This is a remake of a story of the same name I emailed a few months ago. The original story fell short to me. It seemed a bit of a bait and switch to mention Area 51 but then give the readers a flooring store.
So I changed it. Now it takes place inside the actual Area 51. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
* * *
CHARLIE LOAFED TO the sound of squawking birds, drifting near sleep to the gentle rubbing noises of surf against fine white sand.
He stretched tall and wide in his cabana, soaked up the only shade on the deserted beach.
Then struck the darkening. The world flickered and snapped off. Unseen, a rooster crowed loud as a fog horn.
Jesus.
Charlie swore. That was the absolute worst alarm he could have picked. But it did the job. He was up.
He removed the virtual reality helmet and stowed it behind empty boxes to the side of his bunk.
He quietly thanked intake log manager #7142, also known as Arno, for sloppy filing. His lackadaisical approach to the job made it easy for Charlie to steal the virtual reality helmet and almost anything else that caught his eye at the Adventitious Device Lockup.
He visited the lockup occasionally when he had difficulties falling asleep. He dug out the VR helmet from the back shelves a few nights ago and it worked a dream. He sailed the South Seas, camped Maasai Mara and laid on the beaches at Sorrento. It passed the hours.
But it’s never enough, he thought, checking his phone.
Oops, better hurry.
He pushed aside the silver camo-sheet hanging like a curtain in front of bunker 49A in the vast warehouse of the Dead Technology Division inside the Area 51 military base. He stepped into the aisle and clutched his balls in the cold.
He’d been sleeping in a festering nest he’d put together in the back of the DTD, a volcano-deep warehouse complex contained beneath Hangar 18.
His nose twitched, clogged by dust. He sneezed. He had the warehouse to himself at night, but not for long.
Got to move. Get ready before somebody shows up.
His legs felt like lead today, his brain like treacle.
He should just get out of here, he thought. The teleportation pad was in Aisle 612, bunker 22C. He could vanish and take in a football game. All he had to do was jump on the pad—the Magic Pizza, he called it—and have it deliver him to an FA Cup match. He knew there were a couple of games scheduled for London today.
But it was Cake Day.
Charlie never missed Cake Day.
He scampered for the men’s room and gave himself a whore’s bath with a wet washcloth, dancing all the while on the cold tile floor.
He slipped into a grey suit, which he’d hung on a stall door last night, checked himself over in the mirror—jacket, shirt, hair, face.
It will have to do, dammit. Too late for a shave.
Hopefully, it wouldn’t cost him.
Today was Bonnie’s first day taking over for the boss, who had skipped off to a warm holiday.
Charlie guessed she might come out of the blocks fast and tough, keen to make a good impression. Bonnie could be like that.
To think we used to be friends.
He’d have to keep up his guard, that’s for sure. Even if it weren’t Cake Day, that Magic Pizza trip he’d been ruminating on was out of question. Bonnie was suspicious already and he didn’t need to give her more ammo.
He pressed the node on his wrist, to send a text to his pal Archie, who was working security at Checkpoint Delta. Archie was solid. He’d sign Charlie in as having passed through the gate at 0751.
Charlie promised himself that he’d pick out something nice for Archie from the DTD warehouse; some alien tech, something safe. Maybe that silvery trash bin that had been turned in a few days ago.
It wasn’t actually a trash bin. That was just Charlie’s name for it because of its appearance. Charlie pegged it for a body raker, a gizmo some aliens use to mould themselves into human form, although it was a kind he’d never seen before.
It was on his items-to-disable list and once that was done, Charlie normally entered them into the decommissioned-tech logs.
But he figured he could hold back this one. Nobody would miss it and it showed fantastic promise as a autonomous carpet cleaner/pet groomer.
Archie would be helping the DTD by giving the device a good trial and if it proved itself, Charlie could forward it to Market Development.
One never knows what might be the next big disrupter.
He sighed. It sounded messy, though. Maybe he’d just send Archie a gift basket.
The bell on the front door jingled.
Whoa. I cut it too close today, Charlie thought, running to the front office.
It was Bonnie. “You’re here early,” she said.
Charlie waved, started to make coffee on the small table behind the counter. “Uh-huh.”
Bonnie nodded and tapped the counter. “Good, you’ll be at the staff meeting then. I thought I might have to phone you. Thirty minutes in the lunchroom.”
She grinned. It seemed to Charlie she did it to unsettle him. Then she was gone.
He sighed. Just like Bonnie to call a meeting when he could be out decommissioning. It was the end of the month, too, his busiest time.
Half an hour later, Charlie strolled into the grimy lunchroom, crinkled his nose at the smell of old cheese.
He spotted the cake on the counter next to the sink. This was no regular carrot cake. It was a creamy tower masterpiece of smooth cream cheese icing with luscious red velvet beneath.
Old Charlie’s hanging around for this, Charlie thought.
He cupped his nose and waved his hand over the cake, pushing the smells toward his nostrils.
Two youths sitting at the round table in the centre of the lunchroom chuckled. Don and Hugo were the DTD’s sniffers. They chased down inexplicable extraterrestrial reports, sniffing out left-behind alien artifacts and turned them over to the DTD office.
Charlie winked and took the seat beside Don and Hugo.
“Happy birthday, Don. That’s some cake you got there.”
Bonnie entered and sat on the other side of Charlie.
“All right, let’s get down to business. As you all know, for the next two weeks, I am in charge of the DTD. I wanted to bring everyone together so we can find common ground on how this vital agency will continue to operate while Pat is away.”
Bonnie’s voice droned on and faded into the background of Charlie’s thoughts.
Charlie checked the clock on the yellow wall, stained by cooking oil, dust and grime. 8:38.
Jeez, that’s it? It seemed like Bonnie had been talking for an hour. Had it really only been three minutes?
Charlie stared at the clock, imagined forcing the minute hand forward using the power of his mind. No luck.
He’d heard such mind feats were possible. The scuttlebutt from the janitor said a friend of the food cart guy working Level 7 saw it for himself. He said the guy had to stop giving out real spoons with meals thanks to that crew. Everybody gets only plastic cutlery now.
Somebody always ruins it for others, Charlie thought.
He shifted his attention to Bonnie’s speech. Better pay attention in case something useful comes up.
He might have saved himself the trouble. Bonnie bored everyone with her enthusiastic appeals for teamwork, dedication and loyalty.
Charlie combed his hair back with his fingers. How much longer? As the DTD’s lead DC, or decommissioning commissioner, he had fake visits scheduled, expense accounts to run up.
The clock clacked forward another minute, feeling like 10 to Charlie.
They passed me over for promotion for this? Everything coming out of Bonnie’s mouth reaffirmed his outrage. More than a month had passed since he’d been informed the organization had chosen Bonnie over him but it still rankled.
Charlie soothed his anger by telling himself he couldn’t deal with the administrative b.s. the job entailed and he didn’t like being cooped up in the office all day anyway.
Still, after 20 years on the job, the company and his boss Pat, owed him some respect, he thought.
They could have met with me face to face and explained it.
Lucky for them the money is decent or he would have quit this soul-sucking, bottomless pit of a job a long time ago.
Area 51 provided. It provided well enough to cover Charlie’s casino habit, so he stuck around.
He gazed distractedly out the lunchroom window. It wasn’t a real window, of course, the room was several floors beneath the desert, but Charlie liked the view nonetheless. He liked oceans and seasides. The waves rolled gently, gulls wheeled and swooped. It reminded Charlie of a place he’d visited with his VR helmet.
As he watched, the window blinked out and the seaside scene was replaced by bold white letters.
“Area 51 Human Resources. Make outer space a safe space.“
Charlie rolled his eyes.
How about I shove my boot up your outer space?
The endless preaching that comes out of that H.R. cult. Charlie wondered how they could say the shit they say with a straight face.
Do this, not that. Over here, over there.
Luckily for Charlie, nobody paid much attention to H.R.
He set his own hours, was permitted to come and go as he pleased. It was a sweet gig and all he had to do was decommission the alien tech they set down in front of him.
He startled, sensing a more earnest tone to Bonnie’s voice and he listened in for a few moments.
She was discussing the importance for staff to properly fill in expense reports, purchase orders, service requests, employee time sheets and vacation requests.
Charlie folded his arms over his chest. Wrong, he thought. It wasn’t important at all.
It’s not my job to fill in forms, it’s hers.
“You awake, Charlie?” Bonnie nudged his ribs.
He frowned. “Yes ma’am. I’m doing just fine. Thank you for your concern.”
Bonnie smiled. “Good to know. Now, where were we? To recap, I’m in charge until Pat returns. Let’s stay focussed on our jobs and work how we always do for the next two weeks. Nothing needs to change.”
Bonnie sipped coffee. “Feel free to call me if you need anything. If you’re sick or if you need to rearrange appointments, I’m here for you. Also, I want everyone to let me know when they leave the base. I want to know where everybody is.”
Charlie’s ears perked up. That could seriously cramp his style.
“I manage my own time. It’s worked that way for a long time,” he said to the room.
Bonnie had come prepared for Charlie. She had heard his speech many times about how he was the most senior employee and the top Decommissioning Commissioner in the division.
She shifted in her chair and faced him
“Whatever you and Pat do when Pat is here, that is between you and Pat. I don’t know anything about that. But I’ve been tasked with keeping the division operational for the next two weeks and I intend to keep it humming. So if you could just let me know what you’re up to, where you’re at, that kind of thing, just until Pat returns, I’d appreciate it.”
Charlie scratched his chin, regretting again that he hadn’t shaved. It would probably cost him a few Bonnie demerit points.
“But,” he said, “what if it’s for appointments off-site? I go out on calls first thing in the morning all the time before coming into the office. You expect me to check with you every time?”
Bonnie nodded. “Just call in. It’s only for a couple of weeks. I’m sure you can manage it.”
Charlie winked at Don and Hugo.
“What if me and the boys are doing an unofficial decommissioning, you know, off-the-books stuff. The boys and I take on a fair amount of freelance work, tracking down rumours and stuff. People find shit and we go out, take a look and break it so they don’t hurt themselves with it. If it’s nothing too big, that is.”
Bonnie’s stomach tightened. She knew they were stealing useless alien technology from the base and selling the stuff for trinkets to earn extra cash. She’d raised it with Area 51 brass a few weeks ago, who were very clear they didn’t want to hear about it.
Two junior officers sat Bonnie down on a small bench in the hallway and told her they valued professionalism and chain-of-command at Area 51 above all. Unless she was the immediate boss of the rogue sniffers and the decommissioning commissioner, the subject was off-limits.
“Besides,” said a grey, reedy woman, who seemed the more senior of the two, “everybody who works at Area 51 is a freelancer and has to make a buck where they can. Just keep an eye out and make sure they don’t give away something important.”
Bonnie sighed. “Charlie,” she started, “if it’s Area 51 business, you’ve got to call in. If it’s not during work hours and you don’t need an emergency extraction team, why would you report to us?”
“Hmm, I see, I see,” Charlie said, rubbing his chin like a cartoon philosopher. “That’s good to know, good to know.”
Don and Hugo snickered. Bonnie bristled. They would take his side, she thought. Old boys and new boys, they all stick together.
Hank, the head of inventory control, sitting on the counter next to the sink, hushed Don and Hugo from behind.
In addition to those three, and Charlie and Bonnie, two other DC’s were present, Diane and Nancy.
Diane, the next senior DC after Charlie, waved Bonnie off. “Ignore them. They’re just being stupid.”
“Whoa,” Charlie piped in. “I’m just asking the question. Can’t I ask a question?”
Save it Broom Hilda. He stared knives at Diane. I decommission more shit for this rinky-dink, gong show division than you, Nancy and Bonnie combined.
Blissfully, the meeting came to a close.
Hours later, perched on a stool at the front counter, Bonnie pinched between her eyes.
She understood Charlie was pissed off that Pat hadn’t chosen him to be in charge but did he have to turn everything into a wrestling match?
Bonnie started at the DTD only five years ago and had less seniority than Charlie, Diane and Nancy. She was junior to Hank, too, although Hank never bothered with office politics.
“Too bad for them,” Bonnie thought. “I fought for everything I have. I deserve it.”
She put herself through school, got her Master’s in Business Administration working nickel and dime jobs at cheap diners and hacking a pirate taxi, where she met the shadowy Mr. Smith, who offered her a job at Area 51.
In her mind, it made perfect sense that the boss chose her over Charlie.
She resumed work on a stack of time sheets on the counter in front of her. She frowned, holding a bottle of Wite-Out in one hand, with the brush ready in the other, covering superfluous zeros and ones on the forms, muttering under her breath. It annoyed her when people didn’t follow simple rules.
Charlie chanced a look over her shoulder.
“The legal name of the base actually includes the number 000-001,” he said. “You’re wasting your time poring though all those forms blotting out the number. It is technically correct.”
Bonnie placed the brush back into the bottle. “Ain’t nobody calling this base Area 51, zero, zero, zero, dash, zero, zero, one.” She turned back to her work.
Charlie rattled his head, told himself to walk away.
Ignore it and return to my breakfast sandwich at the far end of the counter.
But he didn’t, couldn’t. Bonnie had been throwing out orders like a drill sergeant all morning and it felt like time to clarify matters.
“Bonnie,” he said, “honestly, you don’t need to blot out that information.” He pointed to the forms. “You realize the legal name for this military base is Area 51 000-001. The box on top of the form asks for the legal name and that’s what it is. I don’t know what the number is for, but it is part of the name.
Bonnie scoffed. Fuck Charlie and his 1980s ideas about women in the workplace.
“I assume,” she said, “that the number is there because the government planned on future expansion. But it’s just legal licensing bullshit. All the forms and letterhead we have, identify the base as Area 51. Our mail and all our deliveries arrive addressed to Area 51. The numbers are meaningless. Everybody I’ve ever talked to calls this base Area 51. Period.”
Charlie laughed. What a nut bar. A voice in his head told him to give up. But his real voice, the one that tumbled from his mouth, had already made it his mission to show Bonnie the insanity of her ways.
“Look, it says right in fine print on the back of the form.”
He grabbed the sheet from under Bonnie’s hand and flipped it over. “We are at Area 51, number 000-001. That’s the number you enter in the empty square at the top of the form here.” He flipped the paper back over and pointed to the top right corner.
“See? It says base name. It is Area 51 000-001, that is its correct name.”
Bonnie grabbed the paper and waved it. “Nope. We are Area 51, everybody knows that. There is no other base with this name, so adding the number makes no sense.”
Charlie crossed his arms. “Legally, which is what the box at the top of the form asks for, the name is Area 51 000-001.”
“No. Fuck no.” Bonnie flipped the form and slapped it down on the table. “Absolutely wrong. I don’t believe you’re challenging me on this.”
The argument grenade had been tossed. This was no mere fight about the name any longer and it inflamed Charlie all the more.
He tried to interject, but Bonnie waved him into silence.
“Nobody writes that. The base is Area 51. You and others around here are entering it wrong. It is Area 51. That is all.”
Bonnie glared at Charlie, with his slicked back grey-black hair and beard, like some greasy, fat, old biker wanna-be. She should laugh in his face. Pat had chosen her. Charlie would have to study up quick and learn to deal with that fact, she thought.
“You can’t just change the name because you feel like it,” she said.
Charlie blew a raspberry and slapped his hand on the counter. “I’m not saying we have to write out the name and number every time. I’m only saying that for you to go through past time sheets looking for offensive numbers is crazy.“
Bonnie sniffed. “I prefer to have things correct.” She slapped the binder shut, collected her things and headed for the manager’s office.
Charlie watched her go. He’d lost the argument, but considered her frustration a small victory.
A few minutes later, Bonnie reappeared carrying a large box.
Charlie squinted for a better look.
Is that the training module?
Bonnie set the box down on the counter.
Charlie scrambled to his feet. Oh, no she isn’t, he thought. She wouldn’t.
She pulled six dead alien tech samples from the training box and lined them on the counter.
“Everybody, I want your attention. Gather around,” she called loud enough to be heard throughout the store while staring at Charlie. “We’re going to have a training sesh.”
The box, contained confiscated samples of off-world tech devices. New recruits would pore over the pieces and identify them by markings, fabrication materials, stitching and possible purpose to try to determine their origins. Then they’d read through the accompanying study guide to learn about their workings and how to disable them.
No, no, no, Charlie thought. You’re not sticking the training wheels back on me. He pushed his way through the swinging doors into the DTD warehouse.
Bonnie didn’t try to stop him.
Charlie stomped down the aisles between pallet racks where bunkers were stacked three high with sealed boxes of alien tech, loose scatterings of quantum tunnelling communicators, transparent toasters and survival blankets.
Other bunkers contained large unidentifiable artifacts ranging from car-sized ceramic beetles, to phone booths, to house-sized flying machines resembling robo-vacs.
Charlie trudged toward the dark of the far back, where area rugs constructed out of foil-like camouflage sheets were piled against the wall.
If he had cigarettes, he’d smoke now. He’d quit 10 years ago but the urge poked away.
Somebody shouted his name. He stopped pacing.
Diane’s voice screeched out over the intercom. “Charlie? Are you back there? I’m busy with a woman who wants to report a levitating lamp that might show good commercial potential but a couple of engineers from Aerodynamics have come in looking for spare parts. Can you help them?”
Geez, really? I just got back here.
He pressed a button on the box attached to the wall. “Yeah,” he said, resigned.
Captain Bonnie must be tied up blotting out numbers in binders.
He made his way to the front and led the engineers through the rows of viewing shelves, where they rifled through boxes, pushed buttons and pulled levers.
They were looking for something very specific. The oscillating centrifuge with bucket rotor excited them, but it was the size of a standard bedroom. They wanted one that could fit in one hand.
The organic matter disrupter piqued their interest, but it was constructed of a light-weight metal. They wanted one made of hardwood, maybe something in a cherry stain.
Charlie manoeuvred them to the Proxima Centauri display and Bonnie bounded over, huffing and flapping her arms.
“Charlie, thank you so much, but I’ll take it from here.”
Charlie’s look said, back off or I’ll stab out your eyes.
“Huh? What are you talking about?” he said. “I’ve got this.”
Bonnie patted him on the shoulder, like a school principal taps a misbehaving pupil.
“It’s just that you’ve never taken the courses to become certified in Proxima Centauri, Charlie. Every one else on the team has.”
Charlie watched the engineers shift uncomfortably and drift across the aisle. “I don’t see how that matters, Bonnie. I’m sure I can show these people what they want.”
The female engineer cleared her throat, the man moved to the next row and pretended to examine displays from Alpha Centauri.
Bonnie was firm. “But you’re not certified to talk about Proxima Centauri, Charlie, and I’m sure these people want to hear all the options we have.” She turned to the engineers. “Isn’t that right?”
The woman shrugged. “Sure, why not?
“Charlie, you can still sign up for an online course on Proxima. Come to my office when I’m done here and I’ll give you the details.”
Charlie slunk back to the warehouse seething, thinking he might put into his bunker nest for a nap.
If he had a home to go home to, he’d take off for the day, but that was out of the question.
When he first established his den in the back of the DTD warehouse, he planned it to last only for a few days.
His rental duplex had been sold out from under him and, as was Charlie’s habit, he hadn’t bothered to search for a new place until it was too late.
He arrived home from work one day to a sign on the door stating all of his things had been put in storage.
That was three months ago and Charlie was still hunting for a home.
He was starting to rethink his decision to skip that FA Cup game. Maybe he’d go after all. He shouldn’t have to stay and put up with Bonnie’s bullshit, he thought.
After all my hard work, they treat me like shit.
He threw on his jacket and stepped fast for Aisle 612 where the teleportation device was stored.
I’d love to see their smug faces when they come looking and can’t find me.
Then he remembered.
Damn. It’s Cake Day.
Don was out on sniffer reconnaissance with Hugo and wasn’t expected back until 4 p.m. Charlie would have to stick around till then if he wanted cake. He tapped his fingers on his thighs, pondering next steps.
Then, confident he could avoid contact with Bonnie for the next two hours until Don returned, he headed for bunker 49A to lie down.
* * *
Charlie woke from his nap annoyed, although he didn’t know why. It was tangible. He felt it true, in his gut.
He creaked his body from the bunker and dropped to the cold concrete, where he crunched 10 sit-ups, 10 push-ups.
Work out some rage.
He’d play nice, keep his head down and stay out of Bonnie’s hair until 4 o’clock.
First, though, he needed a drink.
He walked through the doors to the front offices, planning to sneak into the lunchroom where he stashed whisky in an olive oil bottle. He peeked in. Diane, Nancy and Hank were discussing a pick-up order. No sign of Bonnie.
“We need it first thing tomorrow morning,” Nancy said. “Can’t we get the stuff ready to go? We can pile it by the elevator doors and the guys from Aerodynamics can grab it whenever they want.”
“Sorry.” Hank raised his palms in apology. “My back. I can’t lift things until I loosen up a little.”
Charlie stepped in. “I can look after it.”
Nancy turned, sighed relief. “Could you really, Charlie? Because that would be so great.”
Charlie shrugged. “Yeah, it’s no problem. What are we talking about?”
Nancy showed him the receipt — $30,000 worth of Proxima Centauri industrial skin.
Charlie swore to himself. That was his sale, the commission should have been his.
What’s 20 percent of $30,000?
“Who’s commission?” he asked.
It better not be Bonnie’s.
“Mine,” Nancy said in a halting voice. “Sorry, I know Bonnie pulled you off this job, but I made the sale and closed the deal.”
Charlie waved her off. At least it wasn’t Bonnie. “It’s fine.”
He snatched the order paper from her hand and headed to the warehouse, where he unplugged the forklift from the charging socket, jumped onto the platform at the back and backed out of the parking spot.
Bonnie stormed through the doors, stamping and waving at him to stop.
“Are you certified?” she asked.
“Certified for what? The forklift? I’ve been driving this thing practically every day for the past 10 years.”
Bonnie reached over, turned off the key and pulled it out. “That’s not what I asked. I asked if you’re certified to operate the forklift, not whether you’ve driven it before.”
Charlie didn’t know what to say.
“Well, are you?” Bonnie asked. “Because we’ve held a lot of safe operating courses and I don’t recall you being at any of them.”
Charlie rested his elbows on the instrument panel in front of him. He started to argue.
But it’s Cake Day, dammit.
He stepped off the back of the forklift and handed the order paper to Bonnie.
“They want 50 drums of Proxima industrial skin, grey type, style number 000-234-2496.” He placed added emphasis on the number.
Bonnie grabbed the paper from Charlie and climbed onto the forklift. “Lead the way.”
Charlie walked slowly while Bonnie followed on the forklift. He felt her impatience at his back and he walked even slower.
“Here,” he said, stopping at Bunker 11 in Aisle 33. Bunker 11A was ground level, 11B, the middle and 11C was the top.
The stuff they were after was on the bottom and Charlie slapped the plastic-wrapped drums on the pallet. Easy pickings.
Good thing because he wasn’t sure he trusted Bonnie to remove pallets from the higher racks, certification or not. He couldn’t recall even once seeing Bonnie drive the forklift.
Bonnie rammed a couple of levers, turned the steering wheel, guided the forks under the pallet and lifted.
She slapped the lever into reverse to back out, turning at the same time.
She heard a crack.
Noooooo.
She must have hit the metal post beside the bunker.
“God dammit,” she muttered.
Then she heard a yowling from behind the drums.
“Charlie, are you all right?”
“That was my leg. What in God’s name is wrong with you? You crushed my leg.”
Bonnie couldn’t see Charlie, but she heard him plenty.
She jumped off the back of the forklift and rushed to the front. Charlie was splayed across boxes in the next bunker, clutching his knee.
She ran up. “What happened?”
“The pallet swung out when you turned and crushed my knee against the post. Is that how they teach you to drive at certification?”
“Charlie. Shit. How bad is it? Roll up your pant leg and let me see.”
Charlie squealed louder.
“OK, so you don’t want me to look. Can you at least walk on it? If we get to the front, we can have a better look at it, or have Hank or somebody else take a look.”
Charlie winced and squawked again.
“No? You can’t walk on it? OK. How about you sit on the forks of the forklift and I’ll drive you to the front office?”
Charlie looked from Bonnie to the distant door that led to the offices. It was a long way.
“I’m not sitting on there with you driving.”
Bonnie was out of ideas. “What then? What do you want to do?”
Charlie breathed in. “What time is it?”
Bonnie checked her watch. “It’s about 3:45.”
The best plan now, Charlie figured, was to sit tight until cake time.
“Let me just wait it out. Let’s see where this is going before I try and move too much.”
“OK,” Bonnie said, and sat down next to him.
“You don’t have to wait with me. I’m a big boy.”
Bonnie nodded. “Could have fooled me,” she said and smirked. When Charlie didn’t smile back, she added, “Just a joke.”
“Not funny,” Charlie said.
Bonnie filled her lungs with a long, deep breath and blew it slowly out. “This entire day has been not funny. But if it’s all the same to you, I’ll wait here,” she said.
God, she thought. Can you imagine the uproar if I left him back here on his own?
Charlie rubbed his knee. “Great,” he groaned.
She noticed his grimace. “Don’t worry, I won’t reprimand you.”
“I ought to reprimand you,” he said. “I might need surgery.”
“I doubt that,” Bonnie said. “But I will file a complete and thorough accident report, which will include comments from you.
She ventured a touch on Charlie’s shoulder.
“I should have been more aware of my surroundings.”
“Is that an apology?”
“No, it’s an explanation.”
Fuck your apology Bonnie thought, but then relented. She had bashed into him.
“But I am sorry.”
Charlie pretended he didn’t hear and gauged the mobility of his leg. His knee throbbed, but he sensed it would be fine in a few days.
To think there was a time when he actually felt sorry for Bonnie. When she first started work at Area 51, she drove a junker of a Dodge Sundance and Charlie would have to boost-start the thing practically every day after work for her.
He didn’t mind. She was nice then. She had an ex-husband, a pilot, if Charlie remembered correctly, and three kids, two girls and a boy. The youngest, the boy, must be in his early teens by now.
We used to joke with each other, play cards and talk about our families, he thought. We bonded over ridiculous inter-departmental memos and derided the stooges who worked in Design.
Yeah, Bonnie wasn’t a bad sort, Charlie thought.
“I’m sorry for being mad at you earlier,” he said. “But I find it hurtful how Pat passed me over. He didn’t even talk to me about being temporary manager.”
Bonnie straightened. Oh, this was happening now?
“Pat didn’t mean anything by it,” she said. “I was as surprised as you when he asked me. I think it was only because I’m in the office more. You’re out on calls all the time and he probably didn’t want to cut into your acquisitions. You know Pat. He’s all about the numbers.”
Charlie grunted, unconvinced.
“No, I mean it,” Bonnie continued. “Listen for a second. You’re hardly ever in the office in the morning; out tracking down devices to decommission or whatever. That’s the way Pat likes it. But it makes it almost impossible to run the office. How would you even keep track of the scheduling board? You never know who is here and who is out of the office.”
“Bah, Charlie bleated. “That stuff looks after itself. We’re all adults. Everybody can manage their own time.”
Bonnie laughed. “Are you kidding me? Don and Hugo take advantage every second they don’t have somebody looking over their shoulder. And Hank, he’s half a bottle over the line by lunch time.”
“I don’t think you’re giving them enough credit,” Charlie groused.
Bonnie looked down her nose at Charlie over the top of her glasses. “Are you serious? Those three would spend every day in the pub if you didn’t watch them. And Dianne, nice woman, I love her to death, but she’s always skipping out doing errands, shopping or running her grandkids around town.
“If you give the staff too much freedom, they’ll run right over you.”
Charlie was about to speak, but Bonnie cut him off.
“Don’t tell me they can look after themselves or that you give two shits about managing. Do you even know where the scheduling board is?”
Charlie snickered. “Ha, ha. Very funny. It’s the big white board behind the front counter.”
“No Charlie, that’s the board for incident investigation appointments and de-commissioning jobs. The staff schedule board is in the manager’s office.”
Charlie had never heard of it. He admitted for the first time, that attention to detail may not be his forte. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t fit to run this place for two weeks.
“It would have been nice if Pat at least kept me in the loop,” he said.
Bonnie nodded. “Agreed, yeah, it could have been handled better. But be honest, Charlie, you don’t even want the job. You don’t like anything about it.”
Charlie held up his hands for her to stop. “And,” he said, “you don’t need to come on like a wrecking ball.”
She smiled. “You, Charlie Mills, know the words to a Miley Cyrus song? Wait till the others hear about this.”
“I have to kill you now,” Charlie said. “I’ve said too much.”
Bonnie grinned. “I may have been a little overzealous, but honest to Christ, Charlie, you’ve been at my throat all day. What was that shit-talk about using numbers on the forms?”
Charlie’s eyes widened. Really, she was still thinking about that?
“I was only trying to save you time. The discussion got out of hand, but I thought I was giving you good advice.”
“Bullshit,” Bonnie raised her voice. “That was a pure power move.”
“I didn’t think of it that way,” Charlie said.
“Bullshit,” Bonnie said again.
Charlie swung his leg, gingerly testing the knee. “Seems like the leg is going to be OK,” he said.
Bonnie would have to accept Charlie’s nonrebuttal, his change of topics, as the closest thing to an apology she’d get.
Through the intercom, a clatter and shouting soared out through the warehouse. Don and Hugo had returned conquering heroes, having taken away an old woman’s interdimensional portal lubricant and traded her for a hands-free, laser can opener from Bernard’s Star b.
“It’s cake time you animals,” Don yelled.
The intercom fell silent
“Well, how are we going to do this?” Bonnie asked. “Can you walk?”
Charlie stood, testing the knee. “I think I’m certified for that.”
Bonnie flipped her hair.“Hardy, har-har. Ain’t you just the funniest cripple in the warehouse.”
Charlie started to limp toward the door. He pointed at the forklift. “You were actually serious about giving me a ride on the forks of that thing? What would workplace safety have to say?”
Bonnie hopped onto the back of the forklift. “I’m the workplace safety officer and I say it’s fine.”
Charlie limped away. “Thanks for the offer, anyway.”
Bonnie nodded.
“I’ll deliver this load to the dock and see you in the lunchroom.”
Thanks for sharing, Terry. I really enjoyed this! The story had a great tempo and strong character development. I'm intrigued and eager to see what a gambling-addicted salesman sleeping in the back of the Area 51 Flooring 000-001 warehouse will do now that power-drunk Bonnie has pushed his buttons.
Thanks for sharing, Terry. I really enjoyed this! The story had a great tempo and strong character development. I'm intrigued and eager to see what a gambling-addicted salesman sleeping in the back of the Area 51 Flooring 000-001 warehouse will do now that power-drunk Bonnie has pushed his buttons.