile. “It sounds like that was no small feat.”
“No, it wasn’t.”

The lights flicker back on, and the computers begin to boot up again. Several employees begin clapping at the achievement.

Jessica walks to the front of the room and gathers everyone’s attention. She’s joined by a male security guard.

“As you can see, we do have power now. But a tornado damaged two buildings next to ours. Our security personnel have first aid training and can assist with minor cuts and bruises. If anyone has more significant injuries, emergency responders are on the way,” Jessica says in a commanding tone. “In addition, the city has sent engineers to inspect the building and make sure it’s structurally sound. They will need several hours. I have been in communication with our corporate headquarters, and they are ordering a mandatory evacuation of the building until at least tomorrow. Check your company email and wait for the okay to return to work.”

I find myself just wanting to go home. I feel tired, and even though my anxiety has lessened, it’s not all the way gone. My vision is hazy around the edges, and my legs are sluggish. It takes all my focus to get out of the building. I don’t talk to anyone as we all gather our personal items. I just leave.

Once outside, I look up—it’s overcast; the rain is now a light mist; and the only lightning is in the distance. Leaves are scattered everywhere, along with numerous broken branches torn from trees and bushes. The temperature has dropped, and there’s a northern breeze. A few people have emerged from the shelter of their buildings like me.

I have to stop myself suddenly. I barely avoided walking into an overturned Jeep that was deposited onto the sidewalk. Its hood is smashed into the ground. The wheels are twisted in different directions; the windshield is shattered; and the driver’s side door is missing. I crouch down, squinting into the half-crushed cab. I look inside for occupants. Thankfully, no one’s in there. I hope that means they’re safe somewhere else.

The parking garage across the street is in similar shape to the smashed vehicle. Parts of the top two floors are demolished or missing entirely. There’s smoke rising from the second and third floors. The back half of a Ford F-150 truck is hanging perilously over one side of the building. At street level, a city bus is turned on its side. People are trying to help survivors escape through its emergency exit at the back. I hear piercing emergency sirens closing in.

“You okay?” I hear Keith say behind me. Is he asking me?

I turn around and see him talking on his mobile phone, facing away from me. He nods his head, looking relieved. “I guess the worst of it was centered on downtown,” he says. “I’m fine. Yes, I’m fine. Please, tell her I’m all right. Thanks. I’ll call you later, Julia. Bye.”

I walk toward him. All of this still feels surreal.

“Your wife and daughter are okay, then?” I ask.
“Ex-wife,” he clarifies. “But yes, they’re in another part of town. They’re fine.”

I didn’t expect that. Still, I find myself glad they’re unharmed. If I had family I cared about, I’d want to know they were okay, too.

Keith looks behind me and gasps. “Oh man, this . . . this isn’t good,” he says with a mournful sigh. He scratches the back of his head quizzically.
“What’s the matter?” I wonder aloud.

He slowly lifts his hand to point behind me.

“That’s my Jeep,” he says.

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