Lone Rock

by Duane Lindsay

  Wally waited patiently for an answer.

  “I can start today.”

  At Control-logics, Inc. there was no tour, no introduction to his new co-workers, just a brief ambiguous statement: “Corley’s out of town, so I’ll get you started.”

  Wally directed Adrian to an empty office on the south side of the building, glancing back impatiently as Adrian struggled to keep up.

  He stopped in the doorway of a narrow room. It had an old style drafting table against one of the long walls, a pair of wood veneer bookcases on one short wall. Two desks sat beneath large windows which looked out over a parking lot. In the distance Adrian could see trees and a river.

  Wally pointed to a stack of folders piled nearly a foot high.

  “Look through these, make a list of questions, see me at one.” He paused at the door. “We start at eight, lunch is at noon, we get off at five. In between, do your job, don’t bother anybody, we’ll get along fine.” Abruptly, he left.

  Silence blanketed the room. Adrian drew in a deep breath and sighed. This was not a plush office. This was where real work was done. A Celotex paneled ceiling with suspicious gray stains loomed overhead like a storm cloud. Light was provided by three harsh fluorescent fixtures. The room could easily have held six engineers. Two desks, a drafting table, and Adrian Beck—alone in a 300 square foot room. He felt like an explorer facing the great prairies. Lewis or Clark embarking on a strange voyage.

  He picked up the uppermost file folder: Kelly Ridge Toxic Waste Incinerator. He flipped pages at random, getting the first tentative feel of the job. Still reading he dropped into the chair.

  Twice he brought over another folder and read the contents. There was a water treatment plant located near Canon City, wherever that might be. It could have been in Colorado or Alaska for all Adrian knew.

  The scope of work was to supply a Motor Control Center, some instrumentation, and a control panel to run a small water plant. There was detailed cost accounting made for the purposes of bidding the job and Adrian read the arcane scribbles like a native read his own language.

  Nothing difficult, he decided, except that he had no reference books, no trade catalogs, and no shelves to put them on. No computer, calculator, pens or paper. No clock. He felt hungry and had no idea of the time. His watch was somewhere back in Cleveland. A glance out the window said nothing. The angle of the sun only had meaning if he knew east from west.

  The silence, forgotten while he read, seeped back into the office. A faint hum of air conditioning, the movement of air. There wasn’t even any Muzak broadcast through hidden speakers to motivate employees. He recalled how, years ago at Techtronics, he’d climbed up into the ceiling to disconnect the wires from all the speakers anywhere near his cubicle. When maintenance placed a box around the speakers to stop vandalism, he’d gone back up and rigged up a radio transmitter activated cut-off switch, breaking into the box so competently that no one ever knew it had been tampered with.

  In this desolate office he almost wished for some music to fill the emptiness.

  He got up and limped slowly down the long hall, passing two offices that showed signs of habitation: desks with computers, coffee cups, a Far Side calendar. The offices were smaller than his, but nicer, with better furniture and better lighting. A pecking order was hinted at with Adrian at the bottom of it.

  He continued down the hall and found even the front doors were locked. The whole building seemed empty. The sun danced and played shadow and light games on the gently tousled leaves of an artificial lobby plant.

  He wandered slowly back to his empty office, picked up a manual and began reading. Strangers returned around one, dribbling in singly. No one stopped to chat, no one asked about the tall blond guy with the crutch lurking in the back office. Adrian went back to the lobby and waited for the receptionist, who bustled in alone, brushing her hair from her face. She hung up a tan wool coat that looked expensive, put her purse on the back of the chair. straightened some papers on the broad desk, looked up and smiled.

  “I’m Ruth Baxter,” she said.

  “Adrian Beck.”

  “I remember,” she said. “From this morning. You’re the new hire?”

  “Yes. Does this happen every day?”

  “What?”

  “The office emptying out like this. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “It’s a company rule,” she said as though it didn’t matter. “No one’s supposed to be here alone. I wouldn’t mention to Wally that you got locked in. He’d be pretty upset.”

  “Why?” Adrian asked.

  “I don’t know.” She shrugged. “It’s always been like that. Ever since I’ve been here. I think it was Corley’s idea.”

  “Corley?”‘

  “Sayres. The operating vice president. He’s out of town, thank goodness.”

  “How long have you worked here?” Adrian asked.

  “Two and a half years. Wow, I hadn’t realized.” A smile brightened her face and made Adrian like her instantly.

  “Wally Clooner bought the business about three years ago.” she said. “He hired all new people and changed the company around. It was losing money before. Oh; hello, Mr. Clooner.” The smile disappeared.

  Adrian turned to see his employer stride into the lobby. He saw Adrian, stopped suddenly and frowned, “Beck. What are you doing up here?”

  “Waiting for you. You said to meet you at one.”

  “Right, right. I forgot. Well, can’t have you standing around here. Come to the office.”

  Rocket speed again, but this time not bothering on the formality of waiting. Adrian felt his status diminish as he hobbled in the other’s wake. He settled in the padded green guest chair.

  “Did you look through the files?” Wally asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Can you handle the jobs?”

  “Sure.”

  “Good man.” Wally waited a moment. “Anything else?”

  “I need supplies,” Adrian said. “A computer. Mechanical pencils, a ruler and paper. General stuff. And technical books. Where’s the library?” All engineering companies kept a technical library as a necessity. Adrian had looked during his lunchtime walk, but hadn’t found one.

  “We don’t have one. Each engineer keeps his own manuals on his laptop.”

  “Isn’t that unusual?” Adrian asked. Adrian’s orderly mind balked at the idea of not sharing such basic communal supplies.

  “Used to have one,” Wally Clooner said. “But people took advantage of it. Stood around socializing, chatting.” His face expressed his distaste. “Corley thought it was a mistake and we got rid of it.”

  He frowned. “See Ruth for office supplies. Get back to work.”

  The honeymoon was over.

  12 – Pieburn Dafari

  “We each have our own cups,” said Ruth. “Except for Pieburn, of course; he drinks tea.”

  “Pieburn?” Adrian asked.

  “An engineer. He works down on this end.” She pointed to the north corridor, the opposite direction of Adrian’s. “The break room’s down this way too. I’ll show you.”

  She moved around the desk, a Garfield mug in one hand. Adrian followed slowly, past Wally’s office to another closed door on the right. Ruth pushed this open to a small brightly lit kitchen, with counters and cabinets and a microwave oven. There was even a dishwasher and refrigerator.

  “You can keep things in there: She bustled around to pour water, placed the mug in the microwave, and set out a tea bag from a cartoon colored box. “Red Zinger, would you like some?”

  “Sure.”

  She got an advertising mug for a manufacturer of electronics.

  “Can we all use this room?”

  “Yes, but Wally prefers you to have coffee and stuff at your own office. Because it’s so far to the break room, you know. But there’s a water fountain down there for coffee.” The oven bleeped. “Do you need some help? Carrying this?”

  “Sure.” Adrian was surpr
ised by her offer. She picked up both cups, dropped hers off at her own desk. and carried his. “Thanks,” he said. Ruth smiled her quick smile and left, his only contact in this place.

  Adrian settled into his desk to arrange and organize. Order from chaos, he thought, making small piles out of big ones. What an engineer does.

  Part of separate and conquer brought the knowledge that the Kelly Ridge Toxic Waste Incinerator was very much past schedule. The first submittal was overdue by two months. Wally Clooner hadn’t been exaggerating; he was short of engineers. It said a lot about why Adrian had been hired so quickly.

  Dutifully he went to work and by four o’clock the customer had been called and apologies made, promises of deliveries in two weeks given. Typical of engineering; late before you start.

  The next project was in Arizona, a chemical plant conversion, also late. Then a small job in Montrose. Where the hell was Montrose? Didn’t any of these jobs come with maps?

  Adrian glanced at the first project again: Kelly Ridge Toxic Waste Incinerator in Clive, Utah. He wondered briefly what Clive, Utah could possibly be to deserve a toxic waste incinerator. He shuddered at the idea.

  His lack of resources was infuriating. Why in hell wasn’t there a library? Manufacturers handed out books of technical information for free. They were the surrogate Bibles of the practical engineer, spelling out statistic, details, sizes, voltages, capacities—all sorts of stuff. A Niemen Marcus catalog for geeks.

  The normal way to amass this information was to call a sales rep for a large distributor and ask them over for coffee. Eager for potential contacts and future sales, the rep would race over, catalogs in hand, begging to give them away.

  The sales reps, often engineers themselves, would give the project engineer a hand. In turn the project engineer would buy the sales reps stuff.

  Adrian would be buried in information. Of course he would also be buried in salesmen, a truly awkward situation. Already weeks behind, he couldn’t allow this invasion.

  He compromised by spending the rest of the day on the phone, giving his name and address to at least 30 companies, getting at least 30 promises to mail—don’t visit. By five his head ached from being on the phone.

  One last call. He picked the name of an electrical company from the phone book, a supplier of electronics he might need in the future. In Clive, Utah, perhaps. They answered, “Carlton Electric. May I help you?” and passed along his request for information through the “two wrongs before making a right” method.

  “Maggie Powers.” A brash and efficient voice crackled on the line, full of intensity. Adrian pictured a middle-aged woman, possibly a deserter from real estate, with bleached hair and big hoop earrings.

  “Hello,” he said, his own voice light years from hers in vigor. “My name’s Adrian Beck. I’m looking for some information. They told me you could help.”

  “Sure,” she said. “Who are you with?”

  “Control-logics.”

  “Seriously?” Her voice intensified a notch.

  “Yes,” Adrian said, confused by her tone. Bad reputations existed in corporations as well as individuals, and he suddenly wondered at the status of this one. Had bills been left unpaid? Bodies buried too shallowly?

  “You’ve gotta be new there,” Maggie said.

  “Yes.”

  “Jeez; I thought I’d never get a crack at you guys.” Adrian heard inner wheels turning. He decided to derail them.

  “You’re not getting a crack now. All I want is some technical literature.”

  “Can I come out to see you?”

  “No, I’m behind on a job.” All engineers were always behind on jobs. He didn’t want to meet a human dynamo this early, if ever.

  She clucked and complained but grudgingly agreed to the US Mail, closing with a promise.

  “I’ll be calling again,” she said. “Soon.”

  Friday morning, March 20th, the last day of Winter. Adrian struggled in the parking lot with a coffee machine under one arm, a bag of supplies (filters and coffee and a new blue mug) under another, and the infernally necessary crutch under a third. The ramp defied him, demanding separate trips, but it was too far to go once, let alone more.

  He set the Mr. Coffee down on the pavement, vacillating between kicking it gently along with his crutch and just kicking it. A man heading towards the front entrance looked over. He released the door, paused, turned suddenly and approached.

  “Would you care for some assistance?” His voice was low and melodic, each syllable pronounced distinctly. The cadence was slightly odd, as if accented in the wrong places.

  He was small and slender, dressed impeccably in a brown tweed jacket, pressed slacks and a white shirt and tie. lie looked casually elegant in a British sort of way, especially compared to Adrian’s rumpled shirt and loosened tie. He looked to be in his early twenties. His skin was a warm brown, the color of caramel. Though his nose and lips were broad, his features were delicate and he appeared fragile, even effete.

  “Thanks,” Adrian said, grateful for the offer. As the stranger bent to pick up the box it struck him how large were little acts of kindness. Small gestures could make lifetime impressions.

  “I’m Adrian Beck.”

  “I am Pieburn Dafari.” His voice was baritone, both jarring and mellow. Adrian could have listened to him talk for hours. Pieburn stood several feet away, a cultural barrier against too great an intimacy. Adrian felt himself breathing shallowly and was grateful for the distance.

  “What do you do here?”

  “I’m an engineer.”

  “Me, too.”

  “I know. You’re our new electrical engineer.” Pieburn deliberately walked slowly to allow Adrian to keep up. “We have needed one since the sudden departure of Randy Birmingham.”

  “Who?”

  “Randy Birmingham. He was our previous electrical engineer.”

  “Was? What happened to him?”

  Pieburn stared at him, his head solemnly cocked to one side, as if considering what to say.

  “He left suddenly. No one really knows why.”

  “He just left? He wasn’t fired or quit? Isn’t that odd?” Adrian thought of his own small salary. Maybe someone would walk out on that without notice.

  Pieburn shrugged, an eloquent statement of non-involvement. “He had a meeting with our vice president, Corley Sayres. Afterwards he seemed...upset. He went home that evening and never came back.”

  They continued in silence down the hall, finally reaching Adrian’s bare office. He set down his cup and filters and indicated to Pieburn where to set Mr. Coffee. Pieburn remained silent and Adrian had the feeling it was his natural state. A silent man with a golden voice; ironic.

  “I’m glad to be here,” said Adrian to fill the void.

  “You shouldn’t be.” Adrian was surprised. He looked up to where Pieburn leaned against the doorframe.

  “Why not? It seems like a nice place.”

  “Randy Birmingham liked it here as well.”

  “So?”

  “So he never returned. But what disturbed me...”

  “Yes?”

  Pieburn was hesitant. “What disturbed me is that he never came back for any of his things.”

  13 – He Signed the Register Wilton Hedley

  He signed the register Wilton Hedley.

  “You have a pool?” he asked the girl at the counter.

  “Yes sir, on the third floor.”

  “Good, I’ll need it in this heat. “He picked up the large leather suitcase as if it was weightless and walked to the elevator. The counter girl watched him enter and sighed. He was by far the best looking man who’d ever set foot in this Ramada.

  He stepped out onto the seventeenth floor, looked at the direction sign and veered left. Seventeen-Oh-Four, He stuck his electronic key in the slot and went into the amazingly typical room. Setting down his suitcase he walked to the window thinking that life on the road had its moments but they were few and far between. He�
��d be glad when this was over.

  Another year, he thought.

  He went to the window and opened the heavy drapes. Light spilled into the room, making the place seem less real somehow, like a traveling road show set piece. He leaned his forehead against the glass and looked straight down, as he always did, seeing the cars so far below, the hard concrete of the sidewalk. He imagined himself toppling through the tempered glass, falling.

  He felt the familiar queasiness in his stomach, felt his testicles curl, but he kept his position for six...seven...eight...nine...ten seconds before pulling away. He inhaled deeply and wondered if this ridiculous fear would ever go away.

  He shook his head and walked to the bed. He pulled a pack of Winstons from his pocket and set the gold Zippo on the night stand. He plucked a paperback book from his case—Goren on Bridge—and settled back on the bed to read.

  His appointment with Clark wasn’t until four.

  “Wilton!” Clark Poppin bellowed too loudly. A fat man in a rumpled brown suit came around his desk and embraced Wilton Hedley in a bear hug, patting him heartily on the back. “Son-of-A-bitch. It’s good to see you.”

  Wilton pulled away from the embrace. He disliked being touched but didn’t want to appear impolite. The subtlety was wasted on Clark who began pumping his visitors hand in a double hand grip.

  “Sit. Sit,” Clark commanded. He waved at a stiff office chair across from his desk and sat down himself. “Smoke’em if you got’em.”

  Obligingly, Wilton pulled out his Winstons and lit one.

  “Ah,’ Clark breathed in the smoke and sighed like a man in Heaven. He puffed a dense cloud into the air. “Good to see you haven’t quit. Been hard to be a smoker these last few years, pal. Truly difficult. Those busybodies are everywhere.”

  Wilton smiled and nodded through his own smoke. He hated agreeing with assholes.

  “Hot enough for you?” asked Clark. Wilton had heard the same comments from the same sales reps for the past three years. He could keep up his side of the conversation without any thought at all.