by James Sperl
Jon had the good sense to suggest that the group investigate the facility first to see where lines led before he and the others blindly filed in behind one. It was good advice. Of the eleven snaking columns of impatient people, only one was earmarked for new arrivals. The line also happened to be the shortest.
The woman who greeted Clarissa and the others from under a handmade sign labeled “New Arrivals” was a heavyset gal with an infectious smile. Her jade green eyes were bright with hope and possibility, and her presence alone made Clarissa feel better.
“Welcome to New Framingham,” the woman said cheerfully. “I'm Jocelyn Brange. Is the PSF your first destination?”
Clarissa took it upon herself to speak for the group. “Yes. They told us at in-processing to come here and check on our stuff.”
“Mm hmm. They usually do. It's so people can see how things work around here and that the system can be trusted. Other than any weapons or food, you should find everything you arrived with in your designated P-E-S once it's processed.”
Clarissa lowered her head. “I'm sorry, a P-E-S?”
Jocelyn rolled her eyes and swiped at the air apologetically.
“Sorry. I sometimes forget that newcomers aren't familiar with the terminology yet. P-E-S—personal effects space. You may notice the other lanes are all marked 'P-E-A.'”
Everyone located the signs Jocelyn mentioned.
“That stands for 'personal effects access,' so the next time you come, you can bypass this line and jump in any of the others. Things will move a bit quicker too, I promise. Have you been oriented to New Framingham yet?”
“Just the nickel tour,” Jon volunteered. “Our guide got called away before we had the chance to ask too many questions.”
“Was your guide Donna, by any chance?”
Jon cocked his head. “She was.”
“She's a busy bee, that one. It doesn't surprise me a bit that she had to leave you in the lurch like that. She's always off to do something.”
“What does she do around here?” asked Andrew.
Jocelyn chuckled. “What doesn't she do is the better question. I know she's a member of the Board, and that she takes an active interest in a lot of the goings on in New Framingham, particularly greeting new arrivals, but as to what her exact job title is...?” Jocelyn twisted her mouth in thought. “I really couldn't say.”
Andrew had thought he delivered a covert glance to Jon, but Clarissa caught it.
“Did she at least show you the Big Board?”
“She did,” Clarissa answered.
“All right. Good.” Jocelyn seemed to breathe a sigh of relief. “You'll find smaller versions of the Big Board scattered throughout New Framingham. One of our residents was a graphic designer, so she took it upon herself to create maps for the community. They've been a godsend. Where're you headed from here?”
Clarissa looked at the others but only got shrugs. “I'm not sure.”
Jocelyn nodded as if this were common. “Check out Old Navy. It's where the jobs market is. I know it might seem sudden to be looking for work so soon after arriving, but the sooner you get a job and get your totem, the easier life will be.”
Rachel, who hadn't left Cesare's side, peeked from behind Jon. “What if you don't get a job right away? Do they throw you out?”
“Oh, my, no!” Jocelyn said through an emphatic laugh. “You've got time, sweetie. I don't know if you've looked carefully at your IDs, but your arrival date is written on the back. You have ten days from that date to find work, which shouldn't be a problem.” Jocelyn pinched her lips into a smile. “Speaking of your IDs, may I see them? I'll check the system and see if you're P-Es have arrived.” She leaned into the letters “PE” as she said them and grinned. She faced a computer where a cash register had once been and brought up a simplified database.
“Wait,” Cesare said, frowning with curiosity. “You have computers? And a network?”
“We do,” Jocelyn said without looking at him. “But it's only local, and it's hardwired. We've got blessed cables everywhere.”
Clarissa followed the cables that snaked out of the back of Jocelyn's computer and trailed them over to what used to be the customer service desk two aisles away. A man and a woman there sifted through a stack of papers and entered information into another computer, which appeared to be the mainframe for the operation.
“They keep the gennies out back running pretty much all the time,” Jocelyn said. “Charging battery packs, portable power banks, and whatnot. Run some of the lights here too, but not near as many as before.”
“These systems aren't directly powered?” Cesare asked, producing his ID card.
“No, unfortunately. Everyone knows it's not the most effective way to do business, but the way I understand it, it would take a couple miles of extension cord to connect everything. We tried setting up the generators out front and around the side for proximity's sake, but they were just so noisy. And the fumes? Forget it. So to the warehouse they went. It's not ideal—what is nowadays?—but batteries work just fine. IDs?”
Everyone gave his or her ID card to Jocelyn. Clarissa briefly inspected hers before she handed it over. The card was crude and looked as if someone had assembled it in a remedial art class. Blank, business card-sized pieces of card stock were sealed with strips of packing tape and trimmed to size. Written along the bottom edge was an eight-digit, alphanumeric ID that comprised parts of her name and her arrival date. That was it. Clarissa supposed that was all it required.
Jocelyn pecked away on her keyboard. She held each card mere inches from her face, as she cross-referenced ID numbers with the database. After several minutes of stooped-over inspection, she faced the group.
“I'm sorry, everyone. Doesn't look like your stuff's been processed just yet.” She glanced at the two individuals manning the mainframe then leaned toward Clarissa conspiratorially. “Between you and me,” she said in a hushed tone, “I'm not surprised. Brenda's about as slow as they come. Nice lady, but you could celebrate a birthday waiting for her to get a job done.” She straightened and addressed the group.
“Here's what I'd do if I were you,” she began. “Head over to Old Navy. Check out the jobs, then take a tour of New Framingham, see how everything runs. I can't imagine it'll take more than a couple of hours or so before you're in the system.” Jocelyn hesitated before saying, “If I could offer some advice?”
Clarissa nodded agreeably. “Please.”
“Once you get your stuff, I highly recommend each person carry a backpack with them at all times. Keep a couple of changes of fresh clothes in them, bedding if at all possible. Some folks like to lug a pillow around all day for when they sleep, but you'd be surprised how practical a pillow case over your pack can be. This place is open twenty-four-seven, so you can come whenever you want, but it can get tedious to have to queue up every time you need a change of underwear. Wait times can vary from ten minutes up to three hours, and it goes without saying that your times significantly reduce after midnight.”
She reached for a water bottle and took three big gulps before returning it to its spot on the counter.
“As I said before, when you come back, you can go to any of the other lines. You'll get a number, which will be queued by aisle. I know it sounds strange to wait in one line only to get put in another, but only so many people at a time are allowed in any particular aisle. Sometimes you'll get stuck behind ten people who have P-Es in the same aisle as you, other times there won't be a soul. You'll eventually figure out what time is best to come.” Jocelyn put a pensive finger to her lips. “I think that's everything. Do you have any questions?”
Jocelyn handed back the IDs, her eyes receptive.
“I have a question,” Jon said. “Can you tell me where we can find Rosenstein?”
Her face morphed into a profound expression of confusion.
“Rosenstein? I'm sorry, but I've never heard of that. Is it an area of New Framingham? What do they specialize in?” She sear
ched Jon's and the others' faces with apparent ignorance.
“Forget it,” Jon said. “I'm thinking of something else.” He shot Clarissa a frustrated look.
“I have one too,” said Evan. “How long do we get with our stuff once we get back there?”
“Oh, that's a great question. I can't believe I forgot to mention it. Yes, each called number receives exactly five minutes, and they're very strict about it.”
“Five?” Evan gasped. “That doesn't sound very long.”
“It does seem brief, doesn't it? I think you'll find, though, it's more than you'll need. Most people are in and out between three and four minutes, either changing out their clothes or getting something personal, like a guitar or a photo album or something. It really is more time than you think. You'll see after a few—”
The baby howled suddenly in Elenora's arms. Elenora shushed and bounced the baby gently, but she was inconsolable. The screaming gave way to tears, which seeped down her upset face in tiny rivulets.
Clarissa reached for the baby instinctively. She didn't know what she would try that Elenora hadn't, but she couldn't ignore the maternal pang that swelled in her breast. She plucked the infant from Elenora's reluctant arms and cradled her, swaying steadily from side to side, a soothing boat adrift on an undulating sea.
The baby quieted almost instantly, and no one was more surprised by it than Clarissa.
“You can tell she missed her mama,” Jocelyn said. She stood on her tiptoes to get a better look at the baby. “Oh, my word, your daughter's beautiful.”
“Thanks,” Clarissa said, “But actually, she's not mine.”
Jocelyn recoiled in shock. “Really? Well, she sure seems to think she is.”
Clarissa peered down at the tiny wet eyes that stared up at her, and in that fleeting moment, she understood the boundless love a mother had for her child. It made her think of the harried moms she had seen at Aunt Mae's, who still managed to smile as they wrestled a high chair up to a crowded table or navigated a stroller through the narrow straits of a congested dining room. It was a feeling of inexplicable warmth that was intoxicating on an addictive level.
She carried the baby out of Lowe's and held onto her for the entire walk over to Old Navy. They were all going to look for jobs, but Clarissa had already been awakened to the perfect one, just as she had always known it would be.
CHAPTER 49
Clarissa and the others got their first look at the Sleep Zone.
It was more of a passing glance, but to reach the Job Notification Center—a.k.a. Old Navy—they had to enter the Sleep Zone through its western gate and skirt south along its perimeter.
The sight was unreal. People were arranged by the hundreds in column after column of sleeping New Framingham residents, most of whom slept on the ground on mats or sleeping bags, though some had been fortunate enough to score an elevated cot. Towels, sleeping masks, hats, and t-shirts shielded faces from early afternoon sun. The more savvy sleepers found a way to rig temporary shade using cardboard boxes. Just as Donna had said, armed guards patrolled the rooftops, with quite a few more wandering among the sleeping.
A ripple of anxiety washed over Clarissa at the thought of so many strangers watching over her in such a vulnerable state. She was sure she wasn't the only one who held reservations, but it didn't make her feel any more at ease. Still, if others overcame their discomfort, she supposed she could as well.
The guns made her nervous. Each guard had one, whether a rifle or a holstered sidearm. It troubled her. By now, everyone understood that their adversary wasn't something you could engage in physical combat. So, why so many armed guards? Clarissa, of course, knew the answer. No matter how much adversity man faced, no matter what mortal peril the species found itself battling against, human beings would always be their own worst enemy.
The group moved through a light crowd past Nordstrom Rack and the Sports Authority, the functions for both Clarissa would have to learn at a later time. She pondered the community's decision to situate the Sleep Zone in the Shopper's World parking lot. Nearly every community service offered in New Framingham lay adjacent to it, the various buildings forming a U shape around it. It struck her as counter-intuitive. People would always be moving about, crossing the lot from location to location. The noise must be terrible at times. Why designate the area most likely to be abuzz with activity as the one most in need of silence?
And what did everyone do when it rained? She noticed a cordoned-off section piled high with collapsible canopies and hastily folded tarpaulins, but she couldn't imagine there were near enough to accommodate everyone. Even if there was ample cover, erecting everything seemed like it defeated the purpose of the Sleep Zone, which was to provide visibility to sleeping residents twenty-four-seven. Were people given a choice of roof or no roof on wet days, or had everyone adjusted to enduring rain showers when they happened? Clarissa couldn't imagine a more miserable way to get a few winks.
Andrew, who had been leading the group, stopped in front of an entrance at the end of the storefront promenade. He peered inside then looked up at a sign posted over the door. He faced everyone as they caught up with him and said, “This is it.”
* * *
“I see mine.” Jon plucked a 3” X 5” index card off a wall-sized bulletin board from under the heading "Security and Policing." Other headings filled the board. Names such as “Food Service,” “Sanitation,” and “Retail,” were all capitalized in black ink and underscored by a thick red line, the jobs relating to each category pinned below them.
Clarissa held the baby to her chest and excused her way through a crush of other job seekers to move up beside him.
“Yeah?” she said, reading his card. “You're going to be a cop?”
Jon shrugged. “I figure with my military background it's the easiest and most obvious choice. Plus, it'll allow me to keep an eye on all you goofballs.” He lightly tapped the baby's nose.
“Aw,” Clarissa said, as she snuggled the baby, who had since quieted. “Did you hear that? Jon loves us.”
“Guess I should go look into this,” he said, nudging his chin in the direction of Old Navy's checkout lane, which had been transformed into a four-station processing area. A poster board sign, which read “Applicants,” dangled from lengths of cord over the two men and two women who worked it. One of the women was currently free. “Look at that,” Jon said. “No line.”
“I have a feeling you probably shouldn't get used to that.”
“Cynic.” Jon gave her a friendly hip bump before he headed for the desk.
“See anything?” Rachel said, appearing at her side.
Clarissa glanced at her friend then faced the bulletin board. “I haven't started looking yet. Just sort of taking it all in. Jon found something, though. Going to be a cop.”
Rachel chuckled. “That sounds about right.”
“What about you?”
“I don't know,” Rachel said wrinkling her nose and glancing at the various cards pinned to the wall. “Nothing's jumping out at—”
“She's going to work with me,” Cesare said, as his arm divided the women and reached for two cards from below the “Food Service” heading. He snapped them against his other hand triumphantly.
“Work with you where?” Rachel demanded. She clamored to get a look at the cards. “Food service? I don't want to be a waitress.”
“Hey!” Clarissa said with mock rage. “What's wrong with being a waitress?”
Rachel rolled her eyes playfully. “Nothing. You know what I mean.” She regarded the other people in the room and lowered her voice. “I just don't want to be one here.”
“Good,” said Cesare. “Because the job is for a chef.”
Clarissa screwed her face into comic disbelief. “What? A chef? Here? Come on.”
“That's what it says.”
Cesare held up the cards. Clarissa leaned forward to read them. The baby took the opportunity to reach for them with saliva-smeared hands.
&
nbsp; Sure enough: “Wanted: Chef with restaurant experience. All shifts.” That was the extent of the listing.
“I'll be damned,” Clarissa said. “Guess they really are shooting for a community vibe in here.”
“I'm not a chef,” Rachel said from under a frown.
“No,” Cesare responded, as he held up the other card. “But you could be a chef's assistant.”
Rachel plucked the card from his hand. She mumbled as she read the description, Clarissa only able to pick out the word “assistant” from the unintelligible others. Finishing, she looked up, her eyes bright with possibility. “It says 'no experience necessary.'” She beamed with delight.
“Exactly,” Cesare said. “I could show you what I know, what my nonna taught me. Now, I've never actually worked in a restaurant kitchen, but they don't need to know that. It's not like they can check references or anything, right?”
“Cesare!” Rachel said. She whacked his arm.
“All I'm saying is that if we do this, we could, you know...still be around each other. If that's something you wanted, I mean.”
Rachel let her eyes droop and shot Clarissa a dumbfounded look.
“What is it with men?” She grabbed Cesare by the arm and urged him in the direction of the Applicants desk, which was now two people deep. “Go.”
Cesare pretended to protest, but only a little. He motioned to Elenora, who sat along a row of chairs and had opted to “stay out of everyone's way,” to join him. Slipping an arm around Rachel's waist, Cesare escorted the two women to the desk.
Andrew had been staring at the board in reluctant consideration since they arrived, his arms crossed defiantly over his chest. Clarissa could only imagine what he was thinking. His mind must have been doing backflips.
“Having any luck?” she said to him, as she approached.
Andrew regarded her briefly then returned to staring blankly at the board.
“Not particularly.”
“Me either.” She shifted the baby to her other arm. “I've been busy with the little one here.” Andrew tried to smile, but it took too much effort. “Look, Andrew. I know how difficult this all must be for you. But just hang in there. We're still on the trail. I believe Jon when he says Donna's lying and that Rosenstein's here. We just have to keep our eye on the prize.”
