by Brian Dae
“He hasn’t spoken to you either, has he?”
“No, he hasn’t,” Cassidy replied.
“I thought he might be planning on leaving last year but I can’t say what made me think that. Maybe because he stopped talking about the vacations he’d been planning. When he actually turned in his resignation I wanted to sit him down and talk it over but he vanished without leaving us any way to contact him, like he wanted nothing to do with us anymore. Of course we didn’t take it that way. After twenty years of working with the man I know better than to sully the memory. He’s the most genuine and honest man I’ve ever worked with and it’s a shame to see him gone. If you ever hear from him, let him know that everyone here wishes him well in whatever he’s up to now.”
Hearing Hal describe his friend reassured Cassidy that the man he knew was the same. It made him remember a moment during the war. After fighting for three straight days in what would become the bloodiest exchange on the Veiga River, he managed to regroup with a few soldiers inside a small shed missing its roof. At this point two-thirds of their unit went missing during the ambush. Starved and exhausted their minds became dull. Phillips, a soldier who always maintained a good attitude, rose and surveyed the group, thanking each soldier for surviving the battle as his eyelids struggled to remain open above a trickle of blood. His gesture changed nothing but it revealed character. However much the fighting drained their spirits he still wanted to let them know he cared about whether they made it or not. Those days revealed much about the individual despite robbing one’s ability to make decisions for themselves. Whatever political leanings Paul held could be reconciled with his character; he gave reason for others to trust him.
Eager to play host, Hal suggested giving a tour of their facilities. After opening the door leading down to the shop floor, another phone call sapped his attention and he returned to his desk, apologizing for lacking the time to guide him. If business slowed it did little to stop the flow of calls coming in. From the doorway Cassidy could see massive machines spin and punch on their axis, their mechanical arms sorting parts onto separate conveyors. In descending the bare metal stairwell he lost this wider view while concentrating on not slipping through the open gaps. The ambient noise outside the office rose to a level just below unbearable as he struggled to hear his own footsteps against the creaking metal steps. Once he reached the concrete floor, it became difficult to recall the shop’s layout and he wandered among the metal racks and tools aimlessly. A nearby worker wearing large orange earmuffs monitored strange equipment beneath thick glass goggles and failed to notice Cassidy when he came closer until he turned to drink from his canteen—his awareness limited to his immediate work. Removing one ear from his protective gear, the worker asked if he could be of assistance.
“’I’m just wandering around the shop floor. That’s not a good idea in a factory is it?” Cassidy said.
“No sir, be careful of the machines. Is there anyone in the office who can guide you around?”
“Hal’s stuck on the phone.”
The worker shook Cassidy’s hand and left synthetic lubricant on his palm.
“My name’s Sergei. I can’t leave my station right now or the people down line are going to have nothing to do. You might find someone with free time in the cafeteria, just ask around, we’re real friendly here.”
Cassidy noticed Sergei’s eyes darting back to his machine. His legs swayed from side to side to keep blood circulating while standing upright all day long. Although he appeared preoccupied with the blinking screens, Cassidy proceeded to start a conversation.
“I’m a friend of Paul’s, from the army. Have you heard anything from him?”
“Well if that’s the case, we should be asking you.”
In moments when both sides suspect the other knows the answer, brief bouts of silence draws forth answers. The machine continued to blink and emit static hisses from its speaker. They challenged each other to speak first.
“Was he involved?” Sergei asked.
“No,” Cassidy replied.
Sergei switched off the machine and stretched, hitting a small circular button signaling he was taking a short break.
“It’s not easy being Karkovian, even half-Karkovian. There’s just too much history behind us and not everyone can move past that. Especially not in this environment. I don’t think Paul’s told me anything worth repeating to you but you might understand things better if you talk to more people. There’s an indigenous center out around Sycamore where you can start listening. I can’t say you’ll come back with any conclusions but if you’re trying to see what he saw, I’d start there.”
Switching the machine back on restarted the conveyors, sending metal spindles and steel washers down the light-gray tarp to be assembled further on. Their conversation exhausted the buffer Sergei had accrued earlier and he returned to work. The surrounding machines continued buzzing on but the slight disturbance caught the foreman’s eye, drawing him forward with his notebook tucked underneath his armpit.
“This your friend Sergei?”
“He’s Paul’s friend, come here and introduce yourself.”
He shook Cassidy’s hand with a vicelike grip, grinning all the while, and introduced himself as Walt the floor supervisor.
“You’re one of the guys from the Veteran’s Organization right? Paul never really talked much about it but he was real fond of you all. Your name is Cassidy right? He mentioned you before, the guy who sells microwaves. Like the one we have in our breakroom.”
“Something like that but it’s a bit different. Though I’m retired now and can’t be bothered to explain why.”
“Well anyone would ask, you’re still too young for that aren’t you? I’d like to retire myself but I haven’t saved enough to make it so I’m stuck here working until I can pay off all my debts. Just the state of the country isn’t it?”
The constant workplace din drowned out their conversation. Walt addressed this by pointing to his ears and motioning for Cassidy to follow. Painted yellow markers led them past aisles of productivity; with each step laid out in logical order before final assembly and packaging, catching only a glimpse in passing. Tucked behind twin doors awaited an oppressively gray interior where they could find some quiet. The aforementioned microwave sat idle, joined by a bubbling coffee pot and mugs drying on the counter. Being early afternoon most workers already finished their lunches and returned back to work. Walt brushed some crumbs off the table and invited Cassidy to join him for some coffee.
“You know, Paul never talked about the war with me even though I’m a veteran myself. The Southern Wars, not Karkov. I won’t say we went through the same stuff because god knows that’s not true but it’s kind of weird to talk about myself without hearing anything out of him too you know. Listening to his demons and all that. Maybe that’s what people do in the Veteran’s Organization. I’ve never attended a meeting myself. Not because I’m against going, just never thought it was right for me. Do you guys talk about the war there?”
“Not really, no. I can’t say I remember ever hearing Paul talk about the war, let alone what happened to him personally. He never asked me about what I went through either.”
“Listening to other people’s stories helps you remember things you didn’t notice the first time around, things you never paid much attention to. Besides, it’s not like everyone has a good memory and I wouldn’t recommend taking any of my stories as fact. Kind of hard to exaggerate the Karkovian War though.”
Cassidy laughed. The comment struck him as both true and inappropriate—a condition arising from the war’s absurdity and the difficulty in portraying it any other way. What happened in the beginning hardly mattered in the end and few debated the ending. Perhaps Karkov’s veterans disliked bringing up the war for this reason. Things might be easier to discuss if there was anything worth discussing. Sharing their personal experiences mattered for another reason though and it made Cassidy reflect on all the wasted time spent in the V
eteran’s Organization with regret. They said nothing and secluded themselves in their private corner imagining themselves untouchable or mutually unintelligible. Both then and now he knew it to be absurd. Still, an enormous rift presented itself between acting and doing nothing.
Walt appeared pleased with himself for making Cassidy smile if only for a moment and added an additional stop to their itinerary, promising to show him the finished product in action. Instead of unpacking a box from the finished goods, they traveled once more across the factory floor to a small secluded office hidden between two pillories. Inside, scrap parts littered otherwise spotless desks and cardboard boxes full of additional parts cluttered moving racks beside them. An unfamiliar percussive language bounced between technicians working on the opposite side of the room where they repaired returned units. Speaking to their efficiency the queue of pending units looked shorter than the repaired.
“David, can I use your bench to show a guest our product? It won’t take long.”
Unamused, David rolled back from his chair and gestured them forward with his hand. The machine he worked on looked dated; its chrome finish and colored resin belonging to an earlier generation’s aesthetics but aside from a few exterior blemishes appeared in decent shape. Whoever owned the unit took good care of it. A quick towel rubbing and polishing oil would restore it to pristine condition.
“Now, I haven’t done sales in years so don’t expect me to sell it to you. This is our original flagship: The Sewing Proper. It’s got something like eighty different stitches it can do which are sorted with these switches on the side. Multiple speeds and widths too. Makes for a nifty gift if you know anybody interested in sewing. If you’re not sure about it we have entry models too.”
Spoken to the wrong audience. Elena never exhibited much interest in sewing and preferred to toss out anything starting to fall apart. When Paul offered him special discounts, Cassidy explained the situation expecting to hear another pitch come next holiday. Hearing it again now did little to change the result. However, this happened to be the first time Cassidy ever saw a machine in person and it looked more interesting than he anticipated. Holding it he judged it quite heavy before placing it back down, curiosity satisfied. For those who possessed this hobby it certainly appeared top of the line.
“What do you think? It’s a real beauty, not like the machines our competitors are pumping out. We take a little more pride in our product and it shows.”
“I think I’ll have to pass again this year.”
“Don’t you want to see it in action? I’m sure we have some fabric we could borrow.”
“That’s alright, I’m sure everyone would rather finish their work in peace,” Cassidy said.
Opting to conclude his visit, Cassidy thanked Walt and joined him outside through the front entrance. Walt shook his hand and suggested he come back sometime if he was ever in the market for a sewing machine—a promise he politely agreed to. After parting ways Cassidy thought about returning home; his tour ended sooner than he expected but traveling south to Sycamore felt too ambitious. The days felt longer in springtime, elongated by the muggy heat. Whatever he needed to do there required his full attention and he lacked the drive to have more than a single thing on his schedule. If anything, speaking with the workers at the factory reminded him of his previous work and rekindled some fond memories of workplace friends. Paul settled somewhere decent after the war and did well enough for himself to be considered a friend. No small feat indeed.
CHAPTER SIX
Sycamore officially belonged to the suburbs but there was no denying its true affiliation—built with the same grime and history as The City. Brick buildings undulated alongside the train tracks much like they did two kilometers back across the demarcation line; a mix of small factories and converted residential flats housing people who worked urban jobs. Spillovers who spread outward like an invasive species that already extended to sixteen districts. Over time it might be possible to see a seventeenth or eighteenth district emerge from these colonists but for now people just introduced themselves as City residents to outsiders. Farther out the line blurred when grass and strip malls began appearing. Luxurious uses of land. Here anything larger than a townhouse lacked a second story in this vertically challenged landscape. It could be anywhere else in Vandia.
Cassidy hoped to locate the Indigenous Center leafing through a tourist pamphlet sticking out the seatback pocket facing him; finding instead unremarkable places of dubious historical value, things townsfolk took an odd pride in. After exiting at Suerize Station he tried asking for help at the ticketing booth. An amicable old woman pointed it out on a large map stapled behind her before handing over a foldable printout, circling the location again on the little square quadrants dividing the town. It sat a short distance away, about fifteen minutes by bus. After showing him the location she took a long hard look at his face. He studied the printout before he noticed her gaze.
“I want to visit a friend,” Cassidy said.
Four buses idled outside unmanned or undergoing maintenance. Being the first stop on multiple routes made it so drivers congregated there to chat or check on things before going their respective routes, stretching their legs before fish-eyed passengers boarded. Cassidy read the vehicle numbers and made sure to catch the right ride. They made fewer trips here. The idea of being stranded at a stop for thirty minutes and spending another two Vesas bothered him immensely. By departure time he stood in line watching his watch every other minute. Unlike trains, bus schedules appeared to be more flexible here. When the driver finally stomped out his cigarette and sat down, Cassidy went in first, followed by a crowd of mostly young riders. If Cassidy was being honest, he was prejudiced against public transit in the suburbs because their clientele looked less reflective of the people who lived there. Everyone who worked out in the suburbs owned a car and his family had been no exception; the same held true for all his neighbors. Public transit served people who did not possess cars and that was the only reason they used them, not because they were convenient or well-placed. An afterthought to say it existed.
When he paid the fare and stepped inside the cabin, he was surprised by the lack of harsh odors. Cassidy remembered dusty seats and stained floors from his youth, rugged faces appearing row after row in a torrent of grim facades, their clothes ragged and dull in color. Broken spirits headed out to their second or third jobs—a miserable lot whose sight was difficult for a young boy to ignore without feeling self-conscious in his untarnished shoes. Today the passengers sitting beside him looked more like he and his father did. Young men and women who looked self-assured and confident that the moves they made now would be rewarded later. Certainly a simple glance over would not reveal if his assumptions were true but he could feel it from the way they carried themselves and it reminded him of earlier pioneers. He sat next to a young man with curly black hair who fell half-asleep upon sitting down. Not a trace of alcohol on his breath, just proper work. Even if their skin and faces looked different, this crowd was far more relatable to him. Though perhaps he looked to them like the men back then.
Close to his stop, the thoroughfare bustled in a way reminiscent of The City. It was decidedly more foreign than the surrounding areas with signs and storefronts advertising in a number of languages: barbers, tailors, laundromats, restaurants, and small clinics all vying for business. Looking all the more jarring with Southern script plastered over Northern-style architecture as they renovated the previous inhabitant’s buildings. Shuffling out with three others, Cassidy stood there taking stock of his surroundings while the others immediately began walking. Despite being immigrants as well, these people came from other parts of the world, bringing their own character to the neighborhood.
Having not eaten lunch he decided to acquaint himself with the local options. Travel usually made him less hungry when new sights fed him plenty but now he felt somewhat light-headed. Without an idea of what to expect inside, he stopped by a little shop and watched people head
in and out to collect their orders with a reassuring frequency. A rough young man dressed in kitchen attire loitered outside smoking while an ostensibly stray black cat rubbed against his legs—his participation apparently unneeded to fulfill the rush of customers. Their eyes met briefly and dashed off in another direction. Cassidy approached the building figuring it was as good as any and saw that the store was covered in flyers advertising how it remained in partial operation for some religious holiday. Inside an extended entrance greeted him with an additional two doors heading in or out, although labeled in their language. Unsure if this mattered, he disregarded the riddle and entered.
Stacked with heated goods like fried doughs and chicken drumsticks, the counter was arranged like a cafeteria while the dining room had been cleared out with tables and chairs stacked against the wall. The sight of an empty seating area made him hesitant again but the smiling man serving customers bid him forward; an assuming old man whose face was speckled with spots and who went back and forth from the kitchen with takeout boxes. Understanding his reluctance, the owner apologized for the disruption in operations explaining how they normally fasted during midday to observe tradition while celebrating this holy week. He stressed that they were open for business and that the food would be agreeable to his tastes, giving instruction on how the food should be eaten with his hands and how it would taste. And after saying all this and taking Cassidy’s order, he personally stepped out and arranged a table for him saying how it was important to accommodate guests. He thanked him for the hospitality and quickly became overwhelmed with a massive sheet of bread layered with meats, curry, and seasoned vegetables.
