Revolt of the Rats - Reed Blitzerman (early readers txt) 📗

KAHLE BELIEVED IN SECOND chances. Not that he had a choice. More specifically, he believed his chance was a woman. Beezor Wasikowska was here. He would find her. If he failed, he would walk back out the doors and into the snow. And not worry about what would come after that.

The lobby reminded him of a train station: brass and tile, sandstone arches and parquet floors. He waited beyond wood double doors, the walls closing in, his blue suit clinging to him box-like, a fabric coffin after years in fatigues.

The secretary said, “You sure had quite a drive.”

With shaking hands, he accepted her glass of cold water and the layer of small talk she doled out along with it.

She swiveled in her chair. “I had family in Wisconsin too and a cousin in the military... Frampton is nice, with the lake and all. Summer you’ll see, it’s all just so fine...Working at Motomax isn’t so bad.”

He clung to her patter like a swimmer on a rope. It was a welcome distraction, mild anesthetic after hours in the car. So when her aura peeked out he was caught unawares. Frills of hunter green tickled the air around her, surrounded her head like so many dead saints, before spreading down to corset her waist. They reached for him across the space: naked fingers without the flesh. The intimacy shamed and mesmerized him, too strong for him to look away.

Instead, he waited for her mind to react. As reflex he’d seen in the past: disgust, rage, or most common of all, a sort of curiosity; a child finding a toy they thought long lost. The remedy was usually abrupt. She would excuse herself. Send him away. Distract him with some minor detail. An inner eye followed with soulless detachment as she prattled on, oblivious.

In the army, such attacks had crippled him. It occurred in Bosnia and again in the states, stuck behind an ambulance in the center of traffic. He’d given up pretending it was normal. What he needed was someone to burn it away.  What he need was a healing, and salvation lay behind that gate.

It was a sort of relief when Mr. Borda opened the doors. He waved with his left hand and said, “Please, do come in.” He extended his palm for a three pump handshake then Kahle did what he was told and came in and sat down.

Just like on the phone, Mr. Borda’s voice soothed as smooth as cough syrup. They bantered about the blizzard outside. His demeanor was relaxed and confidential as if to say, “Your secrets are safe with me.”

Mr. Borda started in. “So, tell me about yourself.”

Kahle wanted to confess everything:  He knew Bee worked here (her real name was Beezor) and anywhere she was, is where he wanted to be. Instead, he gave his practiced response. “I’m a Swale graduate with a degree in engineering, originally from Wisconsin. Spent six years in the Army. I’m looking for a new career where I can apply what I’ve learned.”

Mr. Borda nodded through the elevator speech with his head cocked to the side. He asked, “What do you already know about Motomax?” His eyes were open and unblinking, twin pupils floating in a vastness of white. Tell me. You can tell me anything.

Kahle kept his hands in his lap. “Well, you’re in the automotive and aviation industries.”

“Very good,” Mr. Borda said. “We service the automotive, aviation, and oilfield industries. Julian Bodge and Dallas Haight started the company, beginning with the plant you’re seated in now. Starting small, they built a powerhouse applying the latest tools of financial management. We apply these tools even now, creating the success you see around you.”

Kahle nodded, attempting to appear friendly and intelligent. Mr. Borda seemed the sort of man who lived next door and took pride in the orderliness of his lawn. It was just a feeling, but it calmed him.

“What interests you the most about Motomax?”

Kahle wanted to blurt out, “The woman of my dreams works here,” or “I’m chasing a flexible bullet.” Instead, he said, “The spirit of innovation and that Frampton is the center.”

Mr. Borda rose from his chair and made a sweeping gesture with his arms, as if all of this would one day be Kahle’s. “Of the twelve factories that make up Motomax, fifty percent of the volume is generated here.”

Mr. Borda scooped the paperweight from his desk and held it between them. “Like the Titan Atlas, the Frampton plant balances Motomax across its back. It is said that ‘As goes Frampton, Ohio, so goes Motomax.’ Eight hundred souls fill a billet here. Machine operators, quality inspectors, craftsmen, and engineers form the muscle, do the heavy lifting.”

He rubbed his hands together. “Machine shops, assembly lines, heat treat furnaces, and stamping presses serve as the backbone.” Mr. Borda pointed down.  “The presses produce the vibration you feel in your feet right now. Most importantly, computer systems pass customer orders around the factory. They’re the blood that keeps us alive.”

Mr. Borda returned to his chair and retrieved Kahle’s file from the blotter. “Well, your questionnaire came back tip top, Kahle. I have no further questions. The pay is forty-five thousand dollars per year with benefits and paid overtime.”

He leaned back and perched his glasses down on his nose, “There’s no layoffs, since we are automotive, lifetime employment, generous pension. We are a bit of a resort town here, too.” He waved a hand toward the ceiling. “Nothing like Daytona Beach, but lots of people come in the summer to enjoy the lake. You would report to Gary Queeg, Quality Supervisor for the Selva truck line, working as a quality engineer.”

Kahle understood from practice sessions with his parents that this was a buy sign. “I won’t disappoint you, Mr. Borda. You’ll be glad you hired me.” This seemed easier than he’d expected, but he tucked away any doubts.

Mr. Borda pushed a form across his desk. “Yup. Just sign here next to the X and give me a thumbprint to the right. Good. Welcome to the team. In a few days, you should receive two books I recommend you read right away. There’s the history of Motomax and a second on management statistics. I’ve arranged a meeting with your superior for coffee. Watch for traffic on the aisles.”

Kahle purchased two cups of coffee for sixty cents each in the machine on the walkway. It passed in front of the supervisor’s office and then met with the main run, where it traveled the distance of three football fields. It was thirty-five cents for the same coffee at the machine across that main drag. And it was three months in traction, easy if you didn’t look both ways crossing and got hit by a fork truck.

He found Queeg’s office right away and handed him a steaming cup. Kahle asked, “Has anyone ever gotten hit by a fork truck walking to the cheaper coffee machine?”

“Well, in last week’s safety bulletin some guy got a leg crushed by a semi when it backed into him at the loading dock. Three people lost at least a finger on a lathe, but it’s been at least two years since we’ve had a fatality here. So promotions are a little slower.”

Kahle didn’t know what to make of his supervisor. The secretary had related that Queeg was a former tennis pro gone to seed. He had parleyed his sales skills and a fearsome command of the dark arts into a fifty thousand dollar per year job, including weekends without pay and an office the size of an elevator shaft. According to her, he was somewhat bitter.

Queeg was thin, except where his stomach protruded, below a full beard going grey and a pair of wire rimmed glasses. Through uneven, nicotine-stained teeth he asked, “Do you play any tennis?”

“Uh, for a quarter in high school.”

“Well, it’s a lot like manufacturing. I played for a couple of years, you know. Yeah, I could’ve gone all the way my coach used to tell me, but the knee went out in college.” Queeg slapped the side of his left knee for emphasis and nodded. Kahle nodded too, it seemed like the right thing to do.

The secretary had been quite a talker. The truth was, in college, Gary had usually been stoned. Mary Turley had sneaked him his first joint behind the student union between chemistry and basic calculus. His status as a child of Aquarius had risen rapidly and his tennis game had deteriorated in a directly inverse fashion. She sure knew a lot about him.

They sat staring at each other until Queeg asked, “You got an apartment yet?” When Kahle shook his head “no”, Queeg said, “Well, you better get started. You’ve got three days and the weekend before you start work Monday morning.” He remained seated, giving Kahle a handshake that felt more like a wave goodbye. When Kahle disappeared through the turnstiles and out the gate, he could still see him watching as he checked over his shoulder. A seed of disquiet pressed upward inside him.