Or
Part I: The Interview
Checkov’s Herring
He made the appointment because she happened to call his desk when he was expecting another, more important call. She asked him if he could see her for fifteen minutes, just to discuss her file, as November was coming up fast and Christmas right behind. He brushed her off and hung up quickly, hoping the other call hadn’t come in yet.
It didn’t come in for another forty-five minutes, so he needn’t have worried. When it did, it worried him.
His former coworker, a man who handled ten thousand unemployment files in ten years, who had quit loudly the week before, told him he’d left an explosive in the building. An infernal device. And, warned Dale, the former colleague, if he, Wallace, left the building before 5pm, the device would take most of a city block with it. Dale had warned Wallace, calmly, that if Wallace did not complete the full work day, Dale would blow Wallace to the moon.
Wallace considered this a low blow, but the fear overtook the indignity at the thought of dying in an explosion. Dale was incompetent, an absolutely worthless screwup, but quick to close a file. If he set to kill Wallace with a bomb, he’d probably overshoot and demolish the whole building.
Anxiety and purpose gripped Wallace. He had to search the building, but quietly. If he caused a panic and evacuation, Dale would kill them all.
He didn’t have long to think about it before his phone rang again and Olive told him someone named Spencer was waiting in the lobby. Olive seemed as surprised as anybody, given the rarity of an in-person meeting in the office, post 2020.
“I don’t know any Spencer. Send him home.”
“She says she talked to you this morning? She made an appointment? Something about Christmas?”
He stared at the blank, lumpy, tan wall for a long second, swallowing his panic. He’d buy a candy or whatever Christmas crap she was selling, assure her he was looking for opportunities for her unique skillset. and turn her right back out on the street so he could begin the delicate search. “Fine. Send her in.”
Spencer turned out to be a short, fifty-ish woman in a worn, navy blue coat. She existed in a whirlwind of small things, scattered adrift by anxiety and restlessness. She carried a single tote bag that became a clutter of tote bags, an umbrella, and a sack lunch the moment she lowered herself gingerly into a chair and set it on the ground next to her.
“I’m so sorry to bother you, it’s just, it’s November next week, and when I didn’t hear from Dale,” she trailed off.
Wallace had to process, shifting his mental gears. “It’s fine. Dale has left the firm. November comes for us all. Sit down. I was just about to call you. Had the file on my desk, been reviewing it. I see you’re a…”
He desperately scanned the page before him for a clue.
“I’ve done a few things. I worked for a small newspaper, briefly. I worked weekends in a hardware store, as well. That was my first real job after college, I suppose.”
Wallace scanned the paper again, still coming up with nothing. “I see.”
“While I was interviewing a man for an article, I fell in love. A whirlwind romance, you could say. We were married soon after, and we decided I should quit the paper, to raise the baby. I stayed at the hardware store for a while, for the discount, but even that was too much when there were two in diapers in the house.”
None of the writing in front of him seemed to line up with what he was hearing. He couldn’t focus on the paper long enough to read more than disjointed words.
“This says, contractor?”
“Well, I was a contractor briefly, yes. That’s kind of a euphemism, you see. I was an escort. The classy kind! Just, I would accompany men of high station to social events. I grew very close to one of the gentlemen, which of course ended my career again, when the baby came.”
“Social events, right.” Wallace glanced at the clock. The three minutes of the interview so far felt like fifty. He could hear the bomb ticking, just beyond the edge of his imagination.
He replied without thinking. “So, we’ll try to find you something in a field you have some experience in, then.”
She blushed. She goddamn blushed. She tried to hide it by pushing her glasses up her nose, but it spread clear to her ears.
“No, Mister Wallace, please. After four children, I need a vocation that is somewhat less impactful. Less acrobatic, if you understand.”
“Certainly, yes.” Wallace squirmed in his seat. “Have you considered office administration? We often have positions in offices. Typing and similar?”
“Oh, I worked in an office, briefly, after my first divorce.” She leaned over his desk and tapped a pudgy finger at the paper on top of the file.
“We called ourselves secretaries, back then. It was alright, that was before PC. Or Word Processors or any of that. I could type 60 words per minute on a Selectric. That was before the kidnapping. Some of the secretaries in the pool kidnapped the branch manager. He was a pig. Our branch shut down after that, and I chose not to continue my employment.”
“Selectric, huh?” He fidgeted.
“Yes, my youngest tried to explain computers to me. He’s twenty-two, you know. He knows all the computers.”
“Ah. Wonderful. Well, with this,” he flipped the folder closed and tapped the top, “I’m sure we’ll find you a position soon.”
She looked disappointed, but began to gather her things, which had multiplied and puddled around her as the interview went on. “Well alright, then. I had hoped to begin working soon. It’s just, it would be nice to have some income soon. For Christmas, you know.”
He rose, hoping to offer a point she could get. He held out a hand to shake. “I’m sure you’ll be hearing from us soon. Just let Olive know, if your information changes.”
“Well, alright then. Oh, by the way, would you like me to plug in your bomb?”
He started.
“When I was younger, I infiltrated a beauty pageant to catch a mad bomber, so I know a bomb when I see one. Only, it seems someone has unplugged it from under your desk here. Here, I’ll just plug that in for you.”
| Ruth Gibbs | Reading |
| Ben Gibbs | &c. |