Most viewers zero in on a popular player or obvious focal point of the play. Big run: eyes on the tailback. Great tackle? Zoom in on the crushing concussion and ensuing smack talk as teams regrouped to their huddles. Single points of focus. One, maybe two players at a time. That's what others experienced.
In contrast, Zeb saw everything.
Literally everything.
To the former military man, American Football created a giant moving formula; a dynamic, living entity worthy of his observation and engagement. Every action and reaction of the twenty-two men on the field presented an ever-changing array of potentialities. An offensive lineman shifting six inches to the left, instead of seven. A defensive back's first three steps in coverage at a slightly reduced speed than was his norm. Zeb not only noticed these minute adjustments, his fertile mind immediately registered their impact.
At once. Clearly.
It was no exaggeration to say that when watching, and he often did, that Dalton was viewing an entirely different game than the millions of others tuned in at the time. Like a giant, three-dimensional display hovering in mid-air, Dalton factored and connected the unending lines, arcs, and data fields. To anyone other than Zeb, the sight would appear both stunning and confusing. For the former signal corpsman it was simply the way he accessed the world.
This ability to account for and compute all existing contingencies was nothing new for Zeb, had in fact shown itself in early grade school. A jumble of information at first, sometimes frightening to the young boy, this sensitivity eventually emerged as a hyper-aware, calculated view of events unfolding around him. Like any such gift it had to be corralled, disciplined, lest it lead to chaos, potentially madness. More informed calculation than instinct, his mind chopped through reams of data as efficiently as a hi-tech combine rolling across fields of gold at harvest time.
The current status of his thinking then—dulled, preoccupied, slow—was quite unsettling. All in all, a new and unpleasant experience.
A look down to the screen of his smartphone.
7:45am.
Plan D—work, would be the winner.
"Uh, I need to get going..." Zeb said, pointing faintly to the indisputable numbers.
Thankfully, no last words were spoken, no parting shots given. Zeb's beautiful cone of silence lie shattered before him. His coffee was cold, no stealthy plane gracing the cup's exterior to indicate otherwise. And while the office wasn't too far away, the downtown congestion of the Emerald City could always be a bear on a weekday morning.
Frustrated, Dalton grabbed his stuff, dropped the mug off at the counter, and walked out the front door.
THREE
Zeb's usual routine brought him across mid-town, toward the waterfront piers and ferry landings.
From there he would head south past Safeco Field and Century Link Stadium, edging his way into the parking lot of the Bay City Printing Company as the workday began.
Dalton was your basic sales guy. His trade: full color, offset press work. Corporate identity. Brochures, catalogs. Lots of pages. Perfect or spiral binding.
Need something printed? Z. Dalton—BCPC, had you covered.
Like everyone else the firm expanded into digital delivery and web-presence as the industry evolved. Their bread and butter, though, was still paper, run through an inked press four times and finished according to customer needs.
While employment as an account rep might not be the best match for his training and skills, it did put food on the table and keep him out of trouble. Zeb logged ten to twelve hour days, not because he loved his work. Truth be told, he didn't have much else going on in his life and the thought of endless hours in front of the TV appealed to him far less than calling on an overzealous client rep, even one trying to squeeze him for ever-increasing product while paying as little as possible for it.
Things had changed so much in the last number of years. The stark contrasts in Zeb's vocational and professional histories were, to say the least, intriguing. A near-decade in active-duty hot zones throughout the world. Life and death, comrades and enemies. Nowadays he sold printed paper products to mom and pop shops and medium-sized businesses. In comparison the present drill came off as dull, even numbing. Maybe in a good way. His life while donning the uniform had been a never-ending sequence of extreme stress and life-threatening circumstances. Now eight years on the outside, the closest he got to a danger-fed adrenaline rush was a customer signing off on a sales contract. In triplicate.
So today's first step, the beginnings of another presumably mundane day, would be simply getting to his car three and a half blocks away.
Zeb headed out, taking in the fresh morning air while navigating the sharply vertical orientation of his hometown. The seven hills of Seattle's urban core presented a calf-burning exercise for pedestrians and a clutch-burning dilemma for motorists with manual transmissions. At the moment, the first of these maladies was calling on his lower extremities.
Though the overnight hours deposited a brief shower on the city—expected and ordinary—this budding spring day was starting out as clear and clean as they come in the Northwest. A nominal breeze moved in and among gleaming high-rise structures as a hint of the salted waterfront landed at Zeb's nose. Many mornings in this seaborne community the tang of brine overwhelmed. Today it smelled wonderful.
Zeb's medium build brought no unwarranted attention as he strode on among the grumpy, early rising pedestrians. At slightly over five foot ten Zeb didn't come across as physically imposing, not by any means. A few pounds had been added along the way but at thirty-seven, keeping a burgeoning belt line from becoming the first thing people noticed when you walked into a room had to count for something.
Dalton wore his hair longer than military-standard but still quite short. This was nothing new. Even in high school he had chosen a well-groomed cut over the predictably long and wild expressions of his classmates. Its color had held, even now a dark brown with only slight hints of gray. As far as physical attributes were concerned Dalton owned the middle ground in all things average, with a composite appearance rating somewhere between nondescript and lackluster. Except for his eyes. They were a different story altogether.
Amber, warm, curious. Often probing, never revealing, sometimes unsettling. Unique, unexpected. You had the sense they were searching, seeking beyond mere appearances to something more on the level of depth, character, heart. Not in a judgmental way. More inquisitive than damning.
Zeb's company didn't mandate business-wear, so khakis and a short-sleeved polo worked fine most days. It suited his casual style and BCPC's clientele seemed to prefer it as well. The presence of relaxed apparel somehow spoke "down-to-earth" to them, producing a vague perception of trustworthiness along with it.
Probably one of those intuitions we lean on too readily as fact, Zeb thought at times. An assumption easily manipulated by the unscrupulous and unprincipled.
This was true, so it was a good thing Zeb was neither.
The last time he'd dressed up was for a New Year's Eve party the Printmakers Union hosted atop the Space Needle. The tux shop took down the wrong measurements and Dalton stayed glued to his seat the entire evening, fearing something might burst or break at the slightest awkward motion. As former Army, three full-dress uniforms hung pressed and bagged in his bedroom closet. Though they still fit decently, he couldn't imagine a scenario in which he would put one on again.
Three more steps and he arrived, unlocking the door and sliding inside. With the seat adjusted into an acceptable position, Zeb engaged the ignition. Not even allowing thirty seconds for it to warm up, he popped the handbrake, signaled, and entered the already heavy morning traffic flow.
Six stoplights later, it glared at him.
Crap. Really?
He tapped the plastic cover. Maybe the needle was stuck. Nope, the temperature gauge on his 2001 Kia Sorrento was not happy. Last Tuesday Dalton had spied some coolant puddling on his garage floor as he headed out for work. At the time he in
tended to actually do something about it. Now, dead-still among the throng of commuters, he knew he shouldn't have let that one slide.
Zeb was brilliant, this much was true. He could also be a bit lazy at times.
A light mist began falling as a few lonely clouds scampered across an otherwise clear blue sky. In response, Zeb reached over to the steering column and turned the wipers on intermittent. As the volume of water falling from the sky didn't yet call for vigorous action from the worn out blades, the half measure only made matters worse. Far from a cleansing act, the accumulation of road grime and bug remains instead spread in an ever-widening, obstructing pattern across the windshield.
Head out the window, stretching forward, he checked the hood of the car.
Okay, no steam yet, but the clock continued to run, and not in his favor.
All those years in service of his country had drilled many fine traits into Dalton. Good habits, virtues, rhythms. Of these, punctuality topped the list. If the phrase went something like "five minutes early is already late", Zeb lived and breathed early. So today the prospect of the numbers 8:01 as the "in" on his time card ate away at his gut, churning even more in his already unbalanced state of being.
Excuses? There were no excuses for showing up after the bell had rung.
Ever.
Zeb ducked his head out once more. The solid red glow of taillights mocked any small hope he still held of getting in on schedule. Time for an alternate route.
The cars proceeded forward at a snail's pace. Or, for Seattleites, more like a slug's pace, which is both slower and messier. The rain had stopped for now as the small system cleared over and past the roadway, heading off into the foothills.
Up ahead, past the wide frame of an auto-carrier, Zeb could see the next cross street nearing, only a quarter mile up the road. Once there, Dalton took the turn and followed a curve to the right for the next few minutes before braking at a four-way stop.
Big mistake.
Dalton held ultra-detailed images of the city in his prodigious memory banks. Not these streets. They were a blank page. One big, dark spot on the map of his mind. Normally he would have pulled up the GPS app on his phone, type in the address of the shop and boom, he'd be in the clear and at his desk in time for another cup of coffee and whatever remained of the goods his boss brought in from his family's Swedish bakery in Ballard. At the moment, though, this usually helpful feature wasn't working. A week ago Zeb, uber bored at home, had decided that jailbreaking his phone might be fun. Stripping down and then reprogramming the OS himself, he had succeeded only partially, as right now the call and clock functions were the only things working on his state of the art phone.
So, with no idea where he was, Zeb played the odds that if he only kept moving, turning right—onto the next main road, he reasoned—he would eventually end up in a central, more recognized section of town. Better informed choices would then follow, using the urban grid as his sextant. At least this was the working theory.
Wrong again.
FOUR
The larger, two-lane path devolved into a set of narrower, winding side streets. Turn after turn Zeb's confidence in his bearings faded. Even more disorienting, the building and street signs now began to fade as well, from English-only into a mix with what appeared to be Asian characters.
Mandarin, he guessed out loud to no one but himself.
Somewhere, likely a late night cable program, he'd been informed that this was the most common subset of an incredibly diverse language family, one serving well over a billion of the Earth's inhabitants.
Well thank you very much, History Channel.
Though reasonably engaging and helpful information in other, less stressful circumstances, these things were mostly lost on Zeb because he was mostly lost. Then it dawned on him.
Of course.
Dalton had wandered into the web of buildings and neighborhoods comprising Seattle's International District. Though not measuring up to the sheer size and flash of a Chicago or San Francisco Chinatown, Seattle's ID still carried the unmistakable feel of a people group's comfort zone. Whatever it might lack in broader tourist appeal, it certainly made up for in local resident services and community connection. For Dalton though, the area held no interest whatsoever as every minute he spent here was another moment wasted, late and lost. This was unacceptable. Zeb needed to find help soon, before the Kia's engine uttered its final protest and he was left stranded on the roadside. At this point an ability to assess Chinese characters meaning "auto repair" became his singular goal.
Come on, baby. Come on. Hang in there.
Tigers, dragons, the Year of the Boar.
Don't you people need your cars fixed, too?
Suddenly, it appeared, in almost comical fashion.
A BP station.
So the Brits couldn't take your homeland but they can sure carve out a space to make money in your neighborhood, huh?
Zeb's mind fired up this kind of sarcasm as naturally as breathing. He realized that last thought may or may not be historically accurate. Still, it made him smile.
The aging sign out front alternated on and off rhythmically, with yellowing fluorescent bulbs and damaged letters spelling out: Hank's Import Auto.
Zeb's next thought?
Probably should be pronounced "Hahnks."
Racial insensitivity aside, the response painted a fitting image for his current state of affairs.
As if on cue the ailing sedan's grill erupted, hot vapors escaping from under and inside the closed compartment. Dalton glided her in the last few feet, pulling up beside the water and air pumps. Working hard to avoid the scalding, light green liquid emanating from the angry little car, he grabbed his laptop bag and cell phone from the back seat, noticing the time as he stepped out of range.
8:13am.
This day was only trending downward.
Dalton left the car dangling across two parking spots and walked into the tiny waiting room replete with old magazines and coffee-stained counter tops. Five minutes later he had handed the car over to a middle-aged man named Bert. Zeb had acquired this secret knowledge via the orange, stitched emblem on the left breast pocket of his partially tucked-in, denim shirt. In exchange for the keys, Dalton now gripped the single page, pink copy of the work order. Somehow this piece of paper, and also Bert himself, didn't provide a great deal of assurance that all would be well.
Alright. Might as well try to get some appointments lined up.
Zeb called on his two longest-term customers first. It was only a check-in. Still, he wanted to make sure they were satisfied with their last few projects. Better to not take any chances, he thought. Truthfully, Zeb was not very good at this. Professional sure, but not all that personable.
Why did he still have this job?
With the initial round of calls completed, he relaxed some. Like he'd thought, these folks were content, at least for now. He should do something special for them soon though—an extra-efforts kind of thing.
"Hey, you the guy with the Kia?"
The question caught his attention from the open service bay door, ten or so feet away.
"Yep. Guilty, as charged. So, what's it look like? I can't stay around much longer."
The voice stepped out, continuing.
Interesting.
The body connected to the words was not at all what Dalton anticipated. Considering the part of town he was in and the Chinese lettering on the sign overhead, Zeb found it amusing to be in the presence of a dead ringer for Opey from the old time Andy Griffith Show. Flaming red, matted hair. Every square millimeter on his face busy with freckles. All in all, he didn't fit the expected part.
Performing his best "wipe the grease off the hands" move, the mechanic shuffled his feet and then spoke again.
"Well, it ain't good," he drawled. "Gonna need a brand new radiator. I can get 'er done for you by tomorrow morning. Run you about a thousand."
"A thousand... dollars? You've got to be kidding me. Can't you
put a new hose on it or something? I mean duct tape the thing and call it good, man."
Red shuffled again.
"Wish I could. It's gonna take awhile to get it out of there. All the electronics on these things now. Not so straightforward anymore."
Dalton didn't trust many people and this guy wasn't climbing the list quickly, if at all. When it came down to it he didn't have much choice in the matter. He could get the car towed to his regular mechanic. That is, if he had one.
"Okay, whatever," Zeb said, waving the white flag. "Give me a call when it's done. But you tell Hahnk... I am not pleased."
Not getting the joke, Opey paused before responding.
"Sure. Will do, Mr..." looking down again at the paperwork "... uh, Dalton."
The Kia may have been cooling some but Zeb's emotions were still on the rise. This could be a problem. He needed to keep his frustrations under control today. The first two, already completed calls? Those would be the only cushy ones on the agenda. The third conversation, the next one in line this morning, would require a deft touch and a hardened backside. This customer was tough, both overly demanding and immensely frugal at the same time. Probably not their best long-term client, Zeb surmised; seemingly interested in short-term advantage more than the development of a prosperous, trusted collaboration at both ends of the table. Predictably, this was only his perspective as the hassled sales rep. His bosses wanted the work agreement finalized, yesterday.
With his car officially out of commission Zeb's next best option would be grabbing a cab up to their expansive office suite near Pike Place Market, overlooking Elliot Bay with pristine views westward to the Olympic Range. The location made it more bearable but only minimally so. Something on the order of adding whipped cream to a mouthful of vinegar.
When Totems Fall Page 2
