Fledgling

© Jason Rosensteel 2019

Print ISBN: 978-1-54396-729-6

eBook ISBN: 978-1-54396-730-2

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Contents

Chapter 1

The State He’s In

Chapter 2

Reflecting Pool

Chapter 3

Business as Usual

Chapter 4

Violin Case

Chapter 5

A Bigger Fish

Chapter 6

In Memoriam

Chapter 7

Traffic Control

Chapter 8

The Grind

Chapter 9

Leadership

Chapter 10

The Glory of Spring

Chapter 11

Aware

Chapter 12

Road Trip

Chapter 13

Invigorating

Chapter 14

The Return

Chapter 15

Mercury Rising

Chapter 16

Amending

Chapter 17

Thin Blue

Chapter 18

Executive Upgrade

Chapter 19

Nightcrawlers

Chapter 20

Awake

Chapter 21

Game On

Chapter 22

Intimacy

Chapter 23

Homeward

Chapter 24

Stoicism

Chapter 25

Floored

Chapter 26

People Person

Chapter 27

Tremors

Chapter 28

Bloodlines

Chapter 1

The State He’s In

H mmmm, something you might not know about me… It was Steve’s turn. His new co-workers looked on eagerly as he thought about what was required in this moment. As expected, and in alphabetical order, they each had been made to stand awkwardly in front of relative strangers. Their names were being announced by a General Partner of the business, as they fought back the tiny drop of sweat developing on their collective brow. As the names were each released from the lips of the Executive Director and Chairman of the Executive Committee, AKA head Muckety Muck, their spine would loosen and they would be allowed to sit. Round one – over.

Round one was simple. Stand and bow – mission accomplished. Round two was the getting to know you round, as if sharing one uncomfortable truth each would introduce some kind of understanding of the individual, or some kind of cohesion for the group. But each, in turn, was a dutiful lemming. They stood as if the now extinct, posture enhancing desks from childhood actually worked. Hold it, hold it….just a few more seconds…as the tiny lesions in the vertebrae made themselves known; reminding all the rationale for the extinction event.

Pam coached little league, Cathy volunteered her time at the Animal Welfare Society, Eric was the father of the year, Scotty mentored at risk teens, Clay survived extraordinary circumstances which defied conventional description, Jennifer personally knew Jesus, and their leadership may have each actually been Jesus... Hard acts to follow, especially when your name appears so near the back end of the alphabet. By the time your name is called, being able to turn iron into gold seems far less impressive.

The procedure always seems elementary by description. Stand up and clearly annunciate the one trait or accomplishment that will win the respect of everyone in the room. State it with reserved confidence, in a succinct manner, while simultaneously wreaking of humility (as you may have when receiving the Congressional Medal of Honor – of which there must be a recipient in the room).

But, the actual act requires far more thought, and insight. It’s far more complex, with subtle nuances that can take you down any contorted combination of dreaded figurative yes/no in an office opinion flowchart. The result of which undoubtedly aids in securely welding in the rails of the track which determines the direction of the career locomotive. Since this will become the space where you are going to spend an ever increasing percentage of your productive working life, you just have to get it right.

Should you just go with the truth? Should you embellish? Should you provide an answer which serves to convince the hiring manager that they made the right choice when selecting you? Should you try to curry the favor of your immediate supervisor by acting like a stuffed shirt, and coming across as that guy to your peers? Do you try to burn in and cultivate the perception that you are actually genuine, while planting the seed of doubt that you aren’t? Or do you just shotgun blast the muckety mucks with something so impressive that they give you immediate access to the helipad, or the executive wash room. Wait, Steve thought, Do we even have a helipad, or a wash room for that matter?

These were all of the petty tortures dancing around the maypole of Steve’s brain, and clogging up his synapses. No pressure… Steve managed his response and responded with something safe and unprovocative, …something you might not know about me is that my name isn’t really Steve, he paused for dramatic effect. My real name is actually Stevenson. There seemed to be a combined and mutual silent awwwww of disappointment from the group. The response was met with a combination of professional bemused agitation and a lack of actual interest. Onlookers seemed genuinely interested when the forthcoming admission seemed like it would bear something profound. But, they tuned out when Steve wasn’t really Sally or Jessica, or something more fantastic. However, with that reply, all of the conditions for coworker and management acceptance were met. Steve also thought proudly to himself that the group dynamic was really just improved by his actions. Their shared disappointment and wonder gave Steve a strange sense of accomplishment and relief – for getting the group to share. Round two – mission accomplished, and whatever...

Stevenson really was his name. Though he only survived a tiny two-round introduction with his new team, he was satisfied. He had become accustomed to self-idolatry, at the most mediocre level. But this shouldn’t be confused with narcissism. He wasn’t disjointing his arm joints to twist his hands into a congratulatory back pat. He just celebrated the small wins with internal dialogue, mainly because he normally felt a bit unnoticed, and because he knew no one else would.

Their meeting commenced, was conducted, and concluded – all on the most efficient timetable, in the correct number of days/hours/minutes, and with great efficiency. All of this was in large part due to their quintessential executive assistant named Stephanie. She was the prototypical executive assistant, and if she was in the hospitality game, you could bounce quarters off the mattresses. She ran a tight ship, and in Steve’s mind she probably knew more than the pitchmen running this place.

Steph wasn’t the one year out of a failed cosmetology school experiment, ultra-bouncy and brainless Hollywood movie type of admin. She was far more of everything. Yes, Steve certainly had a soft spot for her careless blond highlighted curls, (which she seemed to comb to straight every other day) stereotypical gigantic blue eyes, and wide bright face. She had the correct balance of self-confidence with a whiff of demureness, and her dress was immaculate. Her choice of attire told you that she was the one in the conference room in charge. But she managed to surface an authentic softness (an almost elegant innocence), that was like a warm breeze on a cold day. She had a delicateness about her that was accentuated and enhanced by whatever her fragrance was each day. She was a timeless vintage out of another era, or from a distant generation when people were far more sincere.

Along with her appearance, Steph had mastered the elusive art of efficiency. Somehow, she seemed to have limitless capacity, and she constantly toted at least two phones, as well as a manila folder, crammed with her previews of upcoming events. She carried it the way the new kid at school might – with the bottom edge just poking her in the ribs, trying to see up and over the top edge (while looking downward at tiny touch-screens), and trying to outpace her electronics. The folder had the appearance of a freshly emancipated ream of paper – no bent edges or hurried scribblings, and no sticky notes. Just tyrannical order.

Steve always muttered under his breath that she was the big eyed Shirley Temple automaton, just for levity. Though he saw this as simply quaint and amusing, he’d never actually give birth to those words. But from time-to-time, the teenager in him would do a stiff-kneed C3PO impression directly behind her in the hallway.

The generous doors to the hotel conference area broke open, like a tidal surge against a marina. The cooperative will of the participants had reached the breakwater, and after three intense days, everyone aimed for the open ocean. Here and there, participants would get caught in conversational nets and pulled back in, but the swimming lanes were open to the majority. There were still a few individuals mulling around, collecting their computers and orphaned overcoats, when Steph saw Steve heading for the briny deep.

So what did you think of the meeting Steve? asked Steph. Her manner was very much that of an excited little girl asking a friend what she thought of her brand new bike.

Feeling trapped being asked for a reply, but also liberated by Steph being the one singing the question, Steve replied, I thought it was excessively long, inefficient, and the meals were terrible… I mean… who plans these things anyway?

She studied his face for sincerity and when she found none, managed to return the favor. Hmmpff, she snorted. Some people have no sense of taste or gratitude. She then tossed her curls to one side and stomped away playfully. Within two steps of the clomping, she turned back to be sure Steve was smiling, and to her joy he was. Once Steve received the confirming smile in return, he shouldered his weapon and headed for the exit.

He marched under the weight of his belongings, and made his way across the congested lobby of the hotel. Steve suspected his brain may actually have been filled, and was starting to feel the musculature in his head tighten. He quickly doused that fire with the one stroke, one handed back of the neck massage, which terminated on the front of his collar. As his arm hung there, he looked up just in time to catch the glance of a woman who was redistributing the weight of her children. Steve was rearranging his cargo to adjust the pitiless strap of his laptop case, and offered her a smile. She met his gaze and was an apologetic clown, whose main skill could have been offspring juggling. The poor thing was obviously worn from the long travel plans that had brought her here, and she was a mess. Steve and she were both clearly exhausted, so they offered one another the two second respite of a tiny bit of empathy. Steve got the sense that she also had to be here, but would probably opt to be almost anywhere else.

One of her kids broke free, ran right into Steve, and practically rolled his ankle. Steve quickly righted himself and he was nearly entertained by his own one-legged agility. That special two second bond was in jeopardy of becoming a liability, and both adults went to the unsure and uneasy place that is the wait. The wait for a reaction that has become defined by a hurried society, wherein you either get one extreme end of a line segment or the other – no middle ground. Either this decently dressed man will ignite and raze her in the burn, or he will be the compassionate guy who shared a smile, an eternity ago.

The newly crimson faced woman looked at Steve, with a bit more wear on that face than there had previously been. Mortified, she managed to squeak out, Oh my God! I am so sorry. Are you okay?

Steve chuckled wearily to himself and replied in kind, No worries. I hadn’t gotten any cardio in the last few days, so I really needed something to keep me on my toes.

In the relieved reply of an adult who obviously needed some grownup interaction, she said, Thank Heaven. We’re not having very good luck and are dealing with an illness in the family. My mother took ill, and everything is just crazy right now. All I need is for something else to go wrong.

There was a slight pause as she seemed to recall she wasn’t traveling unaccompanied and then straightened her child and demanded an apology for the businessman. She steered him to Steve’s shoes and ordered, Now tell him you’re sorry Kenny.

The poor child whose only offense was that of being a child, looked shyly up at Steve and peeped something like solly sur.

Comforted that she was now blameless, the mother looked knowingly at him for a closing word of wisdom for Kenny. Steve had an understanding laugh for her and the child, as he jokingly peered down at the tiny human. He seemed so far down – so far away. Steve extended the pause to allow the child a modest amount of discomfort, and finally advanced a handshake. The boy eagerly accepted the gesture and turned to resume his position in the family fray. Steve then offered the mother, No apologies necessary; really. Life happens, and this place is really busy. It’s amazing I’ve almost been knocked over only once today.

She nodded politely with one eye on the resuming lobby tussle, and the other on Steve. The one eye suggesting that he may have lifted a bit of weight off of her small collapsing form. She replied, Thank you so much...you’re too kind. I’ve got my hands full so let me get back to the monkeys, and we’ll let you be on your way.

Steve finished with, Have a great rest of the day, and try to get a little R&R if you can. The Mom steered the other eye to the brood, just as Steve was completing his polite nod, and was readjusting the load from his earlier conference.

They turned to part ways, as she and Steve noticed a well-dressed businessman looking their way, and murmuring under his breath. Steve barely turned his head when he caught sight of the man, who had apparently witnessed the entire event. His face carried an annoyed displeasure, while one arm carried a beautiful timepiece, and the other a gorgeous leather satchel. He was as impatient as the room was crowded, and in such finery, the visage was that of someone of great import. His weight shifted from side to side with increased frequency, as he scrutinized the detail of the gleaming and seemingly weighty wristwatch. The man’s overcoat, suit, and shoes seemed to tighten the more and more times fancy boy looked toward his watch. However, his suit was crafted with such precision, that the pants even afforded an extra eighth of an inch or so for one to just admire the slipper supple loafers.

Despite his impatience, and his chin’s desire to steer the patrons in line before him, the fit and finish of his appearance was truly noteworthy. He was indeed a bit overstuffed from a life of indulgence, but his hair and shave were flawless. Perfectly charted part, with just enough gel, and the smoothness of wet ice. Steve had often wondered how gentlemen could shave with such exactness. So much so, that Steve couldn’t help his autonomously moving hand from wandering through the seedlings accompanying his own enduring jaw. So, he, the mother, and many other guests were just frozen in that moment – like seeing a national monument for the first time. All of them (except the people in line in front of him), studying in quiet awe.

Some probably wondered about fancy boy’s celebrity – could he be of someone of great renown? Possibly a dignitary? But just as soon as that notion may have landed, the appreciation was replaced by displeasure. All at once, their attention turned to disgust as the man was found staring directly back at the mother. His demeanor had shifted from one of haughty self-importance to that of a well-trained sniper. Apparently, the delay had him fixing his scope on the most convenient target. From beneath the ghillie suit, or out from under his sheep’s clothing, he laid into the woman.

With unbridled rudeness, he suggested, Why don’t you get some leashes, or a cage for those kids lady? This was quickly followed by, You breeders are always in a humungous hurry to overpopulate the world with kids you can’t provide for…then God forbid you actually take responsibility for them… We’re all supposed to look the other way, at your diminution of our society…while we pretend that you’re making the world a better place, by not even disciplining the children you’re bringing into it! It is people like you who…!

Among the faux limestone statuettes and the oil works of long-forgotten gubernatorial misadventures, the shots were fired. One twitch of the sniper’s finger, and the mother had been re-gifted an even greater portion of her earlier burden. But, in the middle of his demeaning soliloquy, the man fell mercifully silent. A tall stick figure of a hotel manager had frantically acquired the man’s focus. From across the walnut veneered lobby, the manager was gesturing to the man, with arms flailing like inflatable advertising. So, the man paused derisively, and strolled toward the manager in all of his puffery.

This had all transpired in the space of very little time. But, Steve felt as though he had been there for a month. What is it about time, he wondered, that it can so easily be altered by our perception? Some moments seem to last forever, and others seem to hasten past. As the manager dealt with the newly unfolding tapestry of horrors in his gold-lined foyer, Steve deliberated. That moment, too proved to be short-lived. His focus shifted from the accelerations of time and the Fancy Boy, to the suffering before him. The mother was a heap of dejected weeping.

Steve swiftly craned his neck, as though looking for an in route triage aircraft. He then spoke, Where’d that guy go? I’d like to give him a piece of my mind! The wilted lady pierced the veil of her tears and offered a reply. Steve didn’t hear her, or her voice was imperceptible. His eyes were darting around the front office area, trying to locate his quarry. People were still amazed, speaking in hushed tones, and they were pointing toward the business center.

Normally, a hotel business center was a tiny room with dated furnishings that offered guests the space to conduct business. The amenities would include a cornered desk with an early digital phone, an overused fax machine with worn button numbers, and the possibility of WiFi. On occasion, it was little more than a countertop with an electrical outlet where someone might plug in their phone or laptop, but one couldn’t imagine conducting any actual business there. There may also be a dated occupational journal or economic periodical, but they would always be laughably obsolete. The amenities would be accompanied by a volunteer from the hotel staff who tried to oversee the center’s activities. Normally, it would be a very junior staff member fluent in the latest technology, but tongue-tied in working with any machine older than a decade.

The approach to the business center was always met by an identical expectation. There would be an agitated businessman or woman trying to conduct business in the comforts of their office – wherever their office might happen to be. They would be in a flustered and anxiety ridden state, while trying to portray the pinnacle of professionalism. The irony being that if their business was so important, and they were so professional, they wouldn’t be forcing the meager business center to drink from their eleventh-hour fire hose. The hotel’s junior volunteer would be at the epicenter of this crisis, cursing the old fashioned machinery, and trying to hide their ever moistening uniform. They’d just be lashing themselves to shore to weather the tempest, while examining career choices, and playing therapist to the unyielding.

Sometimes as in this case, and expected at this caliber of hotel, the center was a legitimate and ornate office space. Steve didn’t suspect this, nor did he expect the spectacle he would soon witness. As he missioned toward the area of the lobby made obvious by the pointing gawkers, he gave the mother a supportive look. He knew it really wouldn’t alter the situation, but as his eyes measured the distance to be covered, it possibly helped him feel better. Perhaps she’d take solace in the knowledge that someone would be standing up for her. Or, maybe she’d be satisfied knowing that Steve was a do right kind of man – whatever that was in this day and age.

Steve continued forward, while dodging the now distracted lobby and its inhabitants. Additional hotel staff seemed to appear as if they leapt in like the Navy Seal Parachute Team - tactically. Before Steve reached the hallway indicated by everyone in the room, the population of the area had to have tripled.

As Steve turned a corner, he noticed that fancy boy had been ensconced in a scene straight out of Cigar Aficionado Magazine. FB was sitting behind soundproof glass interwoven by hand-carved etchings in the six inch deep window grilles. The high vaulted ceilings were as ornate as something by Michelangelo, and the pragmatist in Steve wondered how the artisan(s) even reached that high. Standing over FB was the Man of Sticks – the manager, calmly pouring a fine glass of something, into a very sunny glass.

The Man of Sticks handed FB his glass, and placed the remnants of the exceptional bottle on a desk of similar age and acclaim. Steve’s teeth began to grind themselves to talc as his entire face formed a fearsome blade. Steve hoped the blade would extend through the glass and that the blood groove wouldn’t be lonely for long. Man of Sticks took a few long strides to root himself between the desk, and a claw-footed chair backed up against an abounding book case. He then dropped carelessly into the chair, and the leather seemed to take liberties with the man’s hind quarter. FB was just as lavished, and the chair cupping his more impressive frame was easily handling its assignment. The two engaged in informal conversation as though this opulent scene were suspended forever in an upper class diorama. The tip of Steve’s blade insisted, but the two men were masters of the moment. Though Steve may have had the right to protest insistently, his station prevented him and the mother their share of justice.

Steve began to form his hand into a suitable mace, and he was going to perform a symphony on the glass. The men hadn’t noticed him yet, but they soon would. As if it were predetermined, ruffled translucent curtains began to lower in front of his face. Each automatic ruffle was hurriedly followed by another, until the men were no longer viewable. Just then, a tap on the shoulder interrupted the scene – hotel security. There were two gentlemen of far more imposing stature handing Steve his belongings, which he had apparently abandoned in his quest for justice. With no sound or speech, the men gestured for Steve to return the way he had come, and they loaded his shoulders. As Steve lumbered back through the lobby, he wondered if he was in a completely different hotel. Chaos had been replaced by order. The few remaining people were in straight, quiet, organized lanes all quietly awaiting their assigned service representative. The mother was gone, and the previous episode seemed to have been completely erased.

As Steve’s mind’s eye adjusted to this new level of sunlight, the haze was broken by an excited, Hey you!!!! It was Steph who was also heading out of the hotel in her normal expedient and practical manner. Steve turned his head to the right, but she had already passed behind him to his left. She had overtaken him and was now hastily and unconsciously pushing Steve’s feet at a much quicker pace. Descending the grand staircase step for step, Steve had still not acknowledged her. Hey…! Steph insisted. Are you with me…?

When in doubt, and when not paying full attention, Steve’s go to response was a resounding Yes. So, he replied, Yes!

Steph hesitated mid-step, but just for a moment, Yes what? I could have pretty much said anything there, and would still have gotten your canned reply….huh?

As part of their regular banter Steve playfully replied Yes!

Steph then replied Jerk!, and simultaneously buried the back of her shoulder into him. He didn’t mean to give her the standard reply, and she didn’t really think him an ogre. But, they spent so much time together in their work lives, that they just had a communicative intimacy about them.

They covered a few more stairs, and Steve returned from his foggy voyage. He cleared his mind enough to finally give a measured response. Sorry Steph, he began…I was hearing you, but I’m still processing something that just happened. You’d never believe it if I told you.

Something happen at the meeting? she countered. She looked seriously up at him just as they reached the final foothold. Steph stopped and grabbed enough bicep to hold Steve, as the rest of his body was still heading toward the impressively overdone egress. For the second time that day he was almost taken out of his footwear. But he collected himself and looked down, just to see her anxious face studying his for any indicators. He realized she was looking into him, and he knew the response must be measured. Amidst the whip cracking at the salt mine, their relationship was a much needed key for the ankle shackle of their daily toil. She could read him anyway, but he just didn’t want to trouble her with anything heavy or existential. Steve knew she’d take up her armor to right a wrong, then tip her cranial balance to overflowing. She shouldn’t be deprived of a well-deserved moment of glory, for organizing something so complex, just to hear his voice. To allow her to revel in her victory, he decided to internalize the vestibular scrum.

As he pondered the best way to reply, some work companions caught up with them standing right in the middle of the doorway. I thought the conference was wonderful Steph. Great job pulling all of that together, said Steve. He said it just a bit louder than one might if directed toward only one recipient – just loud enough for the oncoming hoard to absorb. His reply, like most, had all of the molecules of flower nestling in harmony inside the confines of the measuring cup. It not only soothed Steph, but also brought others into the mixer. Now each coworker could be expected to provide a pleasantry in kind, providing Steve with just the right conversational diversion.

He finally arrived at his vehicle, and extended his arm to reach for the latch. It began softly raining and he noticed the fresh dew on his not so expensive (yet not completely inexpensive) luminescent indicators. He jostled and sparred with his effects, and finally just shoved everything in the back seat of his now five year-old car. As he positioned himself in the seat and reached for the seatbelt, he felt the reminder of a twinge of pain from his shoulder.

He then recalled a conversation from his youth. Steve was an active kid, and the personnel at the local medical imaging center knew him by name. On one of Steve’s regular visits, one of the attending physicians once provided him a tid-bit of seemingly (at the time) worthless information. She told Steve that he’ll Certainly heal quickly and get passed this injury...that he’d be back to normal in no time. She then provided a however, which even in the limited wisdom of teenagery, one knows bad news is to follow. She continued with, This really shouldn’t be that big a deal now, but you’ll really be feeling this when you’re 40… Steve recalled thinking that 40 was ancient, and that he had a thousand years to reach that milestone. Now passed that point in his timeline, he was really feeling it, and he was somewhat frustrated that he couldn’t remember the injury which caused his discomfort in the first place. So, he rubbed his shoulder like the belly of a Buddha, and finished fastening the belt – click.

However insignificant this memory may have been, it propelled Steve into ruminating about experiences from his childhood that now seemed so distant. This returned him to the events from moments before, and he wondered if Kenny would forever carry the new memory of his dejected mother. He was hoping that the family was closer to their final destination, and that their recall wouldn’t one day mirror Steve’s keepsake from football, cycling, soccer, basketball...

The hands continued negotiating their way around the blackened carbon fiber watch face until they postured as an archer at nine. He heard himself say Crap! as the dungeon master’s record player began its nightly torture, right on queue. They’re all going to be mad at me…again, he insisted.

As his frugal tires rolled into his well-used, assigned parking space, he could feel the cellphone vibrating unashamedly in his front pocket. Just once, I’d actually like to get inside the front door, before having to deal with this nonsense, he grunted. After a quick chuckle and nightly headshake at the insistency of the two discernable ring tones, he quickly grabbed his gear from his back seat.

The rain was imposing itself heavily on Steve’s nightly surroundings, and it fell so thick he imagined it might be bags of plasma. Considering the nature of the phone calls he must quickly return, the term bloodbath seemed an almost welcomed distraction. He had always assigned ringtones based on personality and sometimes fondness. The first call dodged ringtone was The Imperial March - Darth Vader’s theme song from Star Wars. The other was Carrie from the 80’s rock band, Europe. But which call to place first? He considered how you measure the dimensions or mass of unpleasantness. Hmm, which one’s worse? he muttered. After some analysis, he decided to go with the first call he received – chronological order. Sometimes it was birthdays, and on other days it was the number of missed calls. Still, on other occasions, he used a self-governed rock-paper-scissors, a roll of the dice, or even the cut of a deck of cards.

Though Steve decided on chronological order, his innermost self always stacked the deck in favor of the ex-wife. The Imperial March seemed fitting for someone who bore so much hatred for him. However, Steve delighted in thinking that perhaps it was marginally inappropriate. Not because he was being unfair to her, but at least Darth Vader had some good in him. Steve had no expectation that at the end of his time with her, that she’d somehow find her way to the side of right and virtue. No, she was pure evil…

Hey, it’s me, he stated as his desire for voicemail went unfulfilled.

Why hello Stevenson…nice of you to finally check in on your family, stated the Executioner. Her real name was Emily, but if she was going to refer to him as Stevenson; then Antichrist, Slayer, or Executioner were all fair game. I told you tonight was going to be another one of those nights. The big wigs from the new company are in town, and we weren’t really given much choice but to…

Yadda, blah, blah, same old crap Stevenson, she interrupted. Did you know your son fell and hurt himself in school today? she asked.

No, Steve shuddered. There’s really no way for me to have known that. We were in conferences all day, and they didn’t allow us the use of our phones. Is he okay?

Well, you would have known if you bothered to check in…and you missed him again tonight. He’s already in bed and I’m not waking him up just to hear his lame jerk of a father, she said.

What a petite and feminine flower,, thought Steve. Is he okay," repeated Steve.

Well, I guess you’d need to get involved if you want all of the current events, now wouldn’t you, she tormented.

Steve breathed a quick sigh and half-rolled his eyes, Emily…is…he…ok?

Don’t forget you’re supposed to pick him up on Friday for your weekend, I mean…assuming…the big wigs allow you to have a child she teased. She then hung up and it was over for today.

Hard to believe I divorced her he groaned aloud.

Steve looked up toward what must be hardhearted and malevolent God. But his mood shifted without delay. He found himself standing on the landing to his non-executive, yet supportive welcome mat. His belongings had made it under the awning, but is body had not. Half of his head was a wet mop, and the other half was pushing into the earpiece expecting more from the Executioner. No, God isn’t pitiless at all… I guess you just have to understand His sense of humor he again spoke aloud.

If anyone would have beheld the scene, they would have authenticated the tragic comedy of the sight. Just then his walleted pocket overflowed from awning runoff, and he pushed the keys into the lock.

Finally standing and dripping on the foyer of his end-unit condominium, he exhaled. He pushed the door closed behind him, as he first and foremost navigated his laptop to safety. He imagined, again in the sniper motif, that his weapon were wrapped in plastic for a long arduous hump through the unfriendly terrain of his life. Next, his phone, as his wet skin did very little to push the few drips of water off the screen. He placed it gingerly on the same long console table with the computer. Next to the phone went the heavy bracelet of his chronometer. He always securely fastened the closure and placed it crown side up. Steve then removed each article of his marinated wardrobe with a schmoook at removal, and a schlock at its initiation with the sensible ceramic floor tile. Ridden hard, and put away wet! he exclaimed. He then stirred the spaghettied pile of his clothing to find his victimized wallet.

It already reflected the thousands of days it spent enclosed and overheated next to the fold of his hamstring. So, it smelled like heated human smog - and a hint of wet dog, for good measure. His fingertips, poised like a gentle and precise vice tenderly grabbed the thin edge of the denizens of his soggy pocket companion. The wet slots, now tightened to prevent his progress. One after the next, he removed the credit cards, foldable currency, receipts, and things he didn’t even remember putting into it. The only thing he really cared to save was the picture of his son, Harrison. He dug deeper and deeper under the rubble, until he found it – unharmed. Thank God for that one, said Steve. I’d have to call the Executioner for another one if that got wrecked. Oh, thank God!

He looked deeply at the annual school produced photo of his son. Each glance of the photo paper brought him an equal share of per diem sadness and glory. Glory for his progeny, as his family name would persevere. Sorrow that his child would never know a rightful highland with Steve as the patriarch. Sadness because despite all efforts to give his son normal, all Steve could smith was mediocrity. Plus, the poor thing had to live with her. God only knew how many monsters now procreated under Harrison’s bed; feeding off of the batches of court-ordered paperwork. But Harrison did seem generally happy, and the Executioner was a decent mother. She just spent her waking moments regaling her friends and family with fabrications about Steve’s deficiencies. But, she too, cared deeply for their child. She just mindlessly hated Steve, and he had no way of knowing what she verbalized, or what percentage actually permeated the boy’s subconscious.

She managed to turn most of their common friends into detractors, but she couldn’t break the bond enjoyed by the boy and his father. Harrison was a supercell, holding for just the correct updraft, to become a willful cyclone. Under the perfect conditions (and after spending time with Steve), her awarded custody could be a prison, trying for days to get the boy back to manageable. The one little torment Steve still relished was that his son’s first word was Daddy. Nine years later, and the boy still delighted his Dad by summoning this memory, which to his mother was the Pavlovian signal for evoking madness.

As Steve studied the picture and involuntarily drank from the stream of his memories, it satisfied him that at least his son was safe and that he wouldn’t be raised in a marital warzone. He turned it over to see the fading words; some of the very first written by his son, I love you Dad, from Harry. These scribbled words were Steve’s most cherished possession. So, he placed the picture high up on a shelf for safekeeping – far away from further soaking threat.

Steve wadded up his fashion choice from the day and crammed it into a pseudo-wicker hamper. He then headed for the solace of a hot shower, after another long work day. The anxiety and stress of that afternoon began to liquefy along with the targeting jets of the shower spout’s broadcast. As they dissipated, he could feel himself dissolving along with the soapsuds.

He finished the nightly preparatory regime, and as his habitual revolutions commanded, he clicked on some sporting news, and sorted his mail. Wonder how the Sox did today, he said a bit emptily. No one was there to hear him, but he had once received news that justified his external solo transmissions with great clarity. According to at least one newsman, ninety percent of our daily speech is with ourselves. So, Steve wasn’t just barking at an echo, he was proving a normal mathematical theorem. To lend more weight to the hypothesis, he continued with Oh, I have to remember to check in to see if the Pats made any moves this week. I know they were eyeing that running back, but Bill (Bill Belichick) will probably find a way to get another tight end.

He then made his way to the eager arms of his unfamiliar, yet favorite chair. He often teased that the chair had almost no miles on it. So, to Steve, it was brand new. Though, it was clearly incongruous in the room and inconsistent with remainder of the furniture. He often joked that he spent so little time relaxing that the cushion had yet to remember the curve of his backside. Nevertheless, into the center of the microfiber he leapt, like a child into a ball pit. The seat had a high back and the arms were plump with rolled padding – the density and construction of which was always a distraction for him. What was the stuff made out of, and why doesn’t it ever get misshapen? he’d wonder. But short of turning the chair over or taking it apart, he’d just appreciate it. Not just for the comfort or the way it made him feel childlike (in big people furniture). But, a figurative and unlikely pleasure, like a release of endorphins. He’d pick at the seams, as though the gnomes who built it might grab him back through, into their secret foam factory. But, normally by the time his brain began entertaining these amusements, he’d be fast asleep. On most occasions, he didn’t even touch the reclining handle and he’d be at rest in a seated position.

Tonight, Steve had a bit more energy, and as he listened to the rain patter off of the roof, he replayed the events of the day. He thought about Kenny and his mother, and of FB from the resort. He thought about Steph and the conference, and all of the new business challenges that surely awaited their bottomless devotion. He mulled over his aging vehicle and the likelihood of a new one – Not bloody likely, he muttered. The call with Slayer, and the complex menagerie of thought that it complimented it. The reflections that accompanied any such feelings were always doomed to go unreconciled. How could a relationship be so fruitful, only to turn barren? How could the woman he thought was his future, be the one now deriving joy from its prevention? When his well filled with these thoughts, all he could do was allow his brain, memory, and ex-wife a cease-fire.

With the kaleidoscope of emotion and negativity beginning to well up in him, he was restless in his comfort. Steve shifted in his chair, hoping that his efforts would be enough to purchase a direct ticket to slumber. But, his head was starting to become a barque heaving line knot. His intellect and television channel both seemed in need of liberation. Steve couldn’t locate anything new about his beloved Boston-based sports teams, so he surfed toward the evening news.

On the first channel there was something about the negative smear campaign being waged by the opposition of one party or another (or both). A presidential election was looming, so the scavenger hunt for delegates was on. The last best piece of information Steve retained from that broadcast was the knowledge that most Americans felt that they’d be voting for the lesser of two evils. But regardless, they were turning out in record numbers to demonstrate their loyalty for the least unpleasant contender.

On the second regional channel, there was a story regarding a local man who had taken matters into his own hands and then drove a front end loader into his living room. Two towns away, there were idol bomb threats made at an elementary school. At a different district high school, the football coach was being accused of cheating because of questionable recruiting practices. Still, in yet another town, a quiet unassuming twenty-something went crazy and attacked a crowd of people with a kitchen knife. Lastly, a woman backed her car into a police cruiser, and ran over three people, because she didn’t want to get ticketed for driving ten miles over the speed limit. Steve only kept it on that channel for a minute or two. But, the lack of any good news rang clearly in his head. Are there any quiet sleepy towns left in America, he stated.

On the third, and national news network channel, there were more reports about the candidates and delegates. The story-telling revealed more and more about people coming unglued or unhinged; or were as one flawless journalist stated just a few sandwiches short of a picnic. There were witnesses screaming and crying and ambulance chasers running amuck. Astonishingly, all of the alleged perpetrators were caught on film or by dozens of eyewitnesses, and somehow were still alleged rapists or derelicts. Each wrongdoer seemed generally confused or shaken, as though they had not even an inkling as to why they were in custody. As the people in the background tried to reason with them or retrieve a detailed statement, the culprits seemed to be just tuning in to reality. In the case each and every incident, the people involved seemed mentally incapable of understanding why their actions might one day lead to a removal of their rights. It’s as though they functioned normally in polite society, but that no one ever explained to them that assaulting an eighty year old woman for her groceries, was a bad thing (like someone should have to). Then just as inexplicably, the criminals (alleged), seemed to be at the end of their virtual out of body experience and back into their new world of suffering. All of a sudden, the intellect switch was turned on (for the first time in some cases), and the new lucidity was showing them the anguish caused by their disobedience.

Steve noticed that some, upon the lifting of their fog, were immediately remorseful. But the speculative remarks from the news team weren’t certain if this was derived from the situational deterioration, or for just having been caught. Would they really know if they had even committed a crime if someone hadn’t told them, Steve speculated. I mean, it’s fairly obvious when you have four lawmen standing on your head…but, shouldn’t these people know better? The whole system seems to be breaking down! He thought about it a bit longer and marveled again at the pure lawlessness and cowardice. Each informative presentation by each broadcast, on each channel, was just awful. Isn’t there any good news, said Steve. Isn’t there anything positive happening in the world anymore?

He turned the channel one final time in the hope that he’d fulfill his pursuit of upbeat truth. Or, at least find something that would push him back to the rear of the chair. He noticed with each successive report, that he had slowly begun creeping forward in the seat. His back was hunched over and his body twisted – as though the more crooked he became, the easier it would be to absorb the deformed messages. So he rolled his shoulders for a capsular reset, and reassembled his vertebrae. He unchained a more than generous exhale and regained normal respiratory function. Finally he was primed for the last world news conduit of the evening. Unfortunately, it was here that he saw the most unsettling report of them all.

There was a dark and grainy video feed from a developing nation thousands of miles away. In the foreground of the shot, there were a number of people on their knees. Their clothing was more modern than that of their antagonists, and it was covered in the dirt in which they were being forced to kneel. Their hands were apparently bound behind them, and each of them had a neckerchief covering their face. Scrolling across the screen was unrecognizable ancient Northeast African or Middle Eastern script of some type – propaganda or a warning.

There were men in long dark robes, faces covered, each brandishing a weapon of some type, and pacing around the kneelers. Each time their menacing body language indicated they were speaking, the people on the ground flinched in fear. The sound wasn’t coming through, but there was a hurriedly typed and misspelled attempt at translation appearing intermittently. It read that a Christian peacekeeping mission in that nation had apparently come under hostile fire. The attack was being perpetrated by a rival faction, and the news outlet was currently unsure of motive or mission. But the Christians just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, and it would cost them their lives. The odd thing was that the militants weren’t making any demands. They were just going to kill or torture their captives, simply because of who they were and where they were. They wanted nothing more than to market their brand of terror and fear.

The translations were coming more and more franticly, and were less and less accurate. At times there would be just pieces of a word, and at others some words were jumbled together. It was difficult for Steve to understand exactly, but the message was obvious. For the captured, this would be their last day on Earth. Steve read the phrases from his screen: shot, burned to death, beheaded, dismembered, and fed to wild dogs… His mouth was agape and he was again so crooked, he half fell out of his chair.

Just then, a masked man closest to the camera was calmly pushing back on the forehead of one of the grounded Christians. At the same time, he was forcing a large knife blade into that person’s windpipe. At that, the newsfeed abruptly returned to the newsroom; so paradoxically sterile and sanitary. The news people almost ridiculously and immaculately dressed, in harsh contrast to the scene they were just describing. The tidy and uncontaminated anchor men wrestled with the creature they just unleashed, and it had left them without speech. There was a hushed silence in the normally playful setting, and the entire room was uncomfortable.

Steve had closed his eyes just as the blade had found its mark. He turned his head in disgust, and prayed to his Christian God that they wouldn’t show any more of the footage. If not for the sake of the viewers, for the sake of the families whose loved ones were on that mission of peace. To his relief, compassion ruled over ratings and market share. But Steve knew the video would undoubtedly serve up the terror intended. Some news outlet would unquestionably describe the release of more of the scenes as freedom of the press, and sicken countless observers. This would then be needlessly followed by a media spectacle and debate over whether such things are ethical or legal. That would then be tailed by all of the cultural and political debates over causal motivations. This would lead to comparisons to other terrorist organizations, which would loose a social economic examination of that geographical area.

Soon to follow would be the political debates regarding what more could be done to protect our allies in that part of the world. This would then be accompanied by discussions about budgetary concerns and likelihood that any aid sent would just fall into the hands of the ruling militia – whether our ally or not. To top off the sundae, the next round of arguments would fall onto what private sector aid agencies could do the most in the shortest amount of time (while the party debates incompetently rage on without end or outcome). Laughably, this would generally lead back to the group who was captured in that hostile environment trying to bring peace in the first place. Who now will be sent, to prevent that faction from becoming more and more brazen, and from destabilizing the entire region? A debate will surely ensue…

Steve wondered if he was the only one who knew the system was just broken. Ironically, all of the tenured analysts, diplomacy experts, and politicians were all gainfully employed. But, if it weren’t for all of the flaws in the system, there’d be no need for any of them. In a week or so, they will be on to the next news tid-bit, superficially vowing to remain vigilant on the news of today. But they’d forget.

Steve awoke. He was still in his chair, and his body ached. Not only were his joints upset for being box pressed into a square, like the plastic molds in Harrison’s sandbox. But, they were throbbing due to his body positioning and tension from his reaction to the events from the prior evening. His head was a full-blown monkey fist and a migraine headache lassoed itself around his skull. He thought he must have drifted off with his mouth open, as his jaw was activating like a corroded car crusher. His tongue was a rusted see-saw.

Immediately, his thoughts traveled to the distant land where the atrocities against his Christian kin had been committed. He lamented the victims both abroad and in his own back yard, and thought lovingly of Harrison. Steve wondered how the children witnessing any of the incidents would process the awfulness they had seen. Or, would it be that this was their baptism into a life predetermined to resonate in the same tone as their ancestors? Were we raising an entire generation of children to be completely emotionless? Steve wondered how any nation or god would allow such cowardly acts. But, he quickly realized that though he was living in a free country, most of the madness was intrinsically home-grown.

He calmly scoured his eyes for the Sandman’s remnants, and chafed the rich red veins contrasting heavily against the white. In mid, customary full body flex, Steve then became immediately stricken with fear. He realized that he never made the second of two phone calls from the night before. Oh crap, I never called Carrie, he panicked. The Ripper is going to be furious. Like a Clement Clarke Moore character, he sprung from his bed to see what could be done. He ran across the room - he didn’t walk. Upon reaching for the cellphone, it was still and lifeless. The useless paperweight seemed to taunt him with its lethargy. Of course the battery is dead, but she’s not going to care, he moaned. Steve enjoyed a little song with himself in these moments, Carrie, Carrie quite contrary, how does your relationship grow? With vengeance and revenge… Arguably incomplete, and not much of a song, it brought Steve a few seconds of peace.

He had come to terms with his terrible vetting process and selections for companionship. But, the declaration did little to stifle the bitters in the aftertaste of his daily life. At least in some minor way, his songs and generally positive outlook made the suffering palatable.

So, Steve reluctantly plugged in the device, and it was a Schrodinger’s cat moment. That few seconds of time where the software gradually awoke to the nourishment it craved…until cognition is restored. In that beautiful painful moment, Steve was free. In that span, the concept of the quality or texture of time again occurred to him. How could moments like this seem to change the properties of time itself? How is it that instances of contentment, like the birth of his son, seem to be so fleeting?

This waiting…it brought Steve back to another memory from his youth. He remembered the absolute anguish he’d feel as he waited in terror in his room for his father to arrive from work. In Steve’s generation, some of the most dreaded words a kid could hear (from his mother) were just wait till your father gets home. The implication being that as soon as his father sets foot on the property for which he works and slaves (as his father put it works his ass to the bone), corporal punishment would ensue. In that era, and in Steve’s household, the woman was the homemaker, and the man was the breadwinner - all due homage owed them both. Accordingly, roles in the home were gender specific and exceedingly clear. Discipline belonged to his father, but his mother would provide tongue lashings and lesser beatings on occasion. In instances as in Steve’s current flashback, he had done something egregious, for which the award was a brutal pounding. Consequently, all Steve remembered of the experience was the pain and suffering, but not the lesson the thumping was intended to teach.

Thrashings in those days were works of art, and justice was fleet footed. The child would ceremonially sit in darkness deprived of all sensory perception. This was so he could be alone to meditate and think about what you did. The only thing which could break the labored weeping and a heaving chest, was the sound of the family station wagon snaking its way down the driveway. As soon as that hearse reached the garage, it was your ass. It was also evidence that praying for your father to steer his way into a non-fatal accident on the way home, simply didn’t work.

Your loving mother would wait in repose, and her body language would insinuate itself right through the windshield. To the man pulling into the driveway, the message was as clear as signal lanterns in the Old North Church. Only, Paul Revere wouldn’t be on a historic ride. The only indicators here were that dinner would be delayed, and that your child was an extreme knucklehead. So, before the man placed a wingtip inside his front door or set his briefcase down, his ears were packed. This was immediately followed by a he did what?!? spoken so loudly, that the next zip code knew a whipping was soon to commence. Next was the horrific reality that the length of hallway to your bedroom door was shortening with each footstep. Then, the rapture – the wait was over as the doorknob turned ever so hideously.

Satan wore your parent’s skin for a few moments, and beat you within an inch of your life. Steve’s Dad outweighed him at least three fold, and compassion was a romantic notion. A stern warning, then the blows rained hard enough to stain your subconscious. Steve’s Dad wasn’t one for pageantry, so there were never any this is going to hurt me, more than it hurts you. It was efficient and rhythmic as though each strike was not on a fragile child, but on an anvil. Steve always hoped that perhaps this rare closeness shared by he and his father might in some way be a bonding experience. As Steve aged, he knew it was just customary to bludgeon your kids to bleeding. So, the hope died, along with all expectations for a meaningful relationship. It was just expected practice to take the frustrations of that day, out on the most vulnerable, because workplace violence and gym memberships weren’t exactly in vogue just yet.

Steve wasn’t even sure his parents had feelings, as they never shared them. He wasn’t sure if he was loved, or even if he was in the correct family (his older brother also always told him he was adopted). Back in that day, it was business as usual. The only feedback you received was not being hurt if you did something right. Mother would perform the expected duties of the day. The house would be clean, dinner would be on the table, and the children would be deep in their studies. Father would 9-5 and endure the commute, and every day was the same as the one prior. It’s as though the entire society were programmed for the expected function, and disruptions in the code were intolerable.

His parents never apologized for having to give Steve these doses of reality. Nor, did they come with an explanation, or a reading of the charges against the accused. Parental solidarity; guilt was assumed and assured. Perhaps, they were just following the program. But, on days like the one being remembered, they made the event self-serving, and callously left Steve in a pool of Steve.

Memories like that have a way of transcending time, but considering the events of the day, Steve felt guilty. At least his childhood had some pleasantries, whereas kids in the current generation were bringing handguns to school.

As the tiny Japanese Frankenstein had its tiny neck bolts electrified back to life, Steve stirred. He wanted to release this moment in time back into the wild, but he couldn’t look away. As the screen flickered, he could see the number of emails, texts, and missed calls awaiting his attention. The tiny red numeric indicators were like a cardinal searching for food against a winter backdrop - hard to miss.

As was his regular routine, and before he could even pour his first cup of life-giving filtered bean water (as he referred to coffee), his mind was already preoccupied. He rolled his thumb over the items for consideration in the mailbox. He mumbled, okay, meetings at 10, 11, 1, and 2… 100 emails from Rock (his immediate supervisor Clay)…and no fires. Should be an ok day. Now, onto the texts. Again he mumbled from the writer’s perspective this time, and rolled through the messages. "You suck….you suck…you suck…you suck… Wow, only four pleasantries from the Executioner today. Well, to be fair, I did talk