Day 157 - Upside Down- Chapter 5 - (2378 words)

©Wayne Webb and constantwriting.blogspot.com, 2013. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Wayne Webb and constantwriting.blogspot.com with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

UPSIDE DOWN, BACK TO FRONT

By Wayne Webb

CHAPTER 5

Afterwards

Sam is siting alone having a coffee in the break room when Annie walks in. She sees him and stops in her tracks. She starts to shake and cry.
Sam stands and sighs heavily before folding her into an embrace. She wails into it uncontrollably for the third time this week. The sobbing slowly subsides as she sniffs her way out of the emrace and siles apologetcially. She wipes at her face roughly pushing the tears down and out.
Sam sees one lone tear left, stripped away of it’s source it has veered off her left cheek. Hesitantly he brushes at it with his fingertips, his unsurety taken for senstivity and protection. Annie’s eyes widen and Sam freezes in place, unsure if he’s done the right thing. His fingertips are still on her skin, though they have stopped moving they can both feel the energy flow between them for very opposing purposes.
Annie leans in and kisses him, once to make contact and then pressing harder into him and cupping his head with first one hand and then bring the other around to complete the circuit.
She stops when the realisation drops.
He doesn’t kiss her back.
He just stands there, eyes closed and being kissed passively.
She opens her eyes and sees his closed, but feels nothing coming back to her. No closing in of the nody, no angling of the hips. Not seeking connection any more than receiving of a gift.
Sam opens his eyes too, their lips still touching but waits for her to break away.
She dislodges herself and steps back, mistaking the sadness in his eyes for sadness internally. Sam’s sadness is reserved for her in his shock he can do nothing but be there, unengaged and uncommitted.
Confused.
She laughs lightly, trying to shake away the embarrassment, to reset the switch.
Annie tucks her hair behind one ear and wipes at her face, then her hair again twirled in her fingers as she turns to leave.
James walks in and she flushes and quickens her step.
He raises an eyebrow to Sam, who sighs again even heavier than before.
The kettle is boiled and tea is poured before they sit. Sam looks at James and shrugs, as if to say something about his obviously patent virility and how little he can control it.
Neither laughs out loud, but there is a shared humour that works it’s magic between them.

The Day

Sunlight pours in through the cracks as Sam awakes. He has not sept well, dreams of half naked animals skinned and sunburnt dancing on his roof. Dark imagery and twisted vines of cruciform penance dominate his sub conscious. The meaning is not lost, but understanding your demons is not always he path to defeating them.
James is sitting at his table not drinking his coffee. He has slept, bit only barely. Like the night before an early fligh when sleep seems like a trap laid by your enemies. Sleep wants you to fail, to stay in his grip, not your own.
Ivan is asleep. Sex lies heavy on the air, Manisha feels the attractiveness of being wanted and busily prepares breakfast for her man. She may not like it, but he wants to feel like that man. It makes him feel taller, bigger and stronger afterwards. The sleep of the victorious.
Nixon is at the wholesale market having breakfast with Pete. His friend from years past, a divergent path to riches on the tails of his friends. It’s not parasitic, but it is fortunate. It’s a big day, Pete is stressed about something, something has gone wrong and it’s not related to him. But he can help, can be there and be above it all. Stand out, stand forward and stand up. He wants the automatic respect of being desired in this space.
The day is much thicker than anyone expects.
The sun is brighter, warming the air quicker.
Harsh filtered light through windscreens and sunglasses keep traffic moving a little slower across the city. Consumers are heading to the sale, laden with cash and cards ready for the bargains. Word of mouth has spread, the viral nature of the emails between friends drives the numbers higher and higher. Techs have been on site since a little after dawn trying in vain to reconnect the EFT terminals on the south hall to the network. Customers are already being warned as they enter the hall that the machines are down. The queues at the ATMs have formed and someone from the Bank’s security firm have already warned them on the demand. More is coming in.
There’s a lot of money floating around. People just don’t use cheques anymore. Credit Cards and click clack machines are rarer and rarer, EFT, available funds and cash rule these sales. Economy of scale keep the prices low and the bargain hunters are ravenous for the deals. Within the first hour the bigger bargains are gone, and over half the day’s profits are in with a few thousand sales. From here the records for the day are in the bag, and the cash machines are glowing with the heat of repeated use. The cooling injections of notes do nothing to fuel the hunger.
People see more money trading places. Something is happening here, the rumours of it’s success fuel more success and no one seems to want to be left out. Socially it’s as good to be in on the bargain as it is to be known as the person with their fingers on the pulse. Fingers on the phone, texting the heartbeat of demand to the address book. Who wants in? Better bring some cash so you don’t get caught short or having to queue for more at the machines. Remember that beer festival in ‘05? Remember the lines to get the festival money? One EFT terminal only, 200 people deep at any given time? Don’t make that mistake, get in before everyone else does.

During

Nixon is impatient, tailgating and overtaking as much as possible, everyone is in his way today. Thieves stealing his time, no respect for the business man. Employer, benefactor, foundations of society. Get the fuck out of my way! Nothing is as important to the individual, this is for so many more than that and these people with their insignificant problems, are they on a timetable?
No.
The traffic thins as he hits the on ramp and he speeds up, accelerating up the incline to the Viaduct, the overpass leading to the bridge. It's a short stretch of road, he doesn't notice or care who's watching him, who has been watching him for a while and who's waiting for him ahead. The bended road on the overpass is suddenly at a stop.
The Van has pulled up to a stop, inches behind a taxi and then as far as he can see - at least to the bend in front of him the way is blocked. He can't pull out to the right as he intended, the cars there are blocking the way. Mirror check and behind him the cars are beginning to queue.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck!" he slams his wrists hard against the steering column, the impact burning his skin and tingling to the bone beneath.
He reaches for his cell phone, not registering that he did not bring it with him in his angry exit from the garage. No wallet, no phone - just the keys and an impatience.
The radio back to base is the next best thing, he clicks a channel open on hands free and demands answers. There is no reply, and the frustration of waiting even a few seconds makes the anger rise unreasonable and unchecked in him once more, bubbling over to slam the steering column again making the flesh crack once more and blood rush to fill in the gaps.
"Nixon?" The radio has lit up and Annie's quizzical voice comes over the air.
"About fucking time, what the hell is the hold up?"
"Uh I was just getting a cup of tea from..."
"What do I always say? Never leave the radio unmanned, Never! Do you hear me? Is that cup of tea worth your job?"
"Well ..."
"Is it? Seriously? What cup of tea is worth losing your job over because you can't be arsed to get a back up while you make it? Is it worth you losing your job? Me losing my business? My contracts, disappointing my friends? People we have made promises to? Is it? Is it worth that?"
"I was just..."
"Just what? Just what that is worth losing your job? Think very carefully about what you give me as a fucking excuse for screwing my business? You want to think about what you were "just" doing while I had to wait, while our customers and contracts are waiting for your "just doing" something to be done with?"
"What can I do for you?" Annie tries to move the conversation forward, this is a dead end that could go on forever and the blame for the delay would still be her fault. Find the quickest path of least resistance and move down it, hoping he'll follow. He still needs or wants something right?
"You can man the fucking radio when you're supposed to so I don't have to teach you how to do your job every time I have to speak to you!"
Annie doesn't make a face, she keeps it stone and not betraying a note of the displeasure, contempt or resignation she feels below it all. The only thing is the exit, moving forward and out. "What do you need, right now?"
"What's the fucking hold up? Why do I have to repeat myself? Jesus!" Nixon realises that there is no context for this demand yet, but he cannot back down off his anger, it's a wave beneath him and the energy cannot simply be turned off, it needs to divert somewhere. "The fucking viaduct, I'm on the way over the bridge, the fucking viaduct has stopped."
"Oh. Hang on."
"Hang on? Hang on she says? I've waited long enough, don't try and placate me - just get the job done - get me an answer now. Don't waste my time."
"I'm looking, there's no alerts on from the traffic monitor."
"Fat fucking good that is. I'm telling you I have stopped with everyone else in sight."
"The bridge cam is... empty, hardly any cars going north. Hang on."
"So the blockage is in front of me then, somewhere right in fucking front of me. Great."
"There must be a thing just before the start of the bridge, where are you?"
"Thanks, tell me something I don't know. Obviously Jesus what did I hire you for?" Nixon is calming. Logically the blockage is not far away, it just needs to clear up and he can move on quickly. There can't be that many cars ahead of him. The cars around him are not moving at all. He sees a person getting out of the driver's side off to his right and walking up. Then another.
What's going on?
"I'm going to go check - call Pete and apologise. I'm maybe ten minutes out and will be there..."
"Already did, when you took the truck I got on the line and apologised for the delay, he said it was nothing and that he'd see you when you got here for a coffee."
"He can say it's nothing as much as he likes. But I know it'll come up when the contract review is in, you know he will. Fuck!"
"We have an alert on the traffic monitor, just beyond the on ramp - half way to the bridge, below St. Mary's bay road - there's a truck, it's jacknifed. They say 15 minutes to clear. Just ahead."
"Great, just great."
"Do you want me to call again?"
"No, give me a minute ok?"
Nixon leaves the radio on and reaches for the door. It doesn't respond, he pushes harder and the handle is tight, fused in place.
"What the fuck?" his voice registers surprise, an incongruous change in beat and tone from the staccato explosions of his temper. His face furrows as he concentrates on the door and tries to open it.
It won't move.
It can't.
"Nixon?"
"Hang on." There is uncertainty here now, and unable to discern the issue he abandons the driver side door and undoes his seatbelt and leans across the passenger side, around the box sitting there filled with the hats and t-shirts he had promised to Pete. Promotional material with the Nixon Secure Transport logo emblazoned all over them. It's an irritant and in the way but it represents the chance at new business so he moves gingerly around it. Before he puts his hand on the passenger door handle he stops.
There's something in the air. It makes him freeze, he recognises it. It's black and sharp and hot.
Is it getting hotter in here? Is the air con off?
"What's that smell?"
"What?" Annie is listening and James has walked in too.
"Can you smell that?" He sits back up straight again and realises the futility of that question. Thinking aloud never helps. People don't think enough, giving them yours is not a step in the right direction for idiots who don't think enough or quick enough in the first place. "Of course you can't."
He takes a couple more deep breaths.
"What the hell?"
Then the memory fills in. A few weeks, Dave in this very truck. The black, the black of...
Fire.

Now he panics, internally at first. He doesn't focus on the threat to his life, but to his delivery. There's no hopper to breath it in, but he can't turn up with smoke pouring out the sides. Where's the extinguisher? It's in the back. There's two there, the spare from the cab he put in the back after... Dammit where's his cell phone when he needs it? Now what? I need to get to the back and sort out the fire. If it gets out of hand? Nixon coughs and for the first time the quality of the air is clear to him.