Seeking Carol Lee

by Nace Phlaux

  I stumbled out of the house, a bottle of vodka in hand and my mind swimming. As I sat in the truck rubbing my forehead, visions of Richter and the girl swam through my head like two children trying to tell a story to their mom at the same time. Conflicting voices of my own debated leaving Richter’s belongings behind, with the winner believing it better to leave everything intact. Except the vodka. That was my reward for a job well done.

  In the middle of all the noise, though, I heard something. Almost like when you hear your name mentioned in the middle of a party. A voice that simply asked, “What happened to Richter’s Jeep?”

  * * *

  By the time I got back to your place, more cars were in the driveway, and the lights in the kitchen were on. I returned the van to the bay and put everything back where I’d found them and then headed to the house. As I got up to the window, I could see you, Hayleigh, and Sydney’s girls sitting around the kitchen table. Sydney seemed to bounce around the room, gathering food and wiping down counters, almost like Ma used to. You were sitting where Dad would sit, nearly looking like his double.

  All you needed was one of the kids telling a story of how someone fell down at school and everyone laughed. “That’s not nice, Eddie. You should’ve helped them up.” Ma had said. But I told her I did; I had helped. “Well, you shouldn’t laugh at them getting hurt.”

  “Can’t I do both?” My response caused Dad to request I get a double heaping of vegetables, but looking back on it, I don’t remember the portions ever being different. It was such a simple evening, a simple meal and interaction, but there’s something about that night that sticks with me. And when I looked into your kitchen and saw something similar playing out before me, I just couldn’t bring myself to interrupt. Realizing any stranger passing on the street would call me a creeper, I backed away and took off to the complex.

  After circling the parking lot twice, I couldn’t find any sign of Richter’s Jeep. Under normal circumstances, I wouldn’t be surprised if the cops took it. But how would they know it was his? The names on the apartment’s bills didn’t even match up, so how would they track down any of his vehicles? If it was missing, then it might’ve been the work of his killer or the girl, if there was even a difference between the two. Defeated, I crossed the street to Gleason’s.

  The marquee said, “2/9 CANCELED,” which meant either the band fell through or they had the worst name I’d ever heard. Inside, I ordered a drink, and the crowd talked about the band who was supposed to have played that night getting arrested for something or another. Every conversation seemed to begin with “I heard they” and end with the authoritative “Crazy rockers.” When the place had nearly emptied out and my vision doubled, I took myself outside to get a breath of fresh air.

  I swear drinking’s becoming something different now that I’m not smoking. Part of it is the chemicals leaving my body, I’m sure, but another is the timing. Normally I’d have a drink or two, depending on what it was, and then go outside for a smoke. Repeat that for hours. Hell, look at my track record, and you’d see sometimes I’d repeat that for days. But without the cigarette breaking it up, I’m getting trashed faster and ending the night sooner. Probably better off that way anyhow.

  But outside the bar, I took a few deep breaths and looked around. It turned out to be one of those nice winter nights where you could hear the train whistle from miles away and everything had that scent that snow was coming soon. As I glanced around the parking lot, trying to focus on objects long enough for the double vision to abate, something poking out the side of the strip that the Violetwood Cafe was a part of caught my eye, and I went to investigate. There, parked among the dumpsters, was a camoed Jeep, almost as if Richter knew my drunken ass would find it when I went to get ripped in public.

  After mentally wrestling with myself over whether I should’ve done anything that night or the next morning, I decided I had to do it that night. Otherwise I would’ve had to’ve waited until the next evening to break into the Jeep and explore it, and patience has never been one of my strong suits. In about an hour, after a couple drunken stumbles between the complex and the lot, I got the Jeep open with my slim jim and the hidden storage box installed under his rear’s carpet torn open with a screwdriver and a well-placed hammer.

  A quick glance over the contents of the box told me it was research on a variety of people with Richter’s notes scribbled all over their photos and paperwork. But deeper into the container, down where the paperwork turned more into random receipts and brochures, that crap you shove into a pocket and throw out elsewhere, that’s where I found an old photo of him and me. Probably from about a year after we first met. At the time, he hadn’t been as batshit paranoid and actually let a photo be taken of him. I don’t mind admitting it, mostly because you don’t appear to be anywhere near conscious, but I dropped to my knees and wept like a baby when I first laid eyes on it.

  * * *

  The next morning, I looked over the documents with a sober, more caffeinated eye. There seemed to be employment records for various companies in the area, highlighted maps of the region with business names scrawled next to each marking, and photos of the girl meeting with a variety of faces I didn’t recognize. What made me real curious, though, was a printout of a photo from Facebook. Not having a computer, I never use the site, but the logo was on the bottom of the page, and in the middle was a circled image of what appeared to be my old pal Fredericks chatting with what may’ve been Milnes, except he looked rougher than he did behind the Pathmark. Scruffy, I’d say, but smiling. Looked like they were at the hoagie joint down the road from the steel.

  The burner phone rang as I looked at the pile of paperwork, and when I answered it, the girl goes, “What has you pacing on such a beautiful Sunday morning? You’re going to disturb Mr. and Mrs. Zampano downstairs.” So she was looking at my movements through the cell’s tracking. That much was obvious. But did she go back to yesterday’s and see I was in her own bedroom? I had to play it straight.

  “Get to it, princess. What’re the orders?”

  “No change: Find Milnes. His last known job is a little warehouse around the corner that laid off most of their workers just before a big order came through. They’re in need of your assistance, Mr. Mazzaro. Head to 5515 Emilie Road tomorrow at 7, understood?” Completely understood. She was sending me back to All-Lite. I’d know the address as well as I know yours. So she was one step closer to Milnes, but she didn’t know I had shipped him out of town already. “Use your history to get what I need. After that? Get your job back. Burn the place to the ground. Whatever you like. Have fun.”

  The phone disconnected before I could respond.

  I spent the rest of the day mentally preparing myself for the following couple days. The girl had said something about a button-down for an orientation, which sounded like a freakin’ joke for the steel. But the last thing I needed was to be sent home as soon as I walked through the door due to an improper dress code. When the time came, I dressed better than I would’ve to most funerals, with my hair combed and a light spritz of cologne. I was downright pretty.

  The changes were immediate as soon as I walked through the front door. Evelyn, a staple for the company as long as I’d been there, had been replaced with a Japanese kid with a name tag that said “Todd.” When I asked him if Evelyn was out sick for the day, he told me she was no longer associated with the company and suggested I take a seat until my trainer arrived. A few minutes later, this guy Lohmann, who I’d trained a couple years back, walked through the double doors to the factory in the usual factory garb—grimy jeans and a torn and faded t-shirt for a beer or local mechanic—and looking like the weight of the world was on his shoulders. He took a look at my outfit, followed by my face, and muttered, “Oh, shit,” quickly looking over to the kid. “You just get out of Sunday school?”

  We shook hands and headed into the back. Once out of earshot of the kid, he explained how most of the place had been laid off and replaced with temps. Th
e few who still had full-time jobs had to be careful around the temps coming in since the newbies had a tendency to rat out anyone and everyone, hoping they’d get their positions. “Indian Creek’s off-limits, boss,” he whispered. “They smell booze on your breath, and you’re out.”

  “How the hell do you even work around here?”

  “Everybody’s too scared to do anything but their job, man. Constant state of fear around here nowadays.”

  Lohmann led me to an office with an old TV set hooked up to a DVD player and popped in a video about sexual harassment. After a while, he returned and replaced it with one on workplace safety. I nodded off for a bit and jolted awake when he came back with documentation for the two of us to sign as proof I’d watched the horrid things. Don’t hammer anyone in either connotation. Got it. When I stood up to leave the room, I asked him how much longer until I got back on the floor.

  “Didn’t the agency tell you where you’re working, bro?” My face must’ve given him an answer, because he continued with, “You’re working in the office, man. Don’t let your hands get too soft with those keyboards and paperwork.” Chuckling to himself, he patted me on the back and headed to the rear of the building where the managers had their offices.

  “There’s gotta be a mistake, Lohmann. I barely know what a computer is. You’re messing with me, right? Why would anyone put me back there? Who’s it for anyhow?”

  “Getsinger, bro. Ever since they made his assistant position a temp job, he’s been flying through them like breath mints. Either he’s a nightmare to work for or they keep sending in stupid agents, right?” We made it to a receptionist area in a part of the building I rarely ever visited, and Lohmann told me to have a seat. “Todd from up front will swing by in a few to log you in and get your computer stuff all figured out. Holler if you need me, bro. And hit me up if you wanna grab a hoagie down the road for lunch.”

  “Where’s Getsinger?”

  “In meetings ‘til after lunch. You might not see him all day.” Slapping me on the shoulder, he left me to my fate.

  I looked through the desk that was supposedly mine for however long it took for the Dutchman to fire me and found nothing but a notepad and a red pen. There seemed to be a bulleted list imprinted on the paper that said “blahblahblah,” “stupid shit no one will ever do,” and “shut up, pasty nerd.” I tried the door behind the desk, assuming it went to the boss’ office, but the paranoid bastard had locked it. There was nothing else for me to do but mess with the computer.

  Hayleigh has always seemed connected, what with her constantly checking her phone and carrying around a tablet in that hideous sack she calls a purse, but I have no clue how much of it you’re into. There are shops out there with hi-tech equipment, but you’ve never gone that route. Could be financial reasons or maybe it’s apathy. But I’ve never had much excuse to get a computer or learn how to use one. Hell, my fat fingers can barely text anything on a cell.

  So imagine me sitting in front of this thing like I’m a thirteen-year-old seeing his first pair of real tits. Hand placement is key, but without experience, mine are just wavering in the air, looking for the right spots to grab. I only hoped someone would come in and show me what I was supposed to be doing, which I guess is where the analogy ends. My hand shook on the mouse, and the two monitors on the desk came to life, brandishing the All-Lite logo. Something popped up asking for a username and password, so that was my excuse. Sorry, couldn’t do anything. Didn’t have a login.

  Todd came in after a few minutes with the login credentials written on a ripped piece of worn paper. “Mr. Getsinger isn’t in yet, so there’s really nothing for you to do,” he told me. “But that won’t stop him from assuming you were supposed to be doing something, yelling at you when he notices the game of solitaire, your upcoming novel, or whatever he finds you keeping busy with on the comp, and telling you to get the heck out of here and never come back. At least the coffee’s all right.”

  “And how many has that worked on?”

  He was already halfway out the door before he turned around and said, “Hmm?”

  “How many people have you scared off on their first day with that monologue you just spouted?”

  I wanted to tell him I’d burn the place to the ground before he could get the chance to have me fired, but he scoffed and ran off before I could open my mouth again. Instead of doing anything on the computer like he expected, I went into the warehouse and looked for anyone I knew. Most of the familiar faces didn’t have any names to them. Maybe I helped move their couch once years ago, but no one I so much as nodded to on my path.

  A thin, muscular kid manned my old station, dressed in a black polo shirt and dark blue jeans. The clothes screamed “newbie,” but he worked with what we would’ve called enthusiasm back in the day. If what Lohmann said was true, I could’ve been mistaking fear. I noticed he kept getting hung up on a particular handle that I remembered required some finesse, so I tapped him on the shoulder and showed him how to wiggle it just right so it wouldn’t stick each time he needed it. After a few minutes of conversing, I had him up to my level of knowing that machine, and he said, “You know anything about that station over there? Paul’s been having a hell of a time with it.”

  A few hours later, and I had my own team of loyal temps eating from the palm of my hand. I don’t know who trained them to use any of the steel’s machinery, but that person sure as shit didn’t know what they were talking about. And none of them had been there long enough to get to really know their stations, if you know what I mean. Like you probably know where every tool is in the shop and how long it’ll take to hoist a truck on the lift. These kids hadn’t lived and breathed their jobs like that. Yet. I didn’t even realize how late it got until my stomach growled.

  Some of the boys joined me in walking down to Indian Creek, but I felt more like their father or chaperone taking his kids to McDonald’s than a buddy grabbing lunch at the pub. No one lit up a cigarette on the walk. No one ordered a beer. Hell, one of ‘em even asked for water. I followed suit, trying my best to blend into the new world order and heeding Lohmann’s words. The kids asked me about my experience with the steel, the area, and eventually Getsinger. I think they were hoping for a secret that’d get them a permanent position. That secret of his stayed with me, though.

  “So are all you guys coming from J & J?” Most of them nodded, while a couple said they were from another company. “And how many of ya’ll are on missions from the boss lady?” All but one looked at me like I grew a second head, the other one breaking eye contact real quick and focusing on the meatball sub in front of him. As everyone finished up and headed back to the steel, I made sure to walk next to the kid, grabbing his arm and slowing him down so the rest of the group could pass. Once we were safely behind everyone, I asked, “So what’s she got you doing?”

  He said nothing, keeping his head down with his hands in his jacket, arms closed tight against his body. His legs tried to move faster, but I grabbed him again and repeated myself, more aggressive that time. “Don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said. After trying to slow him down again, he jerked his arm out of my grasp and shouted, “Get off me, you ol’ faggot.” A few of the guys ahead of us turned around to see what the commotion was, and I never felt so fucking old as I did at that moment.

  Getsinger was still nowhere to be found when I got back, but I returned to what was supposed to be my desk, where I could keep an eye on the production floor’s restrooms. For a warehouse that size, you’d be surprised how small the bathrooms are. And worst of all, the framework has so much space between the parts that it’s nearly impossible not to make eye contact with people walking into the room as you’re trying to take a shit. Or the other way around. Some guys avoided anything involving sitting except at home, sometimes waiting until we got to the pub for lunch. Others just let their freak flag fly.

  The kid wound up being one of those guys who waits until a few minutes before the shift ends to waste time. I f
ollowed him into the bathroom and picked up the plunger stationed by the door. Someone whose back I didn’t recognize stood at the only urinal, and the single stall in the claustrophobic room, a handicapped setup facing the sink and mirror, had its door close as soon as I walked in. If I’d been a younger man, I’d maybe make a flourishing show. Call the need to get from point A to B as quickly as possible “maturity” if you will.

  I leaned against the wall across from the door and kicked near the latch. Pain screeched through my hip, but the door flew open, and I brandished the plunger like a crazed knight holding his sword. The kid was texting on his burner, and as I lunged at him, instincts or clumsiness made him lean the opposite way, making him fall off the toilet and to the disgusting linoleum below.

  The plunger got swung into his head a couple times, the rubber preventing any real damage. With each swing, I yelled, “What did the boss lady tell you to do?” The guy at the urinal made a run for it, but the kid finally screamed, “You, okay? I’m supposed to watch you.” I slammed the plunger into the ground next to him and scanned the area until I found his burner, sticking it in my pocket as he struggled to get up. The need to cover himself conflicted with the desire to not touch a public bathroom floor, which conflicted with not wanting to cover his own pants with shit.

  The kid got his hand on the handicap railing and balanced himself before I laid a kick into his side, making him shout, “What the fuck, man?” as he slammed into the tile again.

  “Speak a word about this to anyone and I tell the boss lady how bad you messed up. She doesn’t take kindly to failure.”