Chapter 3
CHAPTER
THREE
The phone startled Jack from a deep sleep. When he answered it, Boris thundered, “Wake up, motherfucker!”
Jack blinked groggily at the alarm clock. “It’s seven-oh-three,” he mumbled. “Thought I asked for eight last night.”
“Nope,” said Boris with a huff. “You said seven a.m. when you checked in.”
“Oh.” Jack barely registered the words. “Thanks, then.”
“Fuck off,” said Boris cheerfully. The dial tone rang in Jack’s ear.
Had he really told Boris seven? He was almost certain he’d requested eight a.m., gleeful at the prospect of an extra hour of sleep.
The alarm clock, too, was set for seven.
Dismayed, Jack dragged himself out of bed.
The train wouldn’t arrive until eleven or so, but he’d not risk missing it.
Alarm clocks were too easily silenced. At home, he set multiple alarms ten minutes apart and placed them across the room so that he would have to get out of bed in order to turn them off.
In large numbers, they couldn’t be ignored.
It was the only way to get to work on time.
Sipping coffee from the lobby, he made his way toward the train station.
In daylight, Hidden Cove’s cozy cottages and wrought iron gates were positively serene against the backdrop of a tumultuous, grey sea.
Pine trees bordered the sidewalks, their needles strewn across the cement, fragrant and crunchy beneath his feet.
Pale clouds stretched across a blue sky.
What would it be like to live somewhere like this?
At home, trees grew between streets and sidewalks, sometimes planted in tiny yards, more often found growing in pots inside of office buildings and grocery stores.
The only canopy in the city was one of smog.
Streets were crowded with cars and people, an endless cacophony of clicking heels, chattering voices, horns honking, buses spewing exhaust.
Would he grow bored here after only a few days? Were apartments more expensive? What about groceries? Were there job opportunities, or was this place primarily a vacation destination for the wealthy?
There was no hospital, only a little clinic.
No veterinarian, either, he’d discovered last night while perusing the phone book.
No record stores. No auto body shop (currently, he didn’t own a car, but he liked to think that he might one day and so factored it into his daydreams).
There was only one consignment store, and according to the ad, its clothes were exclusively for women.
For all that he loved the trees and the ocean and the misty air and the deer who paused to observe him, he could never thrive here.
He boarded the train overwhelmed and exhausted, mourning the forest already.
“Can’t use this,” said the conductor, frowning down at the ticket. “I’m gonna need to ask you to leave.”
“What?” said Jack, glancing from the conductor to the ticket. He had only just sat down. Had he gotten on the wrong train? Handed over the wrong piece of paper? “I don’t understand. What’s the problem?”
“Ticket’s for tomorrow,” said the conductor, pointing toward the door. “Can’t honor this. You need to get it fixed in the office.”
“For tomorrow?” Jack stared at the date. October eighteenth. The day of the audit was the seventeenth—he’d written it on his calendars at work and at home, added it to his date book, scribbled it on his palm, repeated it in his head like a mantra. “But today is Wednesday the eighteenth.”
“Nope.” The conductor shook his head. “Today’s Tuesday the seventeenth. You need to get your head checked, buddy.”
Jack left. The eyes of the other passengers bored into him as he climbed onto the platform, suitcase swinging.
Had he really gotten the date wrong? Was that why the foreman was so rude to him yesterday?
But that didn’t make sense. His boss wished him luck the very morning his train departed.
Dan wasn’t a genius, but he wouldn’t send Jack out the door on the wrong day.
Besides, his ticket was accepted, and the hotel room was reserved.
He must have fixated on the wrong date. That’s all this was. Just a simple mistake. An embarrassing one, but nothing damning.
Jack made his way inside the tiny station and waited behind a young couple purchasing their tickets home, and an older woman who wanted to confirm the morning train’s arrival time despite the clearly posted schedule.
When he reached the counter, Jack said, “I need to change the date on my ticket.”
The employee was the same one who’d helped him previously. Despite being perfectly cordial to the other customers, he looked less than pleased to see Jack. “No one turned in your wallet.”
“Oh. Thank you for the update. Um, I’ve made my peace with the wallet. I need to adjust my ticket, though. Mine is for tomorrow, and I really need to leave today.”
A man slipped into line behind him, shuffling his briefcase from hand to hand. Outside, the train’s horn sounded. Wheels ground against the tracks. Jack’s anxiety spiked.
“Next train comes in three hours. I need to see an ID to change the date.”
“Well, as you know, I don’t have a wallet,” said Jack. His knees began to shake. “I can call my employer. They arranged the ticket for me—”
“Won’t do any good,” said the employee, shaking his head. “I need to see an ID.”
Jack blinked at him. “My wallet is missing. There’s no other way to change the date on the ticket?”
“Nope.” The employee scratched the back of his neck and yawned.
Even Boris was more helpful than this guy.
“I see,” said Jack slowly. “Is there a manager or someone I can speak to?”
“You’re looking at him.” Another yawn.
“Oh.”
“What did you think? That you could just show up with no money, ask for special favors, and bum around town? Get outta here, you grifter.”
“I’m not a grifter!” Jack protested, throwing his arms up in the air. “I work for Grover, Rowell, and Thursday. I came here for a factory audit. I’m not here to take advantage of anyone! I just want to go home!”
The man in line behind him cleared his throat. “Buddy, is this gonna take all day?”
Jack turned to face him, affronted. “Excuse you. I’m not done here.”
“Yeah, you are,” said the employee, scowling. “Find somewhere to sleep tonight, you bum. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Wait, what?” said Jack. The room started to spin. The ache between his eyes grew infinitely more pronounced.
“I said, get out of here! I can’t help you. Leave, or I’ll ban you altogether.”
Unsure what else to do, Jack lifted his suitcase and left. An elderly couple by the door backed away as he approached.
“Excuse me,” Jack began in his best customer service voice—the one that appeased even the angriest customers. “Can you please tell me the date?”
The man stepped in front of his wife. Prominent jowls flapped as he spoke, “Don’t come near us.”
Jack tried to smile. “I only want to know the date.”
“He’s mad,” whispered the woman, clutching her purse with one hand, her husband’s sleeve with the other.
“You can’t cause a scene in front of my wife,” said the old man, shaking his head. “She’s very frail.”
Jack stepped back. “I see. Please excuse me and my, um, my madness.” He laughed at that, something between a tomcat’s yowl and a cackle, and thought that maybe they were right to call him mad.
The couple hurried away.
Jack found a payphone outside. Coins were stacked on the ledge beneath. He let out a sigh of relief. Nothing was going right, but at least he could call work and explain the situation. Maybe they could help him get another night at the hotel. After all, none of this was his fault.
Hands shaking, he dialed the number to the office. Held his breath as it rang.
“Grover, Rowell, and Thursday,” chirped a cheerful voice. “This is Kathleen speaking. How may I help you?”
Jack let out a sigh of relief. Good. A tall, thickset woman with graying hair and owlishly round glasses, Kathy was friendly, if a little gruff. “Hey, Kathy, it’s Jack Hazel. Listen, I’m calling from the train station—”
“Oh,” said Kathy in a strange voice. In the background, papers shuffled. A copier beeped. “I see. Jack, hold on a minute. I need to transfer you to Mr. Rowell.”
“Oh, you don’t need to bother Dan,” said Jack hurriedly. “It’s just a little problem with the train ticket. I’m sure Francine can help me.”
“Jack,” said Kathy, so sternly that he could acutely imagine the way her mouth formed his name like a swear. “Dan said to patch you through to him if you called. Now, I don’t think he’s very happy. I think you should know that, alright? Hang on.”
“What?” Jack choked, struggling to comprehend her words. What had he done wrong?
But it was too late. The line rang.
Dan hated inconvenience. Maybe he was already aware of the situation with the ticket. Or maybe the foreman had called and complained that Jack had no idea what he was doing.
A click. “Jack Hazel,” boomed a familiar voice. “I was wondering if you’d have the audacity to call, or if we’d just never see you again.”
“I—What?” said Jack weakly, twirling the phone cord around his finger. “What’s wrong?”
“What’s wrong?” Dan laughed, long and loud.
Jack pictured him all too clearly, sitting behind his massive desk, a cigar in one hand and a glass of whisky in the other, phone clenched between shoulder and jowls, tie loose after a long afternoon with his secretary.
“Hey, Frannie! Get a load of this! Idiot wants to know what’s fucking wrong! ”
Jack winced. “Please, I’m really confused right now. If you could just tell me what I did—”
“You’re confused? You’re confused? How do you think I feel? I had everything arranged. All you had to do was show up, and you couldn’t even do that. And now you’re calling me like you don’t know what you did? You didn’t fucking do the audit, Jack!”
“What do you mean?” Jack demanded. “I was there all day yesterday!”
“Yesterday? Jack, you weren’t even in town until yesterday evening.
Don’t give me that shit.” Dan sighed. Or maybe he’d just exhaled cigar smoke.
Over the phone, it was impossible to know.
“Listen, you’re fired, but I don’t wanna ruin your life.
I’ll give you a good reference, I won’t tell anyone you fucked up.
I know you’ve got some, uh, problems. I’m a progressive guy.
I don’t think they’re your fault. But I can’t trust you.
You didn’t do the audit; you called and lied to me. It’s not good, Jackie.”
“But I did the audit,” Jack protested. “I went in, and I met with Henry—who was hugely unpleasant, by the way—and then I had to wait for the afternoon foreman to come in and give me the paperwork we needed. I did the audit. I swear I did.”
“Yeah, I think maybe you had a weird dream or something. You feeling OK?”
“I think so,” said Jack, though by now he was sweating profusely and his hands shook uncontrollably.
“Yeah, see, the thing is, the factory isn’t open at night.
Your train didn’t arrive until after five p.m., right?
So, I don’t think you could’ve fucking done the audit.
You weren’t scheduled to come in until eight a.m. And Mr. Henry said you weren’t there.
He said he called your hotel, and the clerk told him he gave you a wakeup call, and that you came downstairs with all your bags and left. How do you explain that?”
Blood roared in Jack’s ears. He’d done the audit. He knew he had. Still felt the stiffness in his neck, the increase in his blood pressure. There was no reason for Dan to lie to him, but there was no reason to believe him, either.
Yesterday wasn’t a dream or delusion. Too clearly, he remembered the hunger that plagued him, the stench of rubber, the awful heat, his itchy suit, the sole of his shoe rubbing against his foot through the hole in his sock, the way words swam across paper so brilliantly white that his head ached.
Nothing strange or dreamlike had happened. Jack hadn’t found himself with a drink in his hand, a leopard prowling across the factory, or workers speaking gibberish. The paperwork wasn’t stuck together with ink turning to rivers of fresh blood.
“I… I was there. I can prove it,” said Jack, reaching for his satchel, where he’d stored the most important papers. “Here, let me read you my notes.”
“That’s doesn’t count as proof,” scoffed Dan.
“You could be making it all up. I know you’re making it all up.
Don’t make this any worse than it is. Come back tomorrow, give us the paperwork, and you can take your stuff home, OK?
I’ll get you your last paycheck. Hell, I’ll even work up a referral.
This isn’t the job for you, but I like you.
I wanna make sure you’re gonna be OK.” A loud exhale.
Definitely cigar smoke. “Just take it easy tonight. I’m real sorry to do this to you.
But you don’t gotta lie anymore. Have a good night, Jack. ”
The line cut out.
“Fuck,” Jack groaned, slamming the phone onto the hook. He pressed his forehead against the keypad and groaned again—something feral, akin to a snarl. “Fuck.”