Seeking Carol Lee

by Nace Phlaux

  Seeking Carol Lee

  By Nace Phlaux

  Seeking Carol Lee

  Copyright 2016 Nace Phlaux

  www.black-ring.net

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without prior written permission of the Author. Your support of author’s rights is appreciated.

  All characters in this story are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Eddie 1

  Initiative: Carol Lee

  The Express - Public Safety Log

  Eddie 2

  Manny 1

  FOX 29 News Transcripts for January 9, 2013

  Initiative: Carol Lee

  Eddie 3

  Manny 2

  FOX 29 News Transcripts for January 16, 2013

  Eddie 4

  The Express - Public Safety Log

  Manny 3

  Eddie 5

  Manny 4

  FOX 29 News Transcripts for January 31, 2013

  Candy 1

  Eddie 6

  Manny 5

  Candy 2

  Eddie 7

  Candy 3

  Manny 6

  Eddie 8

  Manny 7

  FOX 29 News Transcripts for February 6, 2013

  Candy 4

  Eddie 9

  Candy 5

  Manny 8

  Eddie 10

  Manny 9

  Candy 6

  Eddie 11

  FOX 29 News Transcripts for February 13, 2013

  Initiative: Carol Lee

  The Express - Public Safety Log

  Eddie 12

  FOX 29 News Transcripts for February 15, 2013

  Candy 7

  Manny 10

  Initiative: Carol Lee

  Eddie 1

  The first thing I noticed after I quit smoking—after your wife gave me that copy of Allan Carr’s how-to on fitting in with the new order—was the smell. Everything stank like wet rot. You remember how we’d tell Ma we’d stay near the house but went down past the police station to Silver Lake? And when we got back, Ma’d see us walking in the door, covered in dirt and mud, and march us right out to the porch for tick inspection.

  Every time would be the same routine: She’d spin me around, pulling bugs and burrs from my clothes, and after picking off what she could find, she’d smack me on the ass and motion for you to take your turn. When done with you, though, she’d spin you around, faster and faster, shouting, “I think I see one, but boy is it quick!”

  We all would laugh so hard until, you and me, our sides would hurt and Ma would cough. As soon as we all settled, she’d light up a cigarette and tell us to get cleaned up before we ate. Same song and dance every time, but we loved it all the same.

  But that scent? That stagnant water smell we’d walk into like a wall while playing cops and robbers or hunting for pirate gold or whatever crazy shit we’d come up with that day? That’s what I noticed first. Clinging to every surface and seeping from every cell. Rot. Everywhere.

  All I notice now is burnt wood. I’d light a candle or open a window, but I have to be honest, Bri: I’m scared to death a cop or fireman out there will notice something and ask questions about us. The last thing I’d need is for them to see your unconscious ass sprawled across the bed, covered in ashes and reeking like the flaming pile of wood their boys are trying to put out next door.

  I wouldn’t know what to say to them, but brother, you’ve got to listen now. I’m hoping you’re in there somewhere, hearing everything I’m blabbering on about, ‘cause there’s stuff I need to tell you—things you didn’t know were going on—and I’m not sure I’ll be able to look you in the eyes and explain everything, okay? So you listen up good ‘cause I might not be around to say it again when you get up.

  * * *

  Even Fredericks could see what was going on at All-Lite, and that guy was the most burnt out out’ve all of us. We’d had a few spots open in the previous year—people get better jobs, one or two die off. You don’t live like we did at the steel without casualties. But they never got replaced, you know? There was no talk about any movement—new hires, promotions, bonuses. Just a lot of lunchtime clucking.

  Every day at noon, well, imagine the sheer amount of noise coming off all the machinery in the steel. Your shop gets loud when the doors are closed and you’ve got an engine running, but that’s a kitten purr compared to this. Imagine one of those S-Class Mercedes’ old diesel engines and put a hole in its catalytic converter. Have it idle in a bathroom in the Wells Fargo Center during a Flyers match and you’ll get somewhere close to the sound I’m talking about.

  Now stop it. Every noon, it just stops, replaced with a couple cell phones beeping alarms and more than a couple wise-asses making the same stupid cracks every time. Ort would shout out “Time for me fishin’ chips” on account of him finding himself clever. It’s five o’clock somewhere, right? And at noon here, it’s five in London. Once Ort found out, he said we were all on the Queen’s time.

  We’d line up to swipe our cards through the time clock and continue that line right out the door and down to Indian Creek Pub, every one of us pinching a cigarette. The newest kids would stick to the burgers, swearing they’d never turn out like the rest of us. The worst of us, though, were something else. They would come in blitzed, usually after having driven their kids to school, and needed their lunchtime pick-me-up before dinnertime.

  Ort and Fredericks—two of the latter—sat with me at the corner of the bar about a week before Christmas, and Fredericks went on about our GM’s door shutting for days at a time lately and what that meant. The whole time, he’s staring behind the bar at the glint of a bottle since he’s got these thick Coke bottle glasses. Those and the mustache he’s got that looks like a dead ferret fell asleep on his face, he looks like an actor from a 70s porno, only ten years later. I guess it’s easier for him to just stare ahead than pretend he can see you or even know it’s you who’s talking.

  The other dumb-ass, Ort, you met once when he brought his P.O.S. Buick to the shop. Looks like Jesus in that picture of Ma’s you still have up in your kitchen, only after a long coke binge. I’ve never seen the guy eat; the only things that go in his mouth are Budweisers and Marlboro Reds. He let Fredericks live in his guest room for extra cash ever since Fredericks’ mom kicked him out for hiding pints of vodka in the toilet tank. Keep in mind these are grown men in their 40s.

  Well, Ort got sick of hearing Fredericks go on about the manager, I guess, and said, slurring every word, “I don’t care if Getsinger fires us all tomorrow or six months from now; I got enough severance to cover my ass. All I give a shit about is if you’re paying my rent. ‘Cause one minute late, asshole, and you’re on the street.”

  I turned, took a long drink from my beer, and eyed the door to see if I had a clear path to get out for a smoke. I figured the two of them would have a domestic spat like they’d been doing since they moved in together. But whatever Fredericks said next was lost by the sound of me swallowing my drink, and suddenly, the bar’s covered in Fredericks’ beer and seeping into the elbow of my shirt. He’s on the floor with his ankle still wrapped up in the stool between his legs, groaning and cursing like Ma at a hockey game, and Ort’s casually sipping on his Bud and watching the TV like he didn’t just knock his near-blind roommate off his seat.

  The place got real quiet ‘til all you could hear was the kitchen staff working, the weather lady talking about it being another warm week for December, and Fredericks going “Ah shit, ah shit” as he tried to get back up. I grabbed his arm, clearing my throat as I did so
he’d know it was me, and pulled him to his feet. I led him outside, hunched over and walking like he’d pissed himself, until we stood at the smokers’ station.

  Once we were lit up, he went back to the GM talk, claiming Evelyn—the receptionist for the steel—had him on speed dial should she hear of any what he called “suspicious activity” from the company’s higher-ups. I murmured a few I-hear-thats and mmhmms to humor him, but I’d heard it all before. There are guys who’re happier thinking the layoffs are always around the corner. I don’t know if it helps them work, but it at least gives ‘em something to talk about between shifts.

  The rumors continued as soft whispers for another week until, one day between Christmas and New Year’s, Getsinger went around tapping everyone on the shoulder with his pen and shouting in their ears “Cafeteria in 15.” I nodded, gave him a thumbs up, and went on working to a good stopping point. When I got to the caf, I could see Getsinger underestimated how many people had called out for the holidays. He kept pointing to everyone in the room and counting to himself, having to restart when the door opened and one or two more snuck in.

  After thanking everyone for coming in and for their hard work and all the usual horseshit, he finally got to the meat and potatoes of it and said, “Now, I know there’ve been several concerns and a lot of...” With his hands mimicking two mouths conversing, it all made me think of a Dutch clown in an artsy fartsy film your wife would make us watch or an awkward high schooler trying to present a speech.

  “I’ve been in a lot of meetings lately, I know, and we’ve had our share of visitors from corporate, as I’m sure you’ve noticed.” I was on the opposite side of the room, leaning against the coffee counter, so I could see everyone’s reactions as Getsinger spoke. Fredericks leaned over to Ort at the mention of corporate, and even from the back of his head, I could tell Fredericks had a cocky “No shit” face on. “And it’s fairly obvious we’ve been struggling to keep everyone busy lately. The holidays are a bit of a blessing, but everyone will be back soon enough, and I...”

  He gave a quick shrug and put his hands on his hips with his whole body a little hunched. Whenever the man spoke, my eyes would stick to his arms. He’s got this little sausage of a body but these strangely thick forearms—pale as every other inch on him but real hairy. And even when he wasn’t near enough for me to see the hair, I still knew it was there. In all my years working with him, I never met or heard of any woman interested in him. And in all that time, I swear, I never questioned why.

  The compressors in all the soda machines decided that moment was as good as any to start up, and Getsinger had to shout the rest of his speech. He said he didn’t know what was going on, that the new financial year could bring changes but he wasn’t privy to any of ‘em. I could see the worry in his eyes and thought he was telling the truth. Having known him for a while, I knew he fretted more over looking into each person’s eyes and firing them than whatever corporate planned for his own position.

  As he wrapped up close to lunchtime, everybody inched toward the door and fingered their cigarette packs, and I kept thinking about your wife and her Christmas gift. “Think of all the money you’d save,” I remember her saying as I looked over the book on—what do they call it?—cessation. I figured I’d be getting a decent severance package should it come to that, but money might get tough, and Christ knows how much I spent on smokes and drinking. So as I walked in the lunch line to the pub, I lit up and snorted to myself, finding it hi-fuckin’-larious the pack in my pocket could be my last.

  If all else failed, I thought, I’d just take to drinking throughout the day, Fredericks-style.

  * * *

  That night, I skipped the dinner line to Indian Creek and went straight home. After cracking open a beer, I sat down and began reading Carr’s book on quitting smoking. I liked what the man had to say. He’s got this hypnotic rhythm to him. And he said: I won’t attempt to scare you. You know the facts, and they’ve never stopped you before. All I want to know is why do you do it? Why do you smoke?

  I don’t know how long I sat there reading. I never turned on the television or looked at the clock. Richter’s set bled through the walls, but it was all the History Channel, so it droned on with no noticeable gap. I didn’t pick up a cigarette the entire time I read. The thought “I’ll smoke when I can answer why I want to” kept running through my head.

  An army of empty bottles grew on the table beside me, and a drunken hunger finally snapped me out of my daze. I’d gotten about halfway through the book, which I thought was pretty good for a first sitting. I’d finish the rest the next day, I figured. Right then, though, I needed food, and it was still early enough to get something at Gleason’s Pub across the street.

  Sometime later, with a burger and a few ounces of rum in my stomach, I walked back out into what was turning into a cold but humid night. Being the middle of the week, the parking lot and street were quiet. And somewhere in that discomfort and solitude and drunkenness, an answer to Carr’s question hit me: Because I fuckin’ want to.

  The next morning, I didn’t even have the urge to burn one. And I got through my shift all right too, except for lunch. I saw firsthand what drinking made my mind want to do the night before. Watching the rest of the All-Liters in Indian Creek flow between their drinks and the smoker’s station outside, the stank cold air emanating off them as they passed by, well, it made me look down at my beer and ponder other life choices.

  * * *

  By the time Getsinger called me into his office the following week, I’d been smoke-free since the night I left Gleason’s. I hadn’t bought any liquor at Indian Creek either, and I let the beer run out at home. I only had a couple shifts like that with the boys at work, and their heads are usually too far up their own asses to notice anything, so I hadn’t caught any grief from them yet. I figured there’d be a day or two more before they got on my case.

  You know the people who’re always craving a cigarette or those people they show in those patch commercials? I don’t get it. My cravings weren’t bad. That Carr man either hypnotized me with his words or maybe the whole hardship of quitting horseshit is all made up by the pharma companies. I don’t know. But the comedown? Christ.

  My mind couldn’t stay focused on anything, and sleep came at five minutes a shot. A weird hyper-alertness built up in my head, and I couldn’t shake it. It felt like I’d chugged four big cups of coffee. I wound up drinking half a bottle of Nyquil the first night just to get any rest. The head buzz eventually went away, but to this day I’m still not sleeping like I used to. Someone sneezes in China, and I’m up. And you know I used to sleep like the frickin’ dead.

  So that’s where my head was when the firings started. They sniped us, thinning the herd by calling us into our supervisors’ offices individually, giving us all a sense of fear and killing off any productivity we could muster. Indian Creek’s profits soared that week. With the holidays just ending and everyone coming and going on vacations, I wouldn’t have even noticed who they cherry-picked. But then they got Doug Cragle.

  Cragle was this tall old man who, if you saw him standing still and fully dressed, you’d think was a zephyr and a prayer away from the grave. Give the man a moment to work, though, and you’d see those thin limbs were actually taut with muscle. He worked, smoked, and drank harder than any of the rest of us. People said the fire of Satan himself fueled the old man. The piece of shit Lincoln he drove and the hundred photos of kids in his wallet told another story: The man was barely keeping up with his alimony payments.

  I didn’t see him go into Getsinger’s office, but I can imagine how the beginning went down. Getsinger would poke Cragle on the arm with his pen and motion toward the office. Cragle probably pulled out his beard—gray and down to his knees, but neatly kept and usually tucked in his shirt to avoid getting sucked into any machinery. He might’ve even taken off his bandana out of respect, though most of us would’ve preferred he kept it on to cover the dark splotches of scarred skin we w
ere all too chickenshit to ever ask about.

  The boss must’ve started with the same script he’d given the others earlier in the week—a value to the company, nothing personal, blah-de-frickin’-blah. But where most people reacted with grumblings or pleading, Cragle took a different approach. A more erratic approach. An approach that involved screaming “I’ll get out of here when I’m goddamned ready” and throwing a chair through the glass pane separating Getsinger’s office from the production floor.

  Getsinger hightailed it out of there, dialing the higher-ups on his cell phone as he trotted toward the reception area. The ones closest to the office shut down their machines and watched in silence. Eventually, the hush ran through the rest of the floor, and we all stood, whispering and waiting for Cragle to do something stupid.

  It was Evelyn that finally brought him out after a while. I don’t know what was said or how she calmed him, but as I always tell people: Don’t ever mess with a desk receptionist. She’s the most powerful person you’ll ever meet in a company. And Evelyn was as powerful as they come. She walked Cragle out the front of the building with her arm around his shoulders, leaning in to gently say God knows what as they made their way to Cragle’s old Town Car. People who saw it told me later he looked downright happy as he drove away.

  When the firings—excuse me, the layoffs—continued the next day, Getsinger was flanked by two of the biggest guys you’d ever see in your life. Even you would’ve been looking up at these guys. They introduced themselves in a quick morning meeting as George and Derrick and explained they’d be there for the foreseeable future for everyone’s safety. Wallet-sized pieces of paper got passed around with their cell phone numbers should anyone see anything suspicious or feel uncomfortable.

  Some of the guys joked about the sheer size of the rent-a-cops as we left the caf, and I was opening my mouth to make a crack when I felt the familiar poke of a pen cap in my shoulder. There was the tiny Dutchman when I turned around, with the enormous black guards on either side of him like the saddest Oreo I’d ever seen. “We need to talk, Eddie” is all he said before heading toward the cafeteria. The two guards waited for me to move before getting behind me and ushering me as I followed.