Why? Why was he alone now?
Well, it was simple to explain but impossible to accept. Annette had wanted a life that began and ended in victory, and he’d always hoped she was patient enough for him to accomplish big things. As good as his intentions were to put away money, she saw the writing on the wall after the onion plant. You couldn’t save what you didn’t have, and when a guy only knew the boundaries of his bubble, finding the wisdom to drop every cent into the right tech stocks was a pretty hard feat to pull off.
Still, his heart wanted him to find a way. That’s why he’d gone on Facebook this morning and sent her a message: Can you just tell me what to do? Come home and I’ll do whatever you want. I’ll be whatever you want. Right away. This minute. This second. Please. I love you so much. I don’t care that you were with Milstead. If you want to come home, none of that matters. I’ll be a different person. I’ll go anywhere. I’ll show you. I’ll show you that I’ll go far away from here. Another state. Another country. Goddamn, another planet! I don’t give a shit anymore. I just need you back.
Looking back, the message was painfully embarrassing, but he couldn’t wait to get home and go online. See if she’d responded.
The warning whistle blew then.
Time to work.
After a restless night stalking Facebook and staring at his bedroom ceiling, the Sticker shambled from his pickup truck. He closed the door and took a long drink from his coffee thermos. Noticing his shadowy face in the reflection of his window, he leaned forward and started scraping at his bent front tooth. Love coffee, but goddamn. Another face floated into the reflection and he turned quickly around.
A black girl, perhaps ten or eleven, stood there. Her hair was straightened and fell down her shoulders like a nighttime rainstorm. She had the peculiar, yet smart, outfit of a business woman. The Sticker had never seen such a small pantsuit in his life. To fit her overall stature, her charcoal coat was also stylish. On the lapel the morning sunlight played off a platinum pin that looked like a miniature globe.
She stuck out her petite dark hand. Her emerald gaze cut into him with intelligence and her smile bent gracefully, powerful with charisma, like a politician’s dream. “Tasha Willing.”
“You lost from private school, kid?”
Her smile faded only a bit. “I thought we might talk about a job offering. I work for an employment agency.”
“That right?” The Sticker took a deeper sip from his thermos. He looked to the processing plant. “Got a job, as you can see.”
“You can do better than this.”
“Where are your parents, kid? Your old man work here?”
“Perhaps we can set up a meeting after work today?” She expertly retrieved a business card from a side pocket in her coat.
He took it, rather unconsciously and quickly glanced at it. The text on back said: Take a shot and you’ll go far. We employ.
“Limbus, eh? Well done, kid. Guess you’re the one who’s pissing off Bailey.”
“Bailey?”
“The guy who’s gonna be upset if I don’t get in there soon.”
“Don’t let me keep you any longer, sir. Just give me a call when you decide you’re ready for something better than this.”
The Sticker chuckled. “You’re a nut, kid. Have a good day.”
He walked past her.
“You too, sir,” she said, watching him go.
He must have completely misread the back of the business card before.
Your new job is written in the stars. We employ.
This wasn’t good.
It was only a half an hour until lunch break, so it was very strange that Bailey would call anybody to his office. He normally waited until break and then pretended he “didn’t want to interrupt.” Reporting to the operational manager’s office wasn’t as bad for the Sticker as it was for other workers though. He didn’t have to walk clear across the plant. Bailey’s office was only twenty feet from the bleed floor, right near the mostly shuttered USDA office. Just a hop over the spill containment berm and he was at the door.
The Sticker stood in the surprisingly clean, cinnamon smelling office, taking in the glossy wood paneling, the glass paper weight with a scorpion trapped in it, the photo of a boating event on the Colorado River, the framed newspaper of some quad-bike racing event, the recessed lit painting of a country cottage. Everything was lovingly in its own place, and the greasy man with his disgusting public display of chest hair did not fit the rest of the room.
“Have a seat, man,” said Bailey. His eyes were fixed on a Yahoo news article that featured an unflattering photo of President Obama yelling. He closed the web browser and swiveled around in his seat. He noticed the Sticker still stood. “I said sit.”
“Hurts my back.”
“Fine, shit, fine.” Bailey offered a weary look of lifelong annoyance. “So do you know why I called you in here?”
“No clue.”
“Really?”
The Sticker shrugged.
Bailey blew out a sigh between his rubbery lips and picked up a stack of papers from his in-basket. He dropped them at the other end of his desk. “What are those?”
“My paycheck stubs, looks like.”
“Looks like because they are, smart-alec.”
“I don’t get it.”
“Come on, man, don’t play dumb. What’s all this overtime here?”
“I logged it,” replied the Sticker. “HR didn’t say anything.”
“You don’t get to make your own hours, buddy. I ask you to work over and you accept or decline.”
“This went on for a month. You saw me here, you never—”
“This is abuse. Other people here are entitled to an eight-hour day.”
“First I’m hearing about it.”
“No, actually it isn’t. Look down at the comment section on the stub.”
The Sticker read the note, which looked to be in a different font. Overtime shall be approved per arrangement by management. See supervisor.
“When did you add that?”
“Excuse me?”
“That wasn’t there before.”
“See, that’s the problem with you direct-deposit folks. Always forgetting your stubs.” Bailey took out what looked to be about a month’s worth of paycheck stubs, sealed in envelopes, a rubber band holding them together. All the envelopes looked crisp and new.
The Sticker felt his blood catch fire, but he refused to show the man anything. “You and Trevor Milstead must be good friends, for you to go to all this trouble.”
Bailey’s face went robotically placid. “Finish your day out there and I’ll give your full two weeks pay. Otherwise, you can leave right the hell now and get nothing. Go and have a ball.”
Regardless of all he wanted to say, and subsequently do, the Sticker walked out of the sanitary confines of the office and back into the plant, to finish his last day in the blood and filth.
The Sticker leaned against the moist railing of the production line and wondered if Bailey was still in his office. At this point he was of two minds: he could threaten with wrongful termination, or he could just beat the ever-loving shit out of the guy. As he pondered these options, he found himself strolling the walkway, heading for the office.
No anger, no fear, he arrived at Bailey’s door and pushed it open. The man sat in his chair, head back, snoring, that pubic mound of chest hair rising and falling. The Sticker watched him for a couple moments and then shut the door quietly.
Security hadn’t come by yet. Those guys were still having their last beers in shipping and receiving probably, but the Sticker didn’t want to chance a diversion from their routine, so he moved fast. It was almost laughingly perfect, as though a plan set weeks ago had now come to fruition.