The Stars Will Guide Us Back

by Rue Sparks

  The waters, now leagues deep, camouflage his desktop tower, the spider plant his girlfriend had been attempting to save and the mountain of bills that are stacked haphazardly to the right side of his desk. As they are lost to his sight, they drift from his mind like so much sea trash.

  He pulls out his compass and map, sets sail for where the Wild reign.

  Clay looks again, but the space-suit clad astronaut with the ‘Happy 30th Birthday’ balloon waiting for their copies at the printer doesn’t disappear.

  He barks out a laugh, which earns him a glare from across his computer monitor from Jessica. She looks up at him with cold green eyes below perfectly stenciled eyebrows before looking back down at her screen. Clay sweeps the room with his gaze, but no one else notices the astronaut. No one seems to see anything out of the ordinary at all.

  I’m being pranked, he thinks, and picks up his phone to take a casual photo of the astronaut as they pick their copies up from the tray in their thickly gloved fingers before they move down the hall, the white balloon with the rainbow text cheerily bobbing behind them.

  “Clay, I needed that report yesterday!” his boss calls from the fishbowl room next to him, and Clay quickly becomes entranced in his job, forgetting about the strange astronaut for the remainder of the morning.

  The firefighter is next.

  Needless to say, coming into the breakroom and seeing a firefighter fully clad in mustard yellow, soot covered gear instantly puts Clay on edge, but after seeing the quality of the astronaut gear, and upon recognizing Matthew from the IT department behind the mask, his mood turns from panicked, takes a quick stop at confused, and settles on careful amusement. They’re really dedicated to this prank. Should I play along or call them out?

  Matthew is opening packets of sugar to add to his coffee — a somewhat incongruous vision considering his attire — when Clay sidles up to him, feigning innocence. He reaches for the coffee pot and pours himself a cup as well.

  “So. Put out any fires lately?”

  Matthew chuckles low, reaches into the fridge for the creamer, and adds a healthy dose, though he nearly drops it through his thick gloves.

  “You have no idea. Nancy in sales downloaded a PDF from an unknown sender, and it downloaded a virus onto her computer and nearly wiped it. We could have had a serious security issue on our hands if she hadn’t realized her mistake and turned the computer off immediately. Why, imagine if we’d been liable for …”

  Matthew drones on, and Clay stirs his coffee with a growing frown on his face, one that Matthew misses in his excitement. He gesticulates when he talks, leading him to spill coffee on his thick, soot-stained coat. It doesn’t make much of a stain, but Matthew drops his coffee cup in the sink immediately and searches frantically for a paper towel.

  “You can barely see it,” Clay comments, handing Matthew a few napkins. He immediately wets them and begins tenderly dabbing at the stain.

  “I can’t have a stain, not today! I’m meeting my fiancée’s parents after work. Besides that, Jenna will kill me, this shirt is organic silk! Ugh.” He turns to Clay, holding his arms out, displaying the full ensemble of firefighter regalia, complete with a tool belt including an axe that Clay hadn’t noticed before. How was he allowed to bring that in here? If I’m being punked, these are some extreme lengths they’re going to. Better to stop it here.

  “You look like a firefighter, Matthew. I don’t think they’re going to notice a coffee stain.”

  Confusion and anxiety twist Matthew’s face as he re-wets the napkins and starts dabbing at the spot again. The rough fabric shreds the napkin, leaving small spots of white pulp where it has come apart.

  “What? Oh hell, I knew we shouldn’t have gone with the mustard color. It looks that bad? We thought the dark gray fitted pants would offset it.” He throws the napkins into the trash and rubs at his face.

  “I probably look like a Grey Poupon bottle. We bought a green one too, hopefully I won’t look like relish. I’ll change before I get home.”

  Matthew starts walking towards the door but pauses to pat Clay on the shoulder. “Thanks for the heads up. You’re quiet, but you’re a good guy. Appreciate it.”

  Before he disappears through the doorway, Clay calls him back.

  “So, you didn’t dress as a firefighter on purpose?”

  Matthew chuckles and scratches at his chin with his thick glove, soot streaking his face as it blossoms into a half smile. “You know, I always wanted to be one. But that was a long time ago. People change. Realism won out I guess.”

  He shrugs and disappears through the doorway, leaving Clay stranded in the breakroom on his own with his confusion and anxiety twisting in his chest.

  What the ever-loving fuck?

  When their director of sales is dressed as a ballerina, Clay is officially past amused and solidly settled in the realm of concerned for his health. The director, Lyle, begins the meeting doing stretches, and during the presentation they perform poses in front of the projector screen, complete with skin-tight black leotard covered in an array of blue and purple sequins that sparkle like starlight. They wear black tights, sky blue pointed toe shoes laced up their calves.

  When Clay risks a glance around the room, the rest of the sales team is preoccupied on their laptops, taking notes or scrolling social media. None of them seem phased as Lyle touches their right foot in an arc near to the back of their head as they discuss the decrease in sign-ups the past quarter.

  “While we’ve seen an increase in customer loyalty and satisfaction with our customer service, we’re struggling to meet our goals in new customer relations.” They pirouette as they continue. Clay wonders at their ability to do so in a confined space and maintain their professional tone at the same time.

  With a twirl and bow, Lyle clicks to the final slide. “Any questions?”

  Clay bites his tongue. He has questions alright, but he knows if he is going to question Lyle it has to be one on one. If his suspicions are correct, and he is the only one who can see these strange getups, then he can’t let on about his personal gnosis.

  Lyle fields a few questions about the particulars of the new registration regulations before dismissing the meeting. A few of his colleagues approach Lyle with comments, leaving Clay to lean against the wall and tap his foot as his thoughts spiral and he waits for an opening to talk to them alone.

  Finally, they are the last people in the room. When Lyle begins removing the cords from their laptop connecting it to the projector, Clay approaches them.

  “That was … some performance,” he says, internally thrashing himself. Smooth.

  Lyle snorts. They have always been professional in meetings and during work hours but have a snarky streak that shows its face when one on one.

  “It was a quarterly debriefing. Hardly my finest hour.” They shut their laptop and hold it to their chest before they turn to him, winged eyeliner contrasting their light gray eyes and highlighting their buzzed black hair. “Did you need something Clay?”

  “Yeah, actually. My girlfriend was interested in taking ballet, and I heard you might have some connections.”

  Lyle looks taken aback, head jerking backward for a moment and confusion infiltrating their gaze. “Where the hell’d you hear that?”

  Clay shrugs, feigning ignorance. “Through the grapevine.”

  Lyle scrunches up their face, silent for a moment before answering. “I haven’t been involved in ballet for a long, long time. Not since I was a kid. I won’t be much help. Sorry.”

  Lyle pushes past him, jostling Clay’s shoulder in an uncharacteristically clumsy moment.

  “Hey, wait!” Clay follows them through the doorway and down the hall towards their office.

  Lyle stops and turns. “What, Clay? I have to get to a meeting.”

  “Why’d you stop?”

  “Stop what?” they ask, annoyance in their tone.

  “Ballet.”

  They turn away from him and stare at the neutral gray wall
. “Not that it’s any of your business, but my father didn’t approve. That’s more than I should be telling you.” They walk down the hall, and Clay lets them.

  As he walks back to his desk, he tries to focus on his predicament, but there is something about Lyle’s face that unsettles him.

  Someone shouldn’t give up on their dreams on someone else’s say so.

  The thought settles like a lead ball of guilt in his stomach.

  The Wild is unruly tonight. The seas are a furious, thrashing miasma that reaches over the ship’s rails and soaks his socks, but Clay ignores the sea water between his toes and clicks the mouse furiously, centers on the visage of an armored orc in the crossfire.

  “Die, damnit!” he mutters as the screen flashes, signaling the damage he takes. “You shouldn’t be at this level on this island.”

  The orc doesn’t listen, striking at Clay’s character on the computer monitor. Despite his misgivings, Clay decides on using one of his precious bombs to make a crushing blow against the monster, setting it down and counting down to eight before running in the opposite direction of the orc, far enough to escape the blast but not early enough for the orc to do the same.

  “Yes,” Clay whispers, careful not to wake Kim. Though the lightning and thunder should have kept her awake, if not the groaning of the sails and the wood beneath his feet, the Wild is a secret all Clay’s own.

  I’m not ashamed of it, per se. I don’t want her calling me a hypocrite.

  He doesn’t linger on the thought that she might be right.

  As he picks up his bounty, his thoughts wander instead to the strangeness of the day. An astronaut, a firefighter, and a ballerina walk into a bar, but the joke, and the question of what it means, has no conclusion he can come up with.

  After looting the rest of the island, he sets sail for another bounty, eyes peeled for any unwary ship or land formation he can reap the rewards from. The pirate’s life for me. He ignores the guilt and unsettled feelings that run from the back of his neck down his spine.

  Maybe things will be back to normal in the morning.

  Things aren’t back to normal in the morning.

  Pam, their secretary who sits at the front desk and greets everyone as they come in, is dressed as a veterinarian, wearing scrubs with subtle light blue paw-prints and carrying a stethoscope around her neck.

  Clay notices Dave in customer service is dressed in the gold and red silks of a horse jockey, a black, hard cap clinched around his chin and wearing knee-high boots. He slaps a riding crop against his leg as he leans on the partition wall, chatting with Fiona, who is dressed as a race car driver, black jumpsuit covered in sponsor patches and a helmet sitting next to her laptop on her desk.

  Clay tries to keep his head faced forward as he escapes to the water cooler at the first opportunity, only to see Sam sitting at the table looking at his phone, his bulking, muscled frame in a football uniform. Not being a football fan, Clay can’t recognize the blue and silver colors of the team, but the black padded shoulders and tight white pants seem familiar. A local team maybe?

  He considers evading Sam completely, but he sighs in defeat. There’s really nowhere to escape. Clay grabs a styrofoam cup and fills it at the water dispenser, sips at the cool liquid and avoids Sam’s gaze.

  There is a sigh, a few moments of silence, and a curse. Don’t get involved. But he wonders what else there is to do. Either I slowly lose my mind or I take the hint.

  “Something wrong?” he asks Sam, circling around the table so he faces the other man, curled over his phone. It is a strange sight, someone so strong and defined yet so defeated.

  “Wishful thinking,” Sam says, not looking up from his phone. “You know how it is.” He shrugs, sets his phone down and sips at his own cup.

  Clay considers his options. Clearly there’s something I’m meant to do. That or I’ve really lost my mind.

  He sits down and sets his cup of water on the table. “Guess I don’t know how it is. What you wishing for?”

  Sam leans back, and Clay realizes there are black streaks of face paint under his eyes. He’s seen it on other football players before but doesn’t know the purpose. I might be out of my league in this one.

  “My kid wants to quit football. It’s pissing me off. Or maybe choking me up.” He shrugs, then chuckles to himself. “I didn’t get that choice. Can’t believe I’m saying this, but I’m jealous of my own kid.”

  Clay raises his eyebrows at that. “Why didn’t you have the choice?”

  “I got injured in high school, messed up my left knee. I would have had a full ride to college if not for that. Coulda had a career in it. But sometimes things don’t work out the way we want them to, I guess.” Sam grabs his cup, chugs down the water, then tosses the cup towards the trash can. A perfect shot.

  He stands and shakes his head. “But you can’t force your dreams and wants on others. That’s not how life works. He wants to play soccer, so he’ll get to play soccer. He’s still the best thing that’s ever happened to me. Even if I didn’t get to play football, I still have the best kid a dad could ask for. That’s worth more than any Super Bowl win.”

  Clay frowns as he swirls the water in his cup, deep in thought. “But that dream meant everything to you.”

  Sam shrugs. “Sometimes it’s not the dream itself, it’s what it makes you. I wanted to be somebody. When you’re a dad, you’re everything to somebody. Seems like I got the better deal.”

  Clay rubs a hand over his eyes, confusion marring his thoughts.

  “But what about …?”

  Sam turns back from where he’s been walking away. “What about what?”

  Clay shakes his head, dazed. “Nothing; never mind. Thanks for the advice.”

  Sam smiles at him, all teeth, then leaves.

  Clay’s heart pounds in his chest. For those last moments, when he’d looked back up at Sam, instead of the football uniform, he’d been in his standard button up and khaki’s. As if it were any other day.

  What the hell is going on?

  It takes everything Clay has to not stare slack jawed.

  It is one of the most elaborate costumes yet, and definitely the most unexpected. Ian, one of his colleagues on the sales team and their resident asshole, is dressed as the epitome of a knight in shining armor. The ornate metal helmet falls low over his brow, obscuring his face except for the narrowed eyes and pompous smirk. Red feathers reach towards the ceiling from the helmet’s peak, fluttering in the wind from the overhead fan.

  The worst part of the whole situation though are the words coming out of his mouth, which are decidedly not very knight-like.

  “That is the biggest load of bull I have ever heard,” Clay says in reply, not holding back. He and Ian don’t get along at the best of times and are at each other’s throats at the worst of times. The meeting is a terrible idea, made worse by Clay’s current predicament.

  “It’s a great idea, and I’ve already run it by Yuna. All I need is your agreement to run it by upper management. Come on Clay. Don’t be jealous because you didn’t think of it first.”

  Clay bites down on his tongue as the fury bubbles up his throat. He grits his teeth against his more colorful replies.

  “Legal will never agree to this. And even if they do, it’s wrong. This completely takes advantage of our older clientèle’s lack of understanding of modern technology and current legal practices.”

  Ian shrugs and shuffles the papers they’ve gone over in front of him. The metal armor clinks awkwardly as he moves. “That’s not my problem.”

  Clay throws his arms in the air. “Not to mention this will be a customer service nightmare! Do you know how many customers will complain about missing the fine print? Our approval ratings will tank! You can’t be serious, Ian.”

  Ian smiles shrewdly. “That’s their problem, not sales.”

  Clay breathes deeply and glares at Ian, the force of his anger a storm in his chest. What can I do to make him understand?


  As Ian taps the table, the metal on his fingers making a harsh clang with every hit, a thought surfaces.

  “It’s not very chivalrous.”

  Ian looks up at Clay, an eyebrow raised barely visible beneath the helmet’s rim. “Pardon?”

  “This plan. It’s not very knight-like. Would one of King Arthur’s Knights of the Round Table really use such under-handed tactics?”

  Ian’s face screws into a frown. “What does that have to do with anything?”

  Clay sighs and leans on his elbows. “Look, Ian. I know this isn’t you. This persona, this guy who doesn’t care about anything but the bottom line. I know you weren’t always this way. What happened to the kid who wanted to do the right thing? Who played at ascending to knighthood, of being the hero?”

  Ian stares into Clay’s eyes, unblinking. “Where did you even hear that?”

  Clay smiles. “It’s there if you know where to look.”

  Ian is unamused, eyes narrowing as he leans back and crosses thickly gauntleted arms awkwardly over his armored chest. The sight would be comical if it weren’t for the sword Clay could see in its scabbard at his waist. “You think you’re funny? Whenever have I given the impression that I cared more about anything other than myself?”

  At least he knows he’s a selfish ass. Clay tries another tactic.

  “It can’t have started like that. Surely something had to have happened down the line to change your mind about things. I know you have it in you to be the hero, Ian. You have to let yourself see it too.”

  Ian looks down at the papers, shuffles a few. “You’re not wrong,” he says, not looking in Clay’s eyes. “I always aspired to be the hero.” He frowns, then gathers them into a pile, made all the more difficult by the gauntlets. “But that was a long time ago. People change. I doubt I’d even know how to be the hero if I tried.”