Your Flight Will Leave Soon Page 3

  Addison made poached eggs that could make Instagram boil with envy, should she snap a pic and post it. “Seventy percent of weight loss is your diet,” Addison said, serving her younger brother fruit, yogurt, and eggs. “And I was supposed to be an only child,” Addison added.

  “Mom reminded me this month already. Thanks.” Galen snickered back at his sister. She winked. It was how they rolled with the punches.

  Addison got her sanity and insanity from her family. Galen derived pleasure from all things electronic he could dismantle. Occasionally he attempted that same feat with people.

  Galen considered his appetite decline and felt better for it, even if his medication were the catalyst. A silver lining to his basketball accident. Weight loss would help phase two of his life get some air under it.

  He wanted his own place close to his roots, with a stable job. No more project to project type stuff. No more contract work. It was too many hours and expectations when it was on, and unemployment was a pain. Those were reasonable goals, or so said his last life coach, some two years earlier, whom he had seen for three visits, the discounted sessions, on a whim from a friend after he’d bombed his freshman year at Florida State University.

  Friends had moved away for college and latched onto promising internships. The best opportunities were in Silicon Valley, but the astronomical cost of living there made such a move hard to stomach.

  Mostly pain-free, Galen visited the bathroom. It was the only place he had real privacy in a 1970s ranch-style house on a small lot barely big enough for four people. He was lucky number five. And like the Palmetto Bug (which is actually a Florida Woods Cockroach) he was a temporary resident.

  Galen liked kids and did his best to entertain The Monsters and pinch hit for his sister when she wanted to visit the bathroom all alone. Apparently, the pleasure of peeing alone is a sacred ritual among parents of young children. Who knew.

  He sorted the mail but lacked enthusiasm. If he had a copy of Wired Magazine that would be something. He wasn’t engaged. His mind just couldn’t focus. So many Ads. Cars. Credit card offers made to look like tax documents. Annoying. Why don’t they bar that kind of nonsense? Fashion catalogs. He didn’t buy any of this stuff. Why did they mail these? He wasn’t exactly fat in his own estimation, but he was no Calvin Klein model.

  An envelope, laced in gold, or at least that was how it seemed, was decorated by hand. Who made this ad? Who had that kinda time and money to spare?

  Galen gently tore the corner and used a paperclip he found in the drawer. He made the smallest incision possible. How could he destroy a work of art? Might be the most valuable thing he got in the mail for the next year or two. A well-decorated envelope. For an ad.

  Was his life really that depressing?

  Moving on.

  Seven minutes, maybe eight, of precision with a paperclip and he had successfully sliced the artwork open with the skill of a surgeon and was ready to see his ad which made all this work worth the effort. Actually, he could just throw away the ad and save the envelope.

  He removed a single card, white. Lovely embossing. Big, beautiful writing. What were they advertising? Jewelry?

  A wedding invitation. A non-junk mail, personalized invitation just for him from Kim, his cousin.

  Resting the card on his lap, he considered how long it had been since he’d seen her. He had heard things over the years but had no idea how she was getting along. Kim was a skinny soccer chick the last he’d seen her. Maybe fifteen? Fourteen? She figured she must have a career, a home. Settled. A nurse perhaps. Medical for sure. She must be doing great, clearly. She’s getting married, after all. She must be ready for the world, taking it by storm. Were her parents proud of her? Must be. Galen pictured a fancy big white wedding like he’d seen on television. All for her.

  Could he focus on one thing for one minute?

  He couldn’t recall, after much effort, the last time Kim’s family visited Florida since their short visit before the magic kingdom some years ago. They had offered to bring Addison and Galen along, which was abruptly stifled by his parents. Galen never learned the reason why his parents had refused such a kind offer. Addison had a theory that made more sense over time: jealousy. Galen’s Aunt Simone had married an older man who came from money, his Uncle Frank. Their status was too much for Galen’s parents.

  Then there was the situation involving Kelvin, Simone’s eldest, that turned a minor misunderstanding among parents and started a family fire which no one really could put out. Or just didn’t care enough to salvage the relationships, electing to let them burn to ash and blow away with the breeze.

  If hatred were still burning bright between his parents and his aunt and uncle, then he was getting invited alone. Galen figured his cousin Kim must want him to attend.

  Kim and Brandon’s wedding was Saturday, May 9th, less than a month away and the invite had been mailed to his parent’s house nearly two months ago, according to the stamp on the envelope. His mother had told him to take his mail off her counter, or she would throw it all out, it had sat there so long. The RSVP by date was long past. The wedding was at a country club in Mountain View, not far from San Francisco. The heart of Silicon Valley. Not far from Google’s offices. He checked plane ticket prices on Google, for Fort Lauderdale to San Francisco and gasped. Budget-friendly options?

  His mother hadn’t said a word about Kim getting married.

  Maybe his parents were not invited. Certainly, his aunt Simone and Uncle Peter’s eldest, Kelvin, had knocked up a teenager and shattered everyone’s assessment of decency within the family. No one said much about it because did anyone really want to talk about it? Kelvin’s personal life spilled into the family like oil in the gulf, and no one was a very peaceful environmentalist. Kim had been an early bloomer to maturity. Andrew, their youngest, had been an avid athlete from a young age and was actively chasing the PGA. Everything Galen knew about that side of the family came from the limited details they posted to Facebook.

  Galen plus guest. Kat. Of course, he thought of her right away and wished he hadn’t, though he wanted to bring her and part of him reconsidered immediately, regarding that notion as a bad idea in the making, like one of those split-second reactions that turned out very badly. Then there was the delicate matter of his mother. Could he keep a Silicon Valley wedding and a trip to San Francisco a secret? At a country club that sounded way out of his price range by name alone. Did he have to wear a tux? The more he imagined, the more he realized he would need Kat or Addison’s help.

  He considered it might be a good break. New scenery. Rekindle with his aunt and uncle, his cousin. Maybe they would be happy to see him. But would he alienate his mother by attending?

  If Marcson tech called back for a follow-up interview or meeting, he could deal with that in the next few weeks, before he left town. The wedding was over a weekend when their offices were closed. No issue there.

  To leave for San Francisco without explanation for three days would cause suspicious questions from his mother. Addison wouldn’t mind the break from him sleeping on her couch and living at her place too much. His mother wouldn’t have any complaints. At least that was his first consideration. Visiting Aunt Simone wouldn’t go over well. That was like making a pact with the enemy.

  Addison would cover for him, but how could he work out the rest of it when he hadn’t been working? A hotel. A gift. He had no idea what you buy for a new couple, especially his cousin. She had lived a different lifestyle than him. He held to fond memories when they were younger, and their parents got along.

  Maybe he should decline. Frame the invite and its envelope.

  He set the invite on the floor and messaged his cousin online, knowing she would not reply soon.

  He had to concentrate on other things. Put the wedding trip out of his mind. It was a pleasant fiction. He had an interview; his best opportunity in ages. Marcson Technology. After months worth of emailing his resume, searching on Dice and using social media where p
ossible to mine an opportunity, this one chance had panned out.

  His Toyota didn’t stall on the freeway again. He found a parking space in their visitor area not far from the elevator, so he didn’t have to attempt the stairs. His knee felt fine, pain-free for the time being, but he knew that was for a limited time and resting the knee was vital. He didn’t want to use his crutch, though he knew he should. Doctor’s orders. His doctor had explained, “The more you pressure the joints and ligaments, the longer it will take to heal.”

  Fairly direct and self-explanatory. But the last thing Galen wanted was to draw attention to himself for an injury.

  He was immediately grateful he listened to his sister’s insistence and went extra early.

  The office building was new and mostly glass with sleek lines, simplicity. They used small desks. Plastics instead of metal. The company bought all their furniture from a California company who made plastics from LA’s smog-filled air. Environmentally Conscious. Bonus. Not a priority, but hardly a drawback.

  A bubbly receptionist guided him to a conference room, where he sat with three guys, dressed in dark suits, dress shirts, ties. They looked fresh out of college. Galen looked at his own short sleeved button down which was a little snug at his middle. He couldn’t find a clean undershirt, so he didn’t wear one, and the room’s chill made his nipples pucker. He wondered if they were visible to others. His khaki slacks were stain free, but straining slightly at the waist and too short to cover his white tube socks. His Rockport loafers, which his mother bought, were the highlight of his wardrobe. He hoped the interviewer was into shoes, on the chance they paid scant attention to fashion choices.

  This was, after all, a tech company. Galen had read they would let you bring your dog to work. Some employees could telecommute.

  Galen hoped he wasn’t sweating. He knew he had talents. He also knew he had challenges to overcome. Hurdles. That was what his counselor had nicknamed them.

  Marcson Technology’s interview started with technical material first. An essay-style test. VMware, Cisco, NetApp. Galen was confident he could ace this part.

  After the written was graded, you moved on to the next phase of the interview, provided you had scored high enough. Galen knew he had, sitting in the room with the three suits for phase two. The interviewers, two middle-aged hot dog and diet soda men by Galen’s guess, punched the industry stereotype card. Pocket calculators were out. Large screen smartphones in rubber cases with belt clip holders were in. The occasional old-school–devotee would carry a flip phone. Watch out for them.

  A one on one interview wasn’t comfortable for Galen. This was a group. To Galen’s advantage? His mother had pestered him about taking the interview seriously. She kept telling him that companies would not hire him just on his abilities and let him work at home in his PJs.

  Can you tell about a time when you made something faster or better? A process improvement?

  Galen had a lengthy answer, about a time he repaired an old cell phone for a friend. Took hours. Small tools. He was hooked. How it all worked was a marvel of science. The interviewees glazed over long before he had quit talking. The other candidates answered briefly and always about their co-ops, internships. The interviewers seemed far more attentive for the other candidates.

  They jotted notes while each candidate spoke. Or was it a spreadsheet? A form with boxes to check off?

  Question: What character traits would your friends or family use to describe you?

  Galen lost himself in thought, mostly about his mother’s comments. She had been consistently sarcastic or narcissistic during the past year. Addison depended so much on her current mood. One time, he had asked Addison for a ride, and she offered to lend out her still-smelled-like-new car. On the other hand, Kat made him feel like he could do whatever he imagined. Kat was like the second–grade teacher telling the flunkie it was an advantage to stay back another year.

  “Galen?” One of the interviewers said, who looked like he was immersed in weight watchers based on his choice of bottled smoothie and that his clothing seemed at least one size too large. Galen wished he had remembered the guy’s name or could read his plastic encased ID hanging around his neck. Galen willed his name tag to spin around so he could address him by name.

  “Did you want to submit an answer?”

  Galen scooted on his seat while trying to ignore the other candidates collectively sucking in air, like a vacuum. Galen kept his answer short. The interviewers seemed disinterested.

  Was it time to go? The college kids reminded him too much of fraternity morons, often technically deficient outcasts who were hired and promoted by name recognition.

  In social settings, he felt like the flower that had been abandoned to wilt. He quickly got bored with people, like he acquired a human phobia after twenty minutes spent together. Sometimes he could last an hour or two.

  Cheeks in a hard plastic seat, which was surprisingly comfortable, he waited for the interview to end.

  Tell us about a time at work when things didn’t go the way you wanted, or when you were passed up for a promotion.

  Galen elaborated a bit too long, and kept details he should not have been so forthcoming about. Both interviewers yawned during his response.

  They asked a question about Github, one of those feeler questions. Galen smothered it. Again, no one seemed super impressed. No fireworks. No spraying bubbly or confetti.

  Tell us about a time when you were working on a project that failed.

  Galen listened to the concise, scripted answers from his fraternity co-interviewees, in Brooks Brothers suits and ties. Positive reactions. They hadn’t accomplished anything during their so-called work experience unless watching someone else do a job counted as a productive effort.

  “Mister Brown?”

  Galen wanted to escape, but he knew he had to answer the question. What could he say? If he gave up and excused himself that would trash everything he worked for. His hands were sweaty, but at least, for the moment, his knee didn’t hurt.

  What could he say? He had jobs, but nothing like this. He had tried and failed at projects on his own. Restoring a computer. Repairing a neighbor’s television. There were few electronic devices in the world he would not happily dismantle that he might learn its inter-workings and reverse engineer it. How could it be smaller, faster, more power efficient, lighter weight? Nothing was so perfect it couldn’t be improved upon.

  Galen had all eyes on him. Waiting. The two interviewers held longing gazes as though they might close their eyes. Or just move on without an answer from him if he didn’t speak up.

  Now or never. Galen said, “Well. I can tell you I am an expert at failing,” he paused, not deliberately, but it seemed so, and the candidates snickered in his peripheral vision. No matter. “When you are trying to restore an old computer, a router or rebuild bios, it’s trial and error, they say,” Galen said. He went on about a specific project and he probably, in hindsight, should have hit the brakes much sooner than he did. But he had to convince these technically savvy men that he understood transistors and how they worked. Right? They needed to know what he knew.

  The interviewers made closing remarks, next steps and Galen’s confidence plummeted like a wounded bird. He had never felt so weak and considering he couldn’t walk without pain meds, that meant a lot.

  At least the interview was over.

  He could tell his mother and his sister that he didn’t get the job and snuff those expectations right away.

  Addison had told him he didn’t know how to interview and needed to learn. Her brilliant suggestion to fix his problem? YouTube.

  Three

  Darcy

  Darcy studied lines around her eyes, willing them to disappear while her pinky finger traced miracle cream out of a tiny clear glass jar with a tiny but magical golden lid. The soft cream was supposed to mask them instantly. Sparkling thought for not yet six in the morning. Darcy was putting on her mask for the world to conceal the real her.r />
  Rebecca said cosmetics were counterfeiting beauty.

  “She’ll figure it out,” Darcy said to her reflection, installing her newest earrings, the ones she’d been eyeing for her mandatory three weeks and picked up the previous night on a solo shopping therapy. They made her feel gorgeous instantly. No one had told her that lately. Earrings were her thing. Pop them on. Instant results.

  What a lovely word. Darcy wanted three extra scoops of Instant everything.

  Watching her reflection and poking at her face, she didn’t see much improvement under her eyes. Some, but not quite the results she sought after with eighty hard earned dollars spent on the highly touted product. Nothing ever was quite as advertised. Not even instant rice. So what in the world really fit the elusive definition?

  The cream Darcy had smeared on her fine (but still there if you looked up close) facial lines definitely wasn’t a miracle. Her old high school classmate who sold it through Facebook swore it was the go-to product. If it works as well as the bold claims, then the bathroom mirror must be having an off day.

  Darcy tried to think of things that were instant, while she read the directions yet again.

  Instant things: Car horns, especially from behind you at a traffic light that turned green. Yep. And credit card charges. Buy a drink at Starbucks and boom, new charge. They hadn’t even made it and called your name yet, but the money was no longer yours. Poof. Those new shoes that were delectability cute and you didn’t really need and didn’t fit quite right. Your bank balance deducted the cost before that paper receipt touched your hand.

  The last couple weeks had been feeling very dull and boring. She hated that feeling. The alarm goes off, and you ask yourself if it’s worth it to get up again. Like the game was lost even before kickoff or the first inning or whatever. The great monotony of life. Could someone amaze her away from life’s doldrums, please? Sweep her off her feet?

  She twisted her neck to hunt for pesky hairs. Sigh. Beauty is a war that never ends. Armed with the pink tweezer-like weapon that she’d bought from the clearance bin at Walmart, she attacked.