A short story.

“A middle-aged Chinese man’s well-oiled weekend plans are repeatedly-hampered by karmic intervention.”

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I don’t want to hear another word about it! Now just get it done! They were almost thirty-feet separated and Freddie was screaming like it was a First Aid emergency. Rogelio wished it was a real emergency: like something had snapped and crushed Freddie, even in the forklift. Like a beam: a big beam would break from the rafters – like an act of God – and fall and land at just the right angle to impale Fred through the open roof of his lift, and then he wouldn’t be a problem anymore. Rog recused himself before he fell down that depressive rabbit hole and ruined the rest of his shift: he wasn’t a young man anymore and couldn’t be bothered playing a young man’s game. But here was Fred again: driving too fast and too close for comfort off the main drag where the lifts were actually allowed. Rog put his head down and concentrated on his work, pretending not to notice as he knelt on old knees to pick up the product for stocking. But Fred must have felt Rog’s energy, because he screeched to a halt beside him, leaving barely-enough room for him to get off and down to Rog’s level. Well, not really: Fred was only five-foot-four. What’s your problem, Rog?
Problem? No problem, buddy. Rog was flustered & gasping for air, and trying his best to be diplomatic.
There’s something going on and I don’t know what it is. But I don’t want it to become a regular thing, OK?
What are you talking about?
Don’t think I haven’t been watching you. You’ve been frustrated for the last few days. And I don’t care what happened to you at home, just don’t take it out on me, OK? I’m trying to help you here.
Rog took a deep breath. …Fred, I’m very busy, OK? I don’t have time for your accusations.
I’m not accusing you of anything. What I’m saying to you is, you need a better attitude.
Attitude?
Your behavior! It sucks! Your work effort, too! You only have an hour left and look at how much you still have left to do!
OK OK OK, can you leave me alone now, please?
What, are you trying to get rid of me now?
Yes! I told you I’m busy! You dropped too much again! Now please go away!
I know that you’re busy, and I don’t like over-dropping any more than you do, but it’s what Kathy wants. That’s your job, right? To do what your manager wants? Not what you feel like. I just want to make sure that you know, that I’m working in your best interest, here.
Best interest? What are you talking about, best interest? You think that by making me stock all this heavy stuff so quickly that I’m not going to be paying the price tomorrow?
Oh, so you can call in sick again? That’s typical.
That’s your fault, buddy! That’s what I’m saying to you, man. You never stack any of the smaller pallets so I have to bend down so far to pick everything up and it hurts my back! You never put any of my short-stacks in steel and make me condense everything! And now there’s an hour left in my shift and I still have to finish the moves and clean up, and you’re dropping more? Because you think I need more to do? Fuck you, if you think that!
Fuck me?
Fuck you, Fred! You are an asshole, man!
Excuse me, you’d better watch your fucking language around me.
Or what?
Or we’re going to have a problem!
We already have a problem! You!
There’s nothing wrong with me! You don’t know me!
Everything’s wrong with you! Who says you get to talk to other employees this way? You aren’t a manager! You’re just a driver!
You’d better bet that Kathy is going to hear about this!
What, you going to run away now? Buddy, I’m just getting started!
You’re the asshole, Rog! You knew this was the last day before my vacation! Fred drove away at full-speed and Rog suffered his wrath for the rest of his shift. And as he wiped the sweat from his brow as he squatted by a pallet he was wrapping – his lungs panting and his heart racing and his back throbbing and only twenty minutes left in his shift; and his manager Katherine behind him, yelling at him about what he said to Fred and that he needed to stand up and explain himself right now – Rog cursed Fred under his breath. Worse than any wish of death or bodily dismemberment. Rog knew that he didn’t have any supernatural powers – or, at least, none that had awakened yet – but he’d heard of “The Secret” and the law of attraction and thought that, maybe, if he wanted it bad enough, it would happen. Yes, Fred needed to be taught a lesson. A lesson that was beyond Rog’s reach to teach in the material world. He cursed Fred, and his vacation, and his family, and anything else tied to him. His best friend in High School. His wife, girlfriend, boyfriend, whoever he was with. His parents. Him. And then he stood up.

*

Fred was up before dawn. He didn’t mind: he would already be up and at work any other day, but it was a long-weekend and he needed to be at the ferry early to make sure he got a spot. Not that he didn’t reserve beforehand: he was too organized not to. He just wanted to make sure he was at the front of the line and the first off the boat. He had packed the night before but triple-checked it once he’d had a shower and scrubbed his oily face. The hygiene products went in their own pouch that he put in the front pocket of the suitcase, just like he always did. Print-off of the ticket? Check. Extra t-shirt and underwear? Check. Was he forgetting anything? The sun still hadn’t risen when his phone rang for the first time. Nǐhǎo ma?
Hěn hǎo. What time are you coming by again?
I should be at your house by ten o’clock.
What’s that?
Ten o’clock!
What time is it now?
It’s five-thirty, Dad. It isn’t even light out yet.
Oh.
Are you OK?
There was a long pause on the line, and then some sniffling. I’m OK.
What’s wrong, Dad?
Did you call your brother yet?
No, not yet.
Oh.
I know that I need to, I just haven’t had time. I’ve been busy, getting the suite ready for you.
What’s that?
I’ve been busy!
Oh. A pause. Did you tell him that I want him at my funeral?
Why are you talking about your funeral right now? You’re perfectly healthy.
Did you call your brother?
No! Ai-yah, I haven’t talked to him yet!
He should come with you, to see me.
Dad, it’s too late. I already made a reservation on the ferry.
What?
I made a reservation already! For the boat!
Well that shouldn’t matter, he lives over here still, doesn’t he?
I don’t know. What is this sudden urgency to see Kevin?
Nothing. It’s nothing.
It’s not nothing.
I just want to see him, OK? That’s all. More sniffling.
If one couldn’t tell that Fred was getting agitated before, his tone made it clear now. You aren’t going to die tomorrow, Dad. Kevin has had plenty of time to get a hold of you since the accident.
I know, I know.
Let’s see how the move goes this week and maybe we can call him together, once you’re settled?
Sure, that’s OK.
OK? Are you sure?
Yes, I’m sure. I’m sure. What time are you coming again?
Ten! I’ll be there at ten!
Oh.
That’s five hours from now! Look outside, Dad! What do you see?
Huh?
What do you see when you look out your window?
Nothing. It’s too dark.
Exactly! Your tai chi group doesn’t even start until dawn! Go back to bed!
OK OK OK. Bye.
Bye. But Fred’s Dad had already hung up. Before he took his bags to the car, the smell of fresh plaster attracted Fred to the downstairs suite. He stood at the entryway, peering into the pitch-dark room. Everyone had only just left yesterday. It was expensive but there was enough room around everything now for his father’s wheelchair. It was nicer than the second floor, too, especially with the hardwood floor he got for a steal. The sheen from the street lamps through the bottom-floor Vancouver Special windows and off the stainless steel appliances made everything look shiny and modern, but he worried that if his father found something to complain about, it would be how bright it was at night. He wouldn’t dare tell him how much everything cost either, lest that give him a heart attack. The goal was to prolong his life, not shorten it, and to get him off that damned home-care program. Fred’s money wasn’t going anywhere else, anyway.
Even the electrical was redone: he flicked the switch to see the new LED fixtures illuminate and wait. Nothing. He flicked it up and down, again and again, click click click click click dammit, he didn’t have time to deal with this now. He would call them later to complain, once he got to the island. Really stick it to them. He could imagine the conversation, too: “No, you can’t come by today because I’m not at home today. I just wanted to make sure that you know, that when I get back, I will expect you to fix the problem then.” That was a little harsh. Yes, diplomacy was key, or who knows what they would do when they came by. “Probably disconnect something else, get you on-the-hook.” No, no negativity. Not today. It was the first day of his vacation. Off for a week. Move his Dad over the next couple of days, relax the rest. He took one last look at the work, feeling the pride warm him – at least internally – and then left out the main door in the foyer and locked it behind him, forgetting his breakfast bar and pre-percolated coffee on the kitchen counter.

*

It was clear-skies driving to the terminal, and Fred had his windows down and was taking-in the crisp early-morning air that rushed through the car. He had gotten over forgetting his breakfast – knowing the coffee maker had a shut-off timer – and resolved to get something at the ferry cafeteria. He liked to drive without the radio blasting: just listening to the wind around him and the passing cars seemed so simple and peaceful to him and a call, through the Bluetooth system. It was work. Six AM. Hello?
Hi Fred, it’s Kathy.
Hi Kathy. What’s up?
Is this a good time?
Yes, it’s perfect. I’m just driving to the ferry, now.
Well, A pause. something has come up, and Another pause. the store on the island called and they’re looking for help over the next week.
They must be desperate if they’re calling the mainland asking.
They are. So, what I want to ask you is, can you do me a favour and postpone your vacation by a week? Hello?
I’m still here.
Yeah, I know that it’s short notice but, you had mentioned you were going over there for your Dad so your name came up. They just really need drivers. It is inventory, you know.
But I’m helping my Dad move this week. This couldn’t have been worse timing.
We’re still going to give you your vacation, we just want you to extend your time on the island and do the company a favour while you’re in the area, if you can manage. We’ll make whatever concessions we have to. Look at it this way, it’s extra overtime. You could use the money for your Dad.
Yeah, at some point I’m going to have to come back over with the movers and his stuff, and I already have that booked. It was a really difficult appointment to get. I don’t think I can help you.
That’s too bad, Fred. I really thought you were a team player.
I’m sorry?
I know that you’ve been eyeing moving-up in the company, and to be a manager, you know that you have to make some sacrifices, right? We’re still going to give you your week off, we would just like you to take it after you do the week at the other store.
Sounds like I don’t have much of a choice.
Are you sure? Because I can find someone else….
No, no, I’m sure. I’ll do it.
Thanks Fred! They’ve scheduled you starting tomorrow morning at three AM. Do you know where it is?
I have a phone. I’m sure that I can look it up.
OK, thanks again, Fred. I hope you enjoy your time off!
Fred got off the phone and felt his heart sink into his stomach. Three AM. He was really looking forward to sleeping-in. How was he going to work this? Maybe if he called the movers and pleaded his case he would be able to get it postponed until next week: “Listen, my dad’s sick. And you guys are telling me that you can’t make an exception for a dying man?” The dying-man excuse wasn’t going to work forever. It was still too early to call anyone. He ran the list through his head: electrical guy, moving guy. Electrical guy, moving guy, and maybe the other store, just to confirm a few things. Electrical guy, moving guy, other store. When in doubt, make a list.
When he got to the ferry at a quarter-to-seven, it was already packed with a hundred-odd cars, all filled to the brim with people getting away for the long-weekend. His dream of disembarking first evaporated along with the rest of his itinerary. Thank God he even got a spot. Have to look at the positives. The ferry was supposed to arrive at eight but didn’t dock until nine o’clock, and by then he was starving. There was a promenade before the gate with some restaurants, but it was thirty-lanes-away and he had no desire to jostle through the marauding crowd of twenty-something hipsters with Dick Dasterdly moustaches and their wives who they probably didn’t deserve and their school-aged children with multicoloured mohawks and chokers, all who had the same idea as him. What was happening to the next generation? If it was his kids, yeah, right. If he had kids. His father would never have allowed him to look like that when he was that age. What would his children look like? The ones there were actually pretty cute kids, if they took all the shit off their faces. The mohawked boy and the girl with the choker saw him looking at them through his open window and Fred could see them pointing at him and talking to who must have been their Dad. As soon as the moustached man looked back at him, Fred rolled up the window and tried to keep a brave face. The french fry he had dropped between the seats a few mornings ago was sounding mighty-tempting.

*

The line at the cafeteria on the boat was long and cramped, and by the time Fred had reached the till there wasn’t any hot food left. Seriously? He took a coffee and a muffin and left the young families that clogged the dining room to the quieter lower-deck. He was casually reading a newspaper when she came over and sat across from him. Once he looked up from the pages he could no longer concentrate on them, and he knew it. He knew this girl, too. Why couldn’t he place her?
Your name is Fred, right?
That’s right. The voice was vaguely familiar. Had he seen her on a magazine cover?
Hi Fred! It’s Jesse!
Who?
Jessica! Joseph’s sister!
Joseph… it took him a minute to remember his friend from High School: the one he had spent a few nights over with the boys, a lifetime ago. But he had a sister? Apparently he did. Jessica?
That’s right! Hi! She hugged him and forced him up out of his seat. Five-foot-two, still shorter than him. And wow, she was beautiful. He couldn’t recall what she looked like when she was just Joe’s younger sister, but she remembered him, clearly. Whatever she looked like then was a shadow compared to what she looked like now: a pale redhead with her hair pulled into a tight French braid; natural A-cup breasts with no bra on, in a white Summer dress that hugged her ballerina figure and flaunted her shaved, unblemished legs. Blue Toms and ankle socks. She wasn’t a redhead then, was she? Her green, deep-set eyes looked into his and she smiled. Teeth like porcelain…
Jessica, you’re gorgeous! “Did you just say that out-loud?”
Thank you!
Funny running in to you here, how long has it been? Maybe twenty, twenty-five years? To be honest, I forgot that Joe even had a sister. Bully for me.
Well it’s hard for me to forget you. You were always the confident one of Joe’s friends.
Why are you going to the island?
I was on the mainland visiting some friends and, now I’m going home!
You still live on the island?
You bet!
Well you’re lucky you have the long-weekend off. I have to work.
What do you do?
…I’m a manager, at a retail chain.
A manager! Fancy!
Not so much. What about you?
She laughed, as effervescent a laugh as ever he heard before. I’m not working right now. Don’t tell anyone, but I still live with our parents.
I promise I won’t be too envious. Fred was to remember what it was like to live at home, for the rest of his father’s life.
Are you still reading?
Reading? When was the last time he had read a book? Probably High School. No, not really.
I remember when you would come over and you would have those Anne Rice novels with you?
That’s who she reminded him of: Jesse, from “The Queen of the Damned”. Same name, same implied-beauty. I can’t believe you remember that.
Well, you were the one who got me in to them. You’d be downstairs with Joe and I would be upstairs flipping through the book. I read them all, eventually!
I only got as far as Queen of the Damned. I haven’t read a book in ages.
Do you remember the time you told me that I looked like Jesse from the book, that she was this beautiful redhead with mysterious features, and you told me that you thought I would be just as bewitching when I was older?
Fred was sweating now. When did this ever happen to him? When would it ever happen again? He was going to need his spare shirt. Maybe he would be more comfortable if he changed the subject. What’s your brother up to now?
We all live together. Our parents had an accident not too long ago and he had to come home. We’re all pitching-in.
I get that. Phew, how time flies. How old are you now?
Thirty-six. How old are you?
I’m thirty-nine?
Do you not know how old you are?
Forty-one.
Don’t be so embarrassed. You look really good for forty!
Well you don’t look like you’re in your thirties, I’ll tell you that much.
How old do I look? She had him there. He struggled to come up with something inoffensive to say until she giggled again, and put her hand on his knee, cradling it. Will you wait for me? I have to go to the bathroom. We could go eat at the cafeteria when I get back.
Yes. He would wait for her. He would wait there until the end of time. Too good to be true. He couldn’t place the last time when a girl – Hell, a woman, even – had hit on him, let alone the last time he had sex. It was with his ex-wife. He laughed to himself: probably longer than that, then. Jessica stood up and Fred was elated with the chance to watch her walk away and check out her wait. What is that? Jesus Christ. She had a shit stain that ran from her lower-back down her thighs. At least, that’s what it looked like, “all different hues of brown, that’s disgusting!” His disgust turned to pity as he hoped she had brought a change of clothes for herself, too. “Leave it alone. There will be others.” But when? “Wait, she hugged you! With those hands!” Once she turned the corner out-of-sight he slipped away to the bathrooms at the other end of the ship to wash his hands, and then back to his car to his bag to change his shirt. He didn’t bother going back up on deck, and they didn’t run into each-other again.

*

Leaving the ferry terminal was diabolic, from beginning to end. Waiting for everyone to return to their cars, it took the attendees forty-five minutes over-schedule to open the gates only for Fred to find that no one was actually moving. The loudspeaker crackled to life: there was a police incident at the entrance to the terminal, and if everyone would remain calm then they would have traffic moving as fast as they could. And then they got going, but just barely. After an hour his car was stopped again and this time it was for good. He could see the sirens. So close! Why did they suddenly stop letting people through? Contemplating his misfortune, Fred cautiously walked across twenty lanes to the promenade to get an ice cream. He wasn’t the only one with that idea. Once the back of the line became the front and Fred’s second shirt was soaked-through from the humid 30-degree heat, and all the vendor had left from the rush was sherbet and rum raisin, Fred knew for a fact that today would not be a good day. He licked his raspberry sherbet on a child’s cone outside, in the shade and facing his car. Keep walking, buddy. Should he call his Dad? Wake him up? Maybe he would surprise him today, and be up and ready to go. “Fat chance.” Fred was sure to find him still in-bed, with his shoes still on from his morning meditation he would do in the front yard. What a spry guy, even if all he could manage from being in that damned chair was flailing his arms around methodically, with the occasional tip of the ankle. He had a thing about his damn shoes. Maybe in case he could ever walk again.
The answering machine. Hi Dad, it’s Fred. Hello? Anyway, I’m on your side of the water now. Sorry for running late but someone got hit by a bus exiting the ferry and its blocked traffic from leaving. So, hopefully, I’m there soon. You should have had home-care by now, so if you’re dressed you should be up, having something to eat. OK? Bye!
That was strange. His Dad usually picked up once he screened the call. Could mean he was having a bad day, too. Fred knew what his Dad was like on his bad days well-enough. That was why he was so insistent that he go to a home after the stroke. But “no, no, no, I don’t want to, this is our family home, your mother and I lived here since you were born and I’m not leaving!” It was only once the after-effects of the stroke began to materialize that he was confined to the wheelchair, and finally agreed to come live in Fred’s downstairs suite. But he wanted to make sure that he was still involved in the sale of the house, and that no one threw away any of his stuff, and the list for his Dad kept growing exponentially it seemed, every time he spoke to him: the same conversations repeating in his head, over-and-over again, rolling through the years. And then Kevin, on-top of everything else. He didn’t even know if the number he had for his brother still worked. Moving guy; other store; Kevin. Was he forgetting something? He was finished his cone now and thought about buying another until the little red drops on the lower-half of his t-shirt deterred him. He cursed the day under his breath. The day did not listen.
Traffic was moving again, at normal pace and wait a minute, hey! Everyone was passing him! He jaywalked across the lanes in a panic, almost getting hit himself by a meathead and his girlfriend in a Civic, before getting back to his car. The irony of being hit by a car while the cops were still there investigating a hit-and-run was not lost on him.

*

It was three o’clock in the afternoon when Fred finally arrived at his Dad’s house. His family’s home, like he said, since Fred was born. He never did finish his coffee and muffin after running-in to Jessica, and his stomach was unforgiving in its indignation. He opened the front door. Musty. A little smelly, but that was normal. And hot! Did he turn off the air conditioner again? He did like it toasty. Dad, are you here? The lights were off. So he was in bed. “Go figure.” He flicked the switch and was pleasantly-surprised to find the forty-year-old light fixtures still working. The staircase in the vestibule winded upstairs to a second-floor that was all but lived-in, with storage and other knickknacks his Dad didn’t need cluttering up the main floor moved-to. Wouldn’t it have been easier to just call Kevin? I’m sure he would have helped take this stuff to the dump. He can’t still hate Dad that much, can he? No, Fred couldn’t trust anyone else with him father’s care – not at this point – and really there wasn’t anyone else besides himself and his Dad. And the forty-to-fifty-something-year-old Filipino ladies that came twice-a-day to make sure he was dressed for the life he no longer had and then undressed for the sleep he didn’t need, since he spent ninety-percent of his time in bed anyway. It was futile.
Fred had to take a mental break. “Futile.” Something about being in this old house in his dirty shirt with a rumbling tummy. Even in the main room there were photos on the wall that brought back all sorts of memories. Especially the one of him and his ex-wife. What was that still doing up? It was a good picture of her, too, that gave her more credit than she deserved: with her sharp Italian features and dark skin. She was a catch, at first. He liked the thought that his father and mother would fight and bicker constantly while he was growing up but still managed to stay together until she died – almost fifty-years married – but him and Josephine couldn’t make it work after only two. “You tried to make it work. She was the immovable object.” True, but it wasn’t all her. Fred could take the credit where it was due, when he should have put his foot down and not let her walk all over him. But he was infatuated with Josie, to the point that she convinced him to move to the mainland with her. He didn’t want to initially: Mom had only just been laid to rest, and Dad’s stroke was still fresh, and it was still his family’s home. That was what he was supposed to do, wasn’t he? Stay there? Look after him? That was the expectation. Josie wanted a life of her own, though. And he was subservient enough to go along with it, so long as he could stay a part of her’s. Home-care would help, she had told him. Don’t worry. And then his Dad tripped, and he wasn’t there to help him, and the hairs on Fred’s head began to gray faster than he would have liked. And then there were the arguments. Him and Josie stopped sleeping together. She would stay out late and say she was working but Fred never really believed her, not after the promises of starting their own family that never materialized. And then she divorced him, and ran off, leaving him with the house and the bills. And then his Dad tripped again, but that time would be the last.
Dad? It’s a beautiful day outside! Why don’t we go for a walk around the block today? He would say no, but then again he wouldn’t have much of a choice, being in his chair. Fred liked making his father miserable by taking him for forced walks in the sunshine, as his Dad would squirm and grimace like a vampire in daylight. Fred wandered from room-to-room working circularly, turning on lights and the air conditioner when he reached it, to the main floor den that was his father’s bedroom. There he was, rolled over under three comforters. At least he was sleeping on his other side for once. “Probably didn’t take his keys out of his pocket first. Now he’s going to be complaining all-day about his hip.” Gosh, he was so negative today! Like with Jesse, it seemed he couldn’t mask anything behind the voice in his head, determined to bring him down. Dad? Come on, Dad, it’s almost dinnertime. Dad? He was limp and had emptied his bowels onto the bed underneath him. Fred stoically sighed, even when the smell finally hit him. “You couldn’t have held on a little bit longer? You had to pick today?” He was so exacerbated that he couldn’t bring himself to cry. His Dad’s hands were cold. How long had he been here like this? Home-care was supposed to come at seven, weren’t they? Once he regained his composure he stepped outside. He was going to call them right away, but didn’t. He had 9-1-1 dialed and was prepared to call them first, but he held back doing that, too. Wasn’t there someone else he needed to call? Like the funeral home? Didn’t he pick that particular home because of their concierge service? He didn’t have the number on him, though. Shit. 9-1-1. I can handle this, can’t I? “The only thing the cops would do is send a patrol to tell you what they could have told you on the phone for free, and then charge you for the courtesy.” He decided to call home-care first. It was important. Can I speak with a Supervisor, please?
This is Janet. How can I help you?
My name is Freddie Chow. I’m Andrew Chow’s son? He’s on your list to receive home-care visits twice-a-day.
Let me pull up your file here. How do you spell your last name?
C-H-O-W. Andrew.
And you’re his son?
Yes, my name is Fred. I should be on the file.
I don’t have an account under Andrew Chow.
It may be under his Chinese name? Li Qiang Chow.
Yep, I have you up now. What can I do for you, Mr. Chow?
My father just died.
Oh my goodness, I’m sorry Mr. Chow. I can stop our service right away…
No, well, yes, we should do that, but I had some questions first. He was scheduled for a visit this morning at seven AM, I just wanted to make sure that visit still happened.
I can certainly check…
If you could, only because I talked to him this morning, before you guys were supposed to show, and now I’m here, and he’s dead, so I’m a little confused about what happened. I mean, if he was sick this morning when the girl showed up, shouldn’t I have received a call?
…Mr. Chow, it appears that your father’s appointment was one of those affected by an IT issue we had this morning.
An IT issue, what does that mean?
Our system automatically texts each nurse with their day’s schedule, and a good portion of them did not receive their notifications this morning. It appears your father was one of the appointments affected. I’m terribly sorry. You weren’t the only one, though.
…And someone from your office couldn’t have called to tell me? I’ve been worried sick, all-day, trying to get a hold of him, and he wasn’t answering his phone, and you’re telling me that it’s because your office doesn’t keep paper records? How does something like this happen?
Well, we’ve been waiting for the clients with missed appointments to call and tell us so we could add them to the list. Again, I’m terribly sorry for the mishap, and for your father. I will cancel his service immediately. Could I ask you to take part in a quick survey about your experience with us today…
Fred hung up the phone. Good riddance. He would never have to talk to them again. He was tired and hungry and frustrated and he collapsed onto the front step of his old home in the dying light and wept. He tried not to, but his body overpowered his mind and it had decided to cry so this was what he was going to do. He would have to look through his father’s things to find the name of the funeral home. How could he not have it? He was sure he put it in his contacts. In his despondency, he called management at his home store to tell them he was taking bereavement time, only to be told that he wasn’t on their schedule and he would have to call and talk to his liaison at the store on the island. He managed to keep his cool. But then he remembered to call the electrician, and when he did he left a very unpleasant voicemail about the state of his suite on the mainland. And then he thought “why the fuck not” and called the movers too, and left a very merciful message that he was sorry but they would have to cancel. And when he felt like he had knocked enough things off of his list, then he looked up the number for the store on the island on his phone and dialed. Is there someone on the management team I can speak to?
This is Paul. How can I help you?
Hi Paul. My name is Freddie Chow, I work at store number 57 on the mainland.
Hi…
Hi. Listen, I’m supposed to be picking up some forklift hours at your store this week, but my Dad just died, and I have to take bereavement.
I’m very sorry about your Dad. That sucks.
Yeah.
What did you say your name was?
Fred Chow.
OK Fred, just give me a minute… Are you still there?
Yep.
OK, I have my email up, and I have the message from Kathy? She’s your manager at 57?
Yes.
So it looks like you were all set-up to work for us this week… Did you call Kathy and tell her you needed bereavement?
She works mornings and I don’t have her private information. I only just found out about my Dad today, like, an hour ago.
Wow. OK, I’m going to put you back on hold for a bit, OK? …Fred, sounds like you have to call and arrange it with 57 to take your bereavement. I spoke to Payroll and there isn’t anything we can do on our end for you.
I just called my store and they said I have to arrange it with you. Apparently my schedule has been transferred there.
Oh, I don’t know anything about that.
Can’t you have Payroll call my home store on my behalf?
No can do, you have to take it up with your own store. If it was my decision it would be OK, for sure, but it’s not. Our systems just aren’t connected that way. I’m sorry. And I’ll tell you right now, with how crazy it is planning for inventory, we would really appreciate your help coming in.
Great.
OK, well if that’s all, I’m going to let you go, but give me a call back if anything changes or you hear differently, OK?
Wait, could you tell me at least when I’m expected to come in?
Sure, let me just look it up… You are scheduled for two AM, tomorrow morning.
Two? Kathy told me three.
I don’t know.
Well, is there any wiggle-room on that?
I don’t know. I can’t speak for the morning crew, I only work nights. Sorry.
Fred hurried up the end-of-conversation pleasantries just to get off the phone but Paul still managed to hang up first. After a time, he ceded to calling 9-1-1 and by seven PM – after it took four hours for the ambulance to show – everyone had left and all Fred had left to remember his father were the memories; the antiques scattered around his childhood home that his Dad never bothered to get rid of, or dust; and the shit stain on his mattress. “This is what you’ll be reduced to soon-enough.” OK, OK, that’s enough. Just calm down. Have something to eat. “You’re starving yourself to death.” Barely anything in the refrigerator. If only Fred was there, then maybe there was something he could have done for his Dad. After ordering some delivery pizza that didn’t arrive until nine, and then without the mushrooms he specifically asked for, he had a slice and went to the living room where he crashed on the couch, pulling his late-mother’s hand-knitted blanket that rested over the back of it on top of him, and within moments he was asleep. He never did bother to change his shirt.

*

A dream. His stocker days, before he was a driver. Back when Kathy was his driver. God, that was a nightmare. She would drop and drop and drop and it never seemed to end with her. Shifts would drag on and on and he always missed his breaks and he never clocked out on-time. It got so bad that they threatened “corrective action” if he didn’t stop punching-out late. So one day, once he had gathered up enough courage – because it was a foregone conclusion that Kathy would still be dropping like an idiot, no matter the day of the week – he told her that she was dropping too many pallets and stacking them too high for him. She needed to ease up. He deliberately left out the most troubling parts: he could guilt her with those later. He could remember her voice, shrieking like some kind of witch: I don’t appreciate the way you’re talking to me! Kathy, I’m just asking you to lighten up no one told me to lighten up when I was in your shoes! Come on, hurry up! If I can do it, so should you. And she drove away, and that was it. End-of-discussion. So he did. He didn’t have a choice. He got the little mini step-ladder they kept wedged between certain pallets and restacked everything by-hand. And that went on for five-days out of the week, until he became a driver, and Kathy became a manager.

*

It was still dark outside when Fred woke up to the vibration of his phone in his pants. Why couldn’t he dream of Gemma Arterton, like he did that one time so long ago? He looked at the call display as his Miami Vice-flavoured jingle he had picked as his ringtone played. Unknown number. 12:10. It was habit from his home store to just answer the phone during all-hours, so he did, groggily and still half-asleep. The ringtone could not motivate him this time. Hello?
Hi, is this Fred?
Yes.
Hi Fred! This is Leah from store number 72, how are you doing this morning?
Sleeping. 72, is that the store on the island?
Yes it is. I’m sorry to wake you, Kathy gave me your number.
What can I do for you, Leah? I thought I wasn’t scheduled until two.
You aren’t, but we are incredibly short-staffed and we were wondering if you could start as-soon-as-possible.
It’s going to take me some time to get ready but I’ll be over there as quick as I can.
You don’t know how much we value this, Fred. Thank you so much! See you soon!
Fred haphazardly dressed in new clothes from his luggage and step-shuffled his way down the barely-lit main path to his car only to find he was low on gas. “Shit,” he thought, “You don’t know where anything is around here anymore.” How long had it been? Gosh, fifteen years. The only gas station nearby had been torn down when he was still a kid – the one that had the old Mortal Kombat arcade machine he would play every day after school for months – and the empty lot still stood on the corner with its big, obnoxious FOR LEASE sign and its rotating list of Realtors. Didn’t he see a gas station on the way up here, off the highway? It was 12:30. Where is this place? He pulled out his phone and GPS’d the nearest service station to the store he had looked-up previously. He was nowhere near it. “I think you’re lost.” A call. Same number as this morning. “Skip it. You’re doing those fuckers a favour, aren’t you?”
Shut up, shut up, shut up! Fred shouted out-loud to himself in his car. He was convinced he was acting irrationally. He had to answer the phone. It could be the funeral home that he specifically picked because they were open twenty-four-hours. Maybe the police got a hold of them? And then they would look in their files and they would find his number? And then everything would be fine. He had to answer his phone.

*

It was a quarter-to-one and Fred’s hand gripped the gas nozzle firmly. It was the first week of August but the sea air was cold and he felt like he did most winters as he shivered and his body folded-in on itself. What a beatnik dump this gas station was, with its greasy handle and flickering fluorescents. Another call. Katherine this time. “Damn the sign, just answer the phone and get it over with, Mortal. No one has ever blown up a gas station by using a cell phone.” Hello Kathy.
Hi Fred, how are you?
I’m OK.
Alright then, I’m calling about your bereavement request. Paul had someone there email me and they’ve already gotten back to me. Unfortunately, we are simply too short of bodies to approve your bereavement until after Inventory.
Fred opened the car door and sat down on the driver’s seat while he talked, with the gas pump locked-on. You do know that my Dad just died, right?
…I do, I do, I just don’t see any way to be able to swing it right now. Is everything alright there?
Yes!
Are you on your way in to work now?
Yes!
Well have a word with whoever their AM person is there and maybe they can do something on their end. OK?
Sure!
OK Fred, thanks again for doing this.
Yep!
OK by… wait wait, are you still there?
Yes?
I’m sorry. About your Dad.
OK, thank you! Bye! Fred hung up the phone just as the nozzle clicked off. He gave it a few more pumps for good measure before hanging it back up. He was absolutely furious and was having trouble holding himself together – his restless, quaking bones not helping much. His phone beeped. Low-battery. He had crashed the night before without charging it. He was sure he could find his way to the store. Lincoln Street, wasn’t it? Near the Wal-Mart? “What would happen if you just didn’t show up?” He replaced the nozzle on the machine and got back into his car. Would I get fired? “They can’t do a damn thing.” But then he would have to fight them on it. He’s only with these people for five days and then he was on vacation, and then he was on bereavement. No use making waves. He started to drive, when less than a block away he heard the most deafening roar – what sounded like an explosion! He screeched to a halt as the intensely-bright oranges and reds from the fiery wreck that used to be the gas station blinded him through his rear view mirror. He looked over his seat. This can’t be real. He wanted to get out of his car, to take in the moment, to help! But he leaned-out as far as his seatbelt would allow before he stopped dead. It was warm on his face and he wiped the sweat off with his hand. Maybe if he left, right now, then no one would think it was him? Yeah…. But what if someone was killed? Was there even anyone working at this time of night? “I’m sure if there was someone that they got out in time. Go on, hurry up, you’re going to be late!” He thought about the girl on the ferry. How prepared does one have to be? “Stop thinking! Get in the car!” He got back in the car and shut the door. “Now drive.”

*

With his phone dead and no real sense of direction, on-top of his own shock, Fred drove around for another half-an-hour until he reached a street he thought he recognized, which led him to a mall he was sure he had seen on his GPS, where the store he was supposed to be at sat. Maybe not sat, but rested with crossed-legs like Buddha, across a lot that could have held four other stores in its stead, let alone the Wal-Mart across the street. What a monstrosity.
He was let in at the back, as he was at his home store. They gave him a bit of a hard time, but staff were like family and it felt more like razing than a genuine distrust. It was a quarter-to-two in the morning by the time he had filled out his timecard, and – after a short meeting with everyone from a floor manager he didn’t recognize, reminding them to write their 1’s like capital-I’s and open-faced 4’s on their inventory tags so as not to confuse anyone – he was on his lift. He felt like a zombie, as he zipped around the store as if he had been there for years. His eyes were crusty and bloodshot and itchy, so itchy. “Just think of your sweaty underarms.” He had been in this situation before: truth be told, the layout of 72 was the same as 57, and he was working in the exact-same department, with another older employee named Mohammed. Older, even, than Rog. No one who aged-out ever seemed to leave right away, or soon enough. He skidded to a halt and rubbed his puffy eyes. Why today? He started driving again. Why dish it all on me today? He wasn’t going to hear back from the electrician today, or the movers either, was he? Not on a Saturday? He dropped pallets as-normal. “None of those people will ever call you back on a long-weekend.” Now he had to make a new list of people to call when he had a moment. The police, for one, after looking them up. Find out where they took his Dad. Then he would have to dig around at home for the funeral arrangements or, God-forbid, call every funeral parlour in the metro area on the off-chance he were to get lucky. And then Kevin. “He told you he was only ten minutes away from Dad! Why isn’t he taking care of all this? Why is it always you?” A vision of the gas station. Of a body on-fire, wailing its arms, screaming, running towards his parked car…
Hey, brother!
Fred snapped out of it. Are you talking to me?
Yes, buddy! How are you, my friend?
What do you want?
Do you mind stacking the pallets? It’s a bit hard for me to bend down so far to pick stuff up.
Yeah yeah yeah, OK. He started to pull away.
Hey! Watch it!
What’s that?
Watch where you’re driving, brother! You almost hit me!
Don’t tell me how to drive. Sheesh, why was the company even letting old guys like this still work? Diversity hires. They just half-ass it to keep their benefits, and even then, once you turn 65 they take them away from you, so why are they still here? They can’t really need the money that bad, can they? Fucking retire! Go to all those places that old folks go to, to die! “Like your house.” He dropped one pallet. Why was he still thinking about it? “Higher.” He dropped another pallet, and stacked it directly on-top of the first. Besides, management is supposed to figure all this out, aren’t they? If this Moh guy or Rog or whoever can’t cut it then don’t they send people to help them finish? They should. Useless old men with nothing going for them at home, alone, no kids; no wife; in-pain all the time. Complaining. “Higher!” He dropped a third pallet on-top of his stack, and when he went to lift it away it wobbled and it made Fred skirt at half-speed before dumping the load directly beside Moh without unstacking anything first. He was just about to run away when Moh stopped him, narrowly getting hit again in the process.
What the Hell is that?
Excuse me?
What kind of driving is that? How am I supposed to reach the stuff on-top? I don’t even need the stuff on-top!
It looked like you needed some so I dropped it for you.
Yeah, I could use, like, two units!
Then condense it down! I don’t have time to be arguing with you. If I can do it, so should you.
Well, this is not how my regular driver works.
I’m not your regular driver! And if you need help I suggest you ask Leah or Paul or whoever the fucking person in-charge is around here because I’ve been driving like this at my home store for ten years and not once did anyone complain.
Maybe they should have, buddy! Because you drive like an idiot!
Fuck you! I’m going to tell Leah about this!
Why do you keep talking about Leah? Who’s Leah?
Fred backed the lift up without looking – its forks not lowered far enough – and nudged the three-stack the slightest bit. It wobbled. Fred and Moh both watched it, doing nothing. The stack tipped. It fell. It fell right on-top of Moh, who simply was not fast enough to get out of the way in-time. Even though it was only marshmallow candies, the sheer volume of product was crushing Moh from the shoulders-down, and while he gasped for air Fred could still hear him intelligibly – swearing at him, that he was going to fucking sue him, that he’d be fired and would never get another job ever again. “That was fun! Can we do it again?” Fred drove away. He drove away at full-speed, stashing the forklift down an empty aisle far from the crime scene and went to the bathroom, sat down on a toilet, and waited. He was sweating as if he had run a marathon, and when he looked down at his underwear he had even soiled himself a bit. Damnit. Fred mopped the mess up with some toilet paper and then stuffed some more in there like a feminine pad.
By the time he came out, police and emergency services had arrived but no one had checked the surveillance cameras yet. It was a long-shot. Moh was so loud that the whole store must have heard his cries. It was the new guy! The new guy! Fred instinctively walked as quickly as he could towards the front door but some members of staff and police were there, blocking the main entrance to the building. They didn’t see me, did they? “They don’t even know who you are. Be cool.” Maybe he could try the back door. He walked down the centre-aisle and could see the gateway to receiving, and would have made it too except for passing the cross-section where Moh was still being helped off the ground by paramedics. He caught Fred’s eye from across the way, and without missing a beat he shouted, you fucker, you son-of-a-bitch, there he is! That’s the guy! Oh my God, you idiot. “You should have zig-zagged through clothing.” Fred stood like a deer in the headlights while the crowd around the injured senior all glanced in his direction. And then the police approached. Are you aware that the victim is pressing charges? You have the right to remain silent.

*

Things couldn’t possibly get worse for Fred, but they did. It took hours for him to finally leave in the back of a cruiser, and the whole time he wiggled and writhed in a chair in the store manager’s office: his hands wrapped behind his back in handcuffs that pierced the skin. No one knew who he was. Talk to Leah! Or Paul! Or call my home store! Katherine will tell you! After a series of phone calls, they eventually determined that Fred had gone to the wrong store. This is 71, not 72. Two different locations on the island, both across the street from Wal-Marts. Fred’s phone was still dead in his pants pocket. Once they did finally leave the store and get to the station, recently-acquired surveillance footage from the McDonald’s across the street from the decimated gas station caught Fred’s as the last car to leave the lot before the explosion. Thank God that no one was working that shift. “Too bad, you mean.” The smoking-gun footage, coupled with Moh’s crushed vertebrae and a guarantee he would be in a wheelchair for the rest of his life, all but solidified Fred’s chances of doing time. He didn’t have any real money after the renovations. “Nothing left to do but submit.” It was futile. In-holding, the cops relinquished to charging his phone for him – since the average fellow couldn’t remember contact numbers these days – and laughed at him when his phone would not stop ringing. He fell asleep on what little bench-space the bikers would give him, until the cop on-duty let him out to take a call on the precinct phone. Was that sunlight outside? Hello?
Hey little Bro, it’s Kevin.
Bèn dàn, what do you want?
Well, aren’t you going to say hello?
What do you want?
OK OK OK. I heard that Dad died.
How did you hear that?
I was your second emergency-contact after him. So the store called Dad first, and when they didn’t get him they called me. I talked to Kathy? She told me everything.
They know that Dad died. I told them. Why did they even bother calling him?
Maybe they forgot? I don’t know. It’s still early. But I just wanted you to know that, while you’re in there, I have the arrangements all taken care of. Don’t you worry.
What?
I’ve got it all under-control. Dad’s stuff.
No you don’t.
Yes I do.
You don’t even, you didn’t even talk to him at the end. Hell, how long has it been since we talked? And no “I’m sorry” or anything from you, either. Just right-in with the funeral stuff. What do you want? Money? Do you want your inheritance or something?
You’re an asshole, Fred. I am worried about you. I’ve been in there enough times that I know I don’t like being asked about what’s going on, so I’m trying to be cool and not set you off, OK?
This is so weird but OK, sure. Thank you.
Did you say burial?
Yes. The information for the funeral home is somewhere in Dad’s papers upstairs. You’ll have to look for it while I’m in here.
Dude, it’s done.
What?
I had him cremated. It’s done.
What?
Well that’s what he wanted, wasn’t it?
Gǔn dàn! You are a fucking joke, do you know that?
Excuse me?
You already had him cremated? You didn’t bother to ask me first? I’m the one who set the burial up in the first place! It’s fucking prepaid!
I found a place that was probably much cheaper than a burial to do it fast. I thought you would be happy!
I’m not! You weren’t even a part of his life! What gives you the right? OK OK I’ll be quiet, I’m sorry. Dammit Kevin, Dad told me what he wanted. I set it up. You can’t do that.
Actually, I can. According to Dad’s records, there wasn’t any power-of-attorney.
No, there wasn’t. I was getting around to it. There was just so many other things to do first…
Well, I’m his next-of-kin, too, Fred. It can’t all be you making the decisions.
You are a fucking, deadbeat, piece-of-shit brother, Kevin! Goddammit, yes, yes I’m fucking done with my phone call hey! Hey let me go! I am not hysterical! Diǎo sī! Talk to him! Talk to my brother! He does this all the time! They threw him back in the cell. One of the bikers had taken his spot on the bench, but the others were nice enough to leave him the sitting-room spot between them and the toilet.

*

It was Rog’s day off and that meant a six-pack by the TV with the blinds drawn. He’d had enough of the world for one week and was determined to catch up on his PVR. Times like these, he was glad he invested a bit more money for the sofa that reclined. Money was tight, what could he say? He had used up all the excuses he had when his wife passed away. But when he pulled on the lever attached to the armrest and his aching feet were carried away to horizontal bliss, he thanked God for the little victories.
He watched the “Maury” show. A 16-year-old Black girl named Lakeisha was convinced that her ex-boyfriend Marius was the father of her four-month-old baby. She told Maury that she remembered the night like it was yesterday, and that the condom broke, Maury, and he beep beep and got me pregnant. Marius came out and was boo’d – as per standard – and swore to Maury that he never slept with Lakeisha. They just went out for some frozen yogourt, that’s it, Maury! That got a good laugh from everybody. But Lakeisha wasn’t impressed. You beep, I remember! I remember everything about that night! All you remember is how to beep beep, you beep! Boo! Hiss! We’re going to find out who the father is right now! Rog was as ecstatic as the audience. When it came to four-month-old Shanice, Marius… you are not the father! Cheers! Elation! Marius jumped up and down and swore-out the sobbing Lakeisha in a long series of beeps that trailed her as she ran off the stage. The show cut to Maury comforting her in the Green Room. We want to help you find the father. We will get our investigators to work with you, and then we can have you back, no problem. We care about you.
He thought of that Peter Gabriel song he liked, The Barry Williams Show? Before the show we calm them, we sympathize, we care… People keep shit hidden all the time. You really don’t know who anyone is, do you? Can’t make any assumptions. He thought of Fred. He didn’t know who he was, what he had going on outside of work. Maybe karma was already making his life miserable, and he just made it worse for himself by being a dick to everyone? Well, he couldn’t be a dick to everyone, could he? He thought of the curse. What’s the use? He’ll come back from his vacation in a week and everything will be back to normal and nothing ever changes. That’s why there were hundreds of episodes of Maury, with no end in sight. He sighed and continued watching. It sucked that the show didn’t have those long scenes anymore, of the ladies running off-stage and getting lost in the studio when they got upset. They always just cut to a commercial now. Those were the days. His phone rang. It was his son. Nice of him to phone. He forgot all about the Golden Age of Maury.

*

Surprise, Chow. You’ve been bailed-out. He didn’t even know he could be bailed-out for murder. Well, manslaughter. Same thing.
Hey Bro!
Hello? You paid my bail?
Sure did!
Where did you get the money for that?
When you told me about the burial, I went over to Dad’s house and looked upstairs for those files and,
How did you get in?
Did you think I had forgotten about the spare key under the flower pot? And I’m not fucking kidding you, there must have been hundreds of dollars, maybe more, just, tucked wherever, not even hidden! I opened one box marked “Tupperware” and I found five-hundred dollars! The old man was a miser! He was hiding money from us in the one place he knew we wouldn’t look!
Well, I would have looked eventually, once the movers came.
But that’s why I came to get you! You’ve got to come back with me so we can start going through it! Then we can get you the best lawyer that we can and fight this. Maybe even pay-off the guy you crushed! I heard he was old, maybe it’ll help him retire.
I can’t. I have work.
No you don’t. You crippled someone for life, dude. I don’t think you’ll ever be allowed within a hundred yards of the place anymore. But, don’t say that you did it here. I mean, I know you did it, but they don’t know, right? Let’s go get some lunch and we’ll figure out our first move.
Fred didn’t know what to say. Everything was suddenly a blank. All of the voices; all of his lists; his phone, which was fully-charged, had not rung once since the night before. Wow, he slept good in that cell, once he gave up playing games with his cellmates and sat against the wall on the floor. He could hear the birds. Once they got to Kevin’s car, he asked him to make a stop at a house he thought he had forgotten: the house of a teenage friend. A time long ago when Fred couldn’t remember even having any responsibilities, only having to be responsible for himself. He didn’t mind getting older. But he did mind losing time again. Joe answered the door, while Jesse sheepishly peered out from the end of the long hallway that led from the front door and across the ground-level to the kitchen. He could see her red hair immediately, and Joe knew exactly why he was there and it didn’t make him any less grateful that he came.
Jesse eventually came out. Hey.
Hi. Did you tell Joe that I saw you on the ferry?
No, I didn’t.
Oh. Well, you look nice.
Shame my dress was spoiled. I sat in something. Eventually they found their rhythm again and took their conversation outside, all three of them, until Joe decided he should leave Fred and his sister alone for a while. After a long conversation to a real person in-front of him, about everything and nothing, Fred took Jesse’s hand in the catharsis and she didn’t pull away. This was a nice break. Fred never forgot that at some point he would have to find a way to apologize to Moh. And probably apologize to Rog, too, when he got home. And deal with the electrician. And his father. And his brother, who was still waiting in the car.

The End

//jf 9.23.2020

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