The World's Greatest Spectacle - Free Sample by Lifestyles Unlimited

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It’s time for a new perspective…

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This

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The World’s Greatest Spectacle A novel Novel

Brandon Janis

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For information on affiliate marketing, please visit www.worldsgreatestspectacle.com/affiliate.

Front cover designed by Rene Munoz

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To Everyone – who tries to understand reality

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PART ONE

Reality

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Chapter 1

Cindee was up in the air. She wasn’t sure how high, or why, but she had the sense that somebody might be chasing her. What she was certain of is that she was trying to fly as fast as she could, even though she was moving in slow motion. Whenever she was flying, she would use the butterfly stroke with an emphatic dolphin kick. It probably had something do with her favorite race in high school being the 100 fly, and back then she was pretty good at it. Suddenly, she felt her head snap backwards, and she momentarily lost any awareness of where she was or what was happening. It was Samantha, her fourth grade nemesis, sitting behind her and pulling her long hair while Miss Peterson had stepped out of the classroom. Sam, as everyone called her, was an appropriate nickname because you couldn’t really be sure if she was a boy or a girl. She had the face and hair of a girl, but she was stronger and could run faster than most of the boys. It was her bullish attitude that frightened everyone. The pain from her hair follicles was intense, and as she was frantically trying to figure out how to escape this nightmare she saw a… The obnoxious sound of Brock’s alarm startled her, and Cindee realized that she had “jumped” in her sleep. She could feel that

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her pillow was a little moist by the left corner of her mouth; she hated it when she drooled in her sleep. As she rolled over to her right side a full moon shining through the half-draped window allowed her to vaguely see the outline of Brock’s hunched figure sitting on the edge of the bed. He’s probably trying to decide whether to stand up or fall back on his pillow. She knew he would stand up. It was 4:05 am Wednesday morning and he had to be at work by 5:00 am sharp. Being late was not optional. She watched him slowly stand up and drag his feet to the bathroom and then quickly shut her eyes before he turned on the bathroom light. She pulled the covers over her head. I hate him. Every morning the bathroom light would blind her because he never shut the door. She had asked him numerous times to keep the door closed, but all she ever got was some lame excuse about not being able to remember. She gave up a long time ago and just resorted to fuming about it under her covers. She listened like she did every morning to the shower, the electric razor, the mouthwash gargle and spit, the toilet flush, until finally he stopped making noise and turned out the light around 4:30. She wished she could skip this next part of the morning, because the anger would linger for at least fifteen minutes before she could turn it off, and fall back to sleep, until her alarm woke her up again at 6:30. This morning she couldn’t even get back to sleep. The walls were closing in faster, she hated her life, but it was impossible to escape. She had wanted a divorce for many years, but her enslavement to Dustin and Brinlee stood in the way. Dustin was her 12-year-old, self-absorbed, don’t-tell-me-what-to-do soonto-be teenager, and in spite of his disagreeable presence in her

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life, as a mother she cared about him. She felt a sense of duty and responsibility to do the best she could to help him find his way in life, at least until he graduated from high school, and then she would let go. Brinlee was her cute one-and-a-half-year-old accident. She hadn’t wanted any more children after Dustin, but even though Brock was mad about it, he didn’t force the issue. It was one of the few things she admitted to herself as being her own fault. A couple of years ago she had lost track of maintaining her birth control schedule and Brinlee was the consequence. She detested changing diapers, wiping snotty noses, listening to temper tantrums, being woken up in the middle of the night by crying, and the list never seemed to end. What really gnawed at her was the decision to keep having sex with Brock. Years ago she had lost interest, but she had heard enough and read enough to conclude that if she didn’t meet his physical needs he would probably seek satisfaction elsewhere. The thought of him following other women with his eyes, going with his work buddies to strip bars, surfing the internet for porn, or the absolute unthinkable, having an affair, were much worse than the unpleasant reality of intimacy. She was always looking for any clue that he was unfaithful; and she was reasonably sure that he wasn’t. To keep it this way, a couple of times a month she would extend an offer and he rarely declined. There was no enjoyment, communication, or bonding in the event, but at least it was always brief and seemed to accomplish the objective. She wasn’t sure it really made any sense. It was the only aspect of her life in which she felt she had some power and control over

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him and yet it was distasteful and always left her just as empty as she was before. Maybe it was just another form of bondage. The real problem was that if years ago she had decided differently, Brinlee never would have come along. Now she couldn’t give divorce serious consideration. She still felt the pain from her own parents’ divorce when she was nine and keenly remembered how for years they would use her to try to hurt each other. When she married Brock she made a commitment to never put her children through what she had experienced and, maybe subconsciously, that’s why she didn’t want any more children after Dustin, just in case. Sometimes she wished Brock didn’t have a good relationship with her children, because then she could rationalize the divorce as necessary to shield them from the pain he might be causing them. Unfortunately, he wasn’t causing them any pain, just her. Brock slowly reached over, hit the snooze button, and then turned the alarm off. Without thinking, he sat on the edge of the bed for a moment before standing up and walking to the bathroom. He must have slept well, because he couldn’t remember anything after seeing the numbers 11:43 on his alarm clock last night. His first conscious thought was to keep to his morning ritual of leaving the bathroom door open and being as noisy as possible without it appearing blatantly intentional. It really wasn’t fair that Cindee slept in every morning while he had to get up and go to work. And does she work? No. She used to after Dustin started going to school, but then quit her job after Brinlee was born. Occasionally she would actually make him dinner on the weekend but she never made him breakfast or lunch, and she spent most of her day reading

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romance novels, watching TV, and gossiping with her girlfriends. Maybe if she did more for Dustin and Brinlee he would shut the bathroom door. The thought had crossed his mind more than once that she might want a divorce, but as separate as their lives were she never seemed to mind having sex. That was the telltale sign he had concluded. He hated her nagging, the animosity, the obsession with religion, and her unwillingness to take on responsibility. On the other hand he had never heard another guy describe a wife as anything better, so why look elsewhere? Besides, there was no reason good enough to rock Dustin and Brinlee’s world. He knew a lot of guys who philandered without their wives knowing about it, but because they had such a ridiculous onetrack mind when it came to the female body, he didn’t want to be controlled by that addiction. For this reason he tried to keep his eyes from wandering from woman to woman and his mind on other interests. He did wish there was some eye contact and maybe just a little positive communication with Cindee, but he figured since you can’t have everything, you might as well try to be satisfied with what you do have. She finally heard the front door close so she rolled back over to her left side and tried to go back to sleep. Dustin would be getting up soon, and she would need to have a good breakfast ready for him before he headed off to school. Her mind rattled. Last night had been a tipping point, just like hundreds of previous tipping points to nowhere. The loud music in Dustin’s room had been turned off, or at least it had probably moved to his headphones, and Brinlee had eventually

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succumbed to sleep. She had changed into something more comfortable and had hopped into bed after an exhausting day of taking care of Brinlee, arguing with Dustin over rules, and helping out for several hours at a church activity. She was enjoying the quiet while reading an intriguing romance novel, when about an hour later Brock strolled into the room. She couldn’t remember exactly how the fight started. She may have abruptly said something simple and non-controversial like, “Where were you?” or “What time did you get off work?” and he took offense to it like he always did. Of course she did know what he was doing, even if she didn’t know where: drinking with his work buddies. Brock worked in the oil fields and hung out for a couple of hours with the guys almost every night after work. Oilfield hours were long but the pay was good. The kids never saw him during the week, and they looked forward to the time he spent with them on the weekends. Sometimes she was awake when he came home, but most of the time during the week she only saw him when his alarm went off and he left the bathroom door open. On weekends they clashed over the kids: she wanted a break from Brinlee, and he wanted to take Dustin hunting or four wheeling or boating instead of letting him go to church with her. His idea of playing with Brinlee and making her think he was her favorite person in the world did not qualify as assuming any responsibility to take care of her. Sometimes she wondered if Brock was an alcoholic. If she thought about it carefully, he usually had alcohol on his breath whenever he came home, and she probably had just stopped noticing because it was so common. However, he never seemed to be so inebriated that he couldn’t function on a normal level.

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But then again, maybe it was those few beers that made him so stubborn, so inconsiderate, so ungrateful, so defensive, and so aloof in his own world. It was his defensive answer that caused her to say smugly without looking up from her book, “Nice to see you too.” The exchange of words gradually became more and more hurtful, tones were laced with animosity, and the volume was a rapid crescendo. Old wounds were reopened; new wounds were cut, and when the pain was too unbearable to take anymore, she had buried herself in the covers and sobbed herself to sleep. Brock ignored her when she cried. No matter how hard she tried to shut her mind off and go back to sleep, the pain she was reliving from the night before wouldn’t subside, and she curled up in a ball and began crying again, this time inconsolably. What made it even worse was that she didn’t feel there was anyone in her life that really understood and could help her. As time gradually exhausted her emotions, she knew sleep was not going to mercifully give her an escape, so she faced the hell and got out of bed, determined that later in the day she was going to try to open up and share a few realities with Rachel. She was desperate for any relief. She knew Rachel was dealing with a physically abusive husband and hoped she might have some coping skills to share.

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Chapter 2

Brock closed the door to his parked truck and headed for the office doors. The fight the night before with Cindee had been annoying but he had learned long ago not to get trapped in her emotions, because once inside it was very difficult to get out. At times he really did feel sorry for her and wished that he could help her, only helping her was about as likely as his paycheck miraculously having a few extra zeros on it. Did he feel some pain and loneliness in the relationship? Yes, but he had learned to suppress it and to seek companionship elsewhere by hanging out at the bar with the guys from work. He had no idea how rocked his world was about to be on the other side of those familiar office doors. After clocking in, he headed for the supervisors’ table in the break room. He could immediately tell from the expression on Kenny’s face that something was up. “Corporate’s here,” Kenny said. “And…” “And we really don’t know what’s going on.” “What do you know?” Carlos piped in, speculating, “They’re scheduling everybody on our crew to meet privately with some HR chick from corporate.” “That’s a new one. Are we headed out to the field?”

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“Not today. They’ve got another crew covering for us. I guess they want everybody available here in the yard to talk to whenever they want,” Kenny continued the speculation. Travis walked by the table, pulled a chair over from an adjacent table, and, sitting down in the chair as if he were lying on a 40-degree hill, said, “Wuz up, ladies?” Travis was the fifth chain link in the gang and the only one of color. Kenny was the accepted leader. Carlos was the goofball. Gavin was wild and crazy. Brock was the cool hand. Travis was the politician. He wasn’t a supervisor like the other four because he only had a year and a half with the company, but that didn’t limit his ability to bond with the group. If conversation ever led to politics Travis became the center of the dialogue. He was constantly forwarding emails with political innuendos, reading some book, or commenting on the news. Considering his fascination with history and current politics, he was an unlikely member of the oil field community, but one entrepreneurial venture after another had failed to produce any meaningful fruit, so he had settled into a reliable job that provided well for his family. He wasn’t a regular drinking partner because he enjoyed the companionship of his wife and when it came to valuing and respecting woman, his perspective was exceptionally healthy. On the other hand, Kenny loathed his ex-wife 24/7; Carlos was consistently strategizing on how to get out of his third marriage without any financial obligation; Gavin could only think of women as a one-night stand, and Brock was conflicted. Travis’s contribution to the group was a unique perspective that the others seemed to appreciate.

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“The only lady at this table might find out sometime today,” Brock responded to Travis with a grin on his face. “Has anybody heard from Gavin?” Brock heard a disjointed “No,” “Nope,” and “Nah.” ----Gavin had barely opened the door to his truck when he got the phone call at 4:43 am. “Is zis Gaveen?” The “G” was pronounced hard and guttural. Gavin’s heart skipped a beat. Yuri was the HR Manager of their camp, and he worked 8 to 5, not 5 in the morning. “Sorry I bother you zis morning.” “Okay…,” Gavin’s voice wandered off momentarily before deciding he probably didn’t care about proper protocol. “Don’t be sorry then. We can talk some other time.” “Don’t give me crrap Gaveen,” Yuri’s tone was suddenly icy. “I haff my job, and I do it.” “Whatever.” Gavin was now absolutely certain he didn’t care about protocol. He considered Yuri a brown-nosing putz who should have stayed in his own country instead of transferring inside of the company to this one. Yuri tried to act tough, but he really was just a puppet wrapped up in a bunch of bureaucratic red tape. This #%^$ could be ^&$%*@ fun. That &%# ^% @ ^$&*% is a $*&^%&#. He’s &^$%#@* got nothing on me. Yuri responded in his usual monotone voice. “You vill be on administrative leaff today.” “Yeah, right,” Gavin reacted with confidence and sarcasm in his voice even as he tried to adjust to the reality of what might be happening.

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Yuri had waited months to enjoy the power of this moment as he smugly confirmed, “Yes, you vill not come into virk today.” Gavin was ready to release a long string of expletives, but then decided against it; even though it was standard language in the break room and in the field, somehow over the phone or in Yuri’s office it could inexplicably be used against him. Is he $#%&*%^ acting by his %^&#*$@ self? There’s no #%$&*^% way his %^$&#*@ little %@#$^&* could &%^*&%@ do this. No #$^@$% ^%&$#@% $!@%^ in this camp would &^*#$%^ dare $!@% %^$ the $#@*^&% system. Is this ^%&#$%* administrative thing @$^#%&* real? Where the &%*^ did this #$@%^&*$ ^$%& come from? What a &%^&#$@ bunch of &^*$%#@^. “Thanks for the day off. I’ll see you tomorrow.” There was silence on the other end of the phone, and just when Gavin thought he may have gained the upper hand in the battle, Yuri clarified, “Za leaff is indefinite.” Now it was Gavin creating the silence, and the conversational void seemed to have hit a pocket in time that would never end. Eventually, Yuri filled the void. “Do you haff any…” Gavin threw his cell phone as hard as he could across the cab of the truck and it broke apart as it shattered the passenger window. Did some &^@#$% $%%#*&% snitch? They ^$&#%@ had to. They *&%^$#@ better not have %^$&*^% $#@$%^#* me. It *^&@#$% had to be those ^%&!@#$ new green *&^!@#%^ on the &!$@%$ crew. They don’t &*%#!$* know the &%^!@%$ rules. I’ll ^%$!#@ *&^$%#^% the rules &%^$%*@ #$@% %^&$# &*^%$!@# $%^ $#$%^#@#$ until they wish they ^&*%#!@ never have !$#%@^$ ^%$ &^#$ me. This !#@%#$* better not be eight *%&^%$# years $#@$%#^ down the $%@# drain because of some ^%&$#@!& #$!!@#% rats.

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Chapter 3

Amazingly, that afternoon the call didn’t go to voicemail; Rachel answered her cell phone on the second ring and skipped a typical greeting when she said, “I was just thinking about you.” “Why?” Cindee reacted, a little surprised at hearing Rachel’s real voice, that especially feminine voice that almost always sounded soft, sweet, and inviting. Cindee knew the sweetness was usually quite effective at masking reality. “Not exactly sure, but I had a sense you might not be feeling well. You haven’t looked very good the last few weeks.” “Thanks a lot. Just kidding.” Cindee paused before adding, “Is it that obvious that I hate my life?” “I’m sorry.” Rachel’s apology sounded sincere instead of just being polite. “I’m the one that should be sorry,” Cindee retracted. “Here I am calling up to complain about my life, and my situation can’t be worse than having to deal with Garth.” “A few weeks ago I might have agreed with you, but things have changed. Talk to me; I can listen. Is it Brock?” Cindee ignored the question. “Things have gotten better with Garth? What happened?” “Garth’s the same jerk he’s always been. It’s me that’s changed. I’m finally beginning to understand how to deal with the situation, and it’s giving me the confidence to make some tough decisions. I don’t feel so trapped.”

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“What do you mean?” “It means I’ve got an unromantic book for you to read.” “You’re kidding. You’re recommending a book that has no romance in it? Are you serious? You sound serious.” “Trust me; it’ll open your eyes in a way you never thought possible.” “Translation?” “You and I read books to escape reality, right?” “I guess so. I hadn’t really thought about it.” “This book will also be an escape, but if it works for you like it did for me, it will help you see your real reality differently. If you see it differently, you might be able to deal with it better. Besides, instead of dreading the end of your escape time, you’ll be curious to return to your real reality and experiment with it. As you experiment, I’m pretty sure you’ll start to find meaning and purpose in your life…and maybe even stop hating it.” “You really think that’s possible?” “Yes.” “So when should I come over to get it?” “That’s the problem; I can’t give you my copy.” “Excuse me? We always share back and forth.” “This is different. You have to have your own personal copy. You’ll understand once you read it. I was thinking we could meet at the bookstore over a cold latte and I’ll buy you the book.” “I don’t know if I’ve ever heard you sound so mysterious.” “I think you’ll be glad. Do you want to meet at three?” “I love you, Girl. See ya at three.” -----

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Later that evening after making dinner, cleaning the kitchen, giving Brinlee a bath and as soon as the kids were quiet, Cindee changed clothes, arranged the pillows on her bed, and, leaning against them, started reading…

The World’s Greatest Spectacle See Your World As Never Before to Discover Real Meaning and Purpose in Your Life PROLOGUE Life is a journey, an adventure with a future that rarely can be predicted. Ugly, unpleasant realities exist.

Beautiful, enjoyable realities exist.

Some

realities we can control; most realities we cannot control. We act, and we are acted upon. Why? To what end? The journey of a lifetime, short or long, can have meaning and purpose, if we understand how to discover it. Open the door to The World’s Greatest Spectacle, and you will be introduced to a familiar world that looks very different as you discover the freedom of truth.

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INTRODUCTION

…a philosophy book? Rachel’s gone crazy. I haven’t read one of these since…well actually, I think I only read parts of one during my freshmen year at the community college, and only because it was required reading. I hope I can stay awake. At least it doesn’t look very long. Cindee was thirsty; she went to the kitchen and came back with a glass of ice water. When she turned the next page and saw the question with the blank lines beneath it, she said out loud to herself, “Oh brother, a workbook?” This had better be worth it or Rachel’s going to get an earful. She got off the bed again, retrieved a pen, and wrote down her answer to the question before turning the page to…

Lens 1 - Reality

…Cindee kept the book open and set it down beside her on the bed. Okay, so I kind of get this idea about reality and trying to understand it. But shouldn’t reality be what I want it to be? Reality should be Fabio, handsome, muscular, sensitive, gentle touch, good listener, not demanding, and ready at any moment to sweep me off of my feet when I need it. That was Brock when I dated him and for the first year of our marriage until Dustin came along. How did he disappear? How could he go from Fabio to Brock? I even named Brinlee in hopes that someday it might become like it used to be years ago. That was stupid and hopeless. Two completely opposite realities and I hate the real one.

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Chapter 4

“Hey Dusty, check it out.” It was Monday. Dustin had just walked out of his science class and his best friend Hayden was waiting for him on the other side of the hallway. Hayden slightly cocked his head in the direction of the backpack over his right shoulder and Dustin understood. They each positioned themselves facing the lockers in order to shield from view the backpack as best as they could. Hayden unzipped it, reached his hand in, and pulled one of the items inside just close enough to the opening for Dustin to see what it was but not enough for any other wandering eyes. “Dude,” Dustin said awkwardly, trying to mimic the way the cool kids used the word. “Where’d you get it?” “I’ll tell you on the way.” Good secluded spots at their junior high school didn’t exist, but a half a mile down the road they had discovered a great hangout under the bleachers of the high school football stadium. One side of the stadium backed up to the school. It was the other side that backed up to a large open field and had a fence in between. Two weeks earlier Hayden had shown him the first girly magazine he had ever seen. At first, he was a little bit shocked. He had often wondered what a girl looked like without clothes on, but he had never actually seen any nudity before. A few

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times in a movie or TV show he thought he was going to get to, but was disappointed when the camera angle or the script stopped just shy of it. Nothing was stopping him now as they spent about an hour looking at every picture in the magazine. He felt guilty afterwards. It probably had something to do with his mom. She didn’t dress in a revealing sort of way, and while he couldn’t exactly identify why, he knew she would have been horrified to see what he had done under the bleachers. Over the last two weeks, he eventually figured out how to brush the guilt away and, since that first magazine, every time he saw a woman, he imagined what she would look like without her clothes on. He had done this same thing before he had seen the magazine, but now his imagination was more real, and his dreams at night were becoming wild and crazy. It was more difficult to imagine what the girls at his school looked like. Their bodies weren’t as developed as the women on those glossy pages, and he wondered what the differences might be. He liked the girls that wore really tight clothes because it made it a little easier to visualize. But then again, a little looser shirt that was low cut was great if he could catch the angle just right when a girl bent over. As Hayden started to unzip the backpack that same guilty feeling returned. He quickly brushed it off. The thought of what was inside of that magazine cover was too enticing.

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Chapter 5

The night before she sat in her hotel room reviewing all of the notes she had been given and the ones she had made herself. For several months she had been doing preliminary investigations into inappropriate behavior taking place on various field crews. Several weeks ago she had zeroed in on Kenny’s crew and now had flown south to finish the investigation. As she was walking over to Yuri’s office she was wishing she had been able to sleep better; it was going to be a long day and she was not used to a 5:30 am start. “Good morning, Yuri.” She shook his outstretched hand. “Good morning, Vanessa. Nice vee finally meet. Vee talk many times by phone. So tell me, how you say your last name? ‘Hairry’ or ‘haffrry’?” “The latter.” She detested her last name, just like she detested the man who had given it to her. “Were you able to reach Gavin okay?” “No problem. Do you think vee fire him today or vait tomorrow?” “Whoa, time out. We can’t do anything until we’ve been able to corroborate the information we’ve extracted from our preliminary investigation. Besides, I fully expect I’ll be able to get some information about others and then Gavin won’t be alone. Tell me again the name of the service manager over this crew?”

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“Jhavierr Mendoza. I keep him in ze dark. I tell him vee meet greenies for training. He knows vat to do.” At 6:47 am Ashley in dispatch announced over the intercom, “Will crew seventy-five please meet in conference room number four? Will crew seventy-five please meet in conference room number four?” They heard the announcement while they were standing outside in the designated smoking area, speculating out of the range of prying ears, and allowing Kenny and Carlos to add another nail to each of their coffins. Brock reacted first, “Let’s find out what’s up.” ----The lights were dim and the general atmosphere was a mixture of laughter and melancholy. It was a typical bar for serious drinkers. Five friends sat quietly at their table, staring at the glasses in front of them, but only when they weren’t pouring the liquid into their mouths. Usually jovial, the mood tonight was morose, and the only reason for drinking was to escape reality. Earlier in the day, Gavin’s anxiety had become too intense, so he had borrowed a phone and called Kenny. Who !#@$#%* cares if I &%#@$!^ call someone? They better not &^$%#!@ $%^# me. They can’t !@%#^$% make me *!&@&#$ not talk to the other $#@!*&^ hands. Kenny had told him what little he knew, which was that Javier had met with them in conference room number four to split them up and assign them to different projects throughout the yard. Gavin called four more times during the day because with his cell phone in the trash he didn’t have a number where Kenny

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could reach him. Kenny’s reports were all about the same. Once in a while one of his supervisors would get a phone call from an HR secretary asking to send so and so to her office to go over some paperwork. As soon as someone on a crew left, the supervisor would text all the others to report who it was or how long a person coming back had been gone. The time away had ranged from 13 minutes to 1 hour 8 minutes. They had tried to get information out of each greenie when they returned, but none of them would talk. They looked scared. At around 3:30 pm, Kenny received a phone call from Javier letting him know that everyone on his crew should clock out and that supervisors should finish all their paperwork before getting off the clock. Yard call would be the usual 5:00 am the next morning. Just before Kenny was about to hang up, Javier added, “Oh by the way, do you know how to get a hold of Gavin?” Kenny immediately recognized that this might be an opportunity to get some information. “His cell phone. You do have that number don’t you?” Javier was silent for a moment, and the silence sounded like the thoughts in his mind were sputtering. Kenny waited. “I um…I’ve tried to reach him several times but haven’t been able to. It...uh…the call went straight to voice mail.” “Not sure what to tell you. If he calls me is there a message you want me to give him?” “Well, um…no, that’s okay.” Five minutes later Javier called him back. “Yeah, I guess there is a message, if you don’t mind passing it along.” “Sure.”

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“Let him know Yuri needs to meet with him today, if possible.” Gavin’s fifth call of the day came at 4:02 pm. Kenny greeted him with, “Read in to this whatever you want. I don’t know anything.” “@%^#&!! Why #^&@%* ^&%@#$ don’t you @!*#^%$ know @%^#?” Gavin’s use of foul language had started years ago and initially its primary purpose was to appear “cool.” It was consistent with his personality of acting based on “shock value,” as he forced as many expletives into his sentences as he possibly could, without causing his speech to be completely void of a message or point. The habit had become so entrenched that long ago it had no longer required any intentional thought, and he was entirely clueless to the extreme limitations he had placed upon himself to sound even remotely intelligent. Of course, he didn’t care, which was ironically representative of how little purpose and meaning he had in his personal life. Javier asked me how to get a hold of you and that if I ended up talking to you, to let you know Yuri wants to meet with you today if possible.” “I’ll &^%*!@# see that ^%&$%#@ %$^%%$# !@# #$%^@#* ^&%$#^ @#!@$@ #$%@ when I %^&$#!*& feel like it.” “Make sure you hook up with us later at the bar.” “This #%^$&*%^ $%@#*.” Literally two seconds after Kenny pressed “end” on his cell phone, it rang again. The caller ID showed “private number.” “Hello.” “Kennee? You still in building?” The accent and phraseology easily identified the caller. “Yes,” Kenny confirmed.

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“Can you meet in office now?” “On my way.” When Kenny walked through the door of Yuri’s front office, he was standing there to greet him. When he walked through the door to Yuri’s back office, the mystery lady from corporate was sitting behind his desk. While he didn’t know who she was, it was pure luck that he had found out that she was coming. About six months before he and his wife had decided to split up, one of the younger girls that worked upstairs in accounting had caught his eye. Apparently, he had caught her eye as well, because one day while passing her in the hall she had paused, told him to hang on a second, wrote an address on a slip of paper, and, handing it to him, said, “Come over to my apartment tonight.” That’s how he met Desirée. Over the next year he couldn’t remember having any meaningful conversation with her. She gave no indication that she was interested in a relationship and would only let him know when she wanted him to pay her a visit. He always did. After a few feral nights with her, for some reason that he couldn’t explain, he kept track of how many times they got together: twenty three times since he first got that slip of paper and, still no real conversation. Tuesday night Desirée had called him after work. While he was disappointed she wasn’t inviting him to knock on her apartment door, the information she shared seemed useful. That morning she had walked into Yuri’s front office because she needed to see him. Yuri’s probably another one of her conquests for the day. I wish she didn’t like to play the field, and we could develop a relationship. Yuri’s office door was half ajar and because she could hear that he was on the phone, she

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stayed out of sight and waited for him to end the call before she showed up in the doorway. She only heard Yuri’s side of the conversation, but it was enough to piece together that some female from HR corporate was flying out that afternoon to do something with crew seventy-five. Kenny told Desirée he appreciated the call and suggested that they get together sometime. Her one word response before he heard the line go dead was, “Sometime.” And here was the mystery lady from north of the border in person, getting out of Yuri’s executive chair and walking around the desk to shake his hand. Kenny figured it was best to play dumb and not let her know he knew where she was from and that she had been meeting with members of his crew all day. He was anxious to understand what was going on, and didn’t want to limit the opportunities by disclosing his inside information. After introducing herself, Vanessa walked back around the desk and returned to Yuri’s chair. Yuri sat in a chair next to his desk facing Kenny. Kenny sat in one of the two chairs facing the desk in the middle of the room. It was a large office. Vanessa began professionally, “I’m sorry to get directly to the reason why you’re here, but it’s probably best. We’re going to have to let you go.” The words were like a 140 mph hurricane force wind that lifted Kenny out of his chair and slammed him against the wall behind him, which didn’t make any sense because the real day was overcast with winds 5 to 10 mph in the Midwest where hurricanes don’t exist. As if his neck had been broken upon the impact, Kenny sat paralyzed in the chair. Eternity stood still. His jaw and tongue were frozen. Even his brain was nonfunctional, because, as much as he wanted to process and

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understand what he had just heard, it was as if someone had hit the pause button and the paralysis in his body prevented him from reaching the play button. As he gradually regained movement, without saying anything, he shifted in his chair and mentally reached for any button that could reactivate his mind. He missed play and hit fast forward instead. This is impossible. How did this happen? Why is this happening? What did I do? What didn’t I do? Was this Vanessa’s decision? Who is she really? What does she know? I’m going to call an attorney. What did she find out today? Why is she really here? Did I do something wrong? I couldn’t have done anything wrong. I’m going to sue. Did Yuri have something to do with this? All of the management in the camp love me. My crew is one of the most productive crews in the camp. I’ve been with the company for 11 years. An attorney will salivate over this termination without cause. The supervisors on my crew love me. All the hands on my crew love me. Even if I have done something wrong, nobody on my crew would stab me in the back. We’re brothers. We don’t do that. Oh yeah, maybe those greenies have something to do with this. But what? I’ve been the head of this crew for three and a half years. I’m close to a promotion to office management, my ticket out of the field. What did I do? Can I get a job somewhere else? It took me years of hard work and sacrifice to get to the top of a crew. Does Desirée have something to do with this? Was she using me somehow? Is she a corporate spy? Maybe Julie somehow did this to get back at me for cheating on her and divorcing her? All those years of loyal dedication and sacrifice for this company and this is how I’m treated? Just like that!! Am I being thrown out because there’s some dirty bath water I don’t know about? Am I being thrown under the bus? What is going on?

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The words slowly fell out of Kenny’s mouth, “Can I ask why?” “Certainly, but there’s really not a whole lot I can tell you.” Vanessa was still in charge. “As you know this is a ‘right to work’ state. Cause is not necessary to terminate an employee, but in your case there is significant cause. I’m just not at liberty to discuss those details with you at this moment.” Kenny could sense that from Vanessa’s perspective the meeting was over, and as much as he wanted to ask a dozen questions he couldn’t come up with any reason to prolong it. This issue, whatever it was, was not over; it was only beginning. He would make sure of that. He really didn’t have a temper, rarely even got angry, and he never lost his cool. But as he exited the door of Yuri’s back office the urge to grab something in the front office, anything, and throw it to break it against some other immovable object was overwhelming. Somehow, he managed to resist. As he entered the hallway and heard Yuri close the front office door behind him, he wanted to kick the wall with his steel-toed boot and put a large hole in the sheet rock. Again, he resisted the urge. He didn’t know the scumbag employee who was smiling and saying “hi” while passing him in the hall, but he wanted to use his fist to smack that friendly smile right off of his face. He kept walking with his hands down. As he stepped outside of the building doors, he stopped resisting, and gave the cigarette butt container a roundhouse kick. The container fell over; the lid dislodged; and hundreds of cigarette butts spread over the concrete sidewalk. As soon as he shut the door to his truck, he immediately dialed Brock’s cell phone. “Call Carlos and Travis. We need to meet at the usual place.” Kenny burned two work

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hours worth of rubber onto the parking lot asphalt as he sped away. Brock was already there when Kenny arrived. As Kenny was pulling a chair back to sit down at the table, Brock verbalized the concerned expression emanating from his own face. “What’s wrong?” Kenny looked like a lost zombie trying to find the spirit inside of him that kept him alive. “You look like the walking dead,” Brock added. Kenny’s words were slow and distant, almost as if he were the dummy and the voice was coming from a ventriloquist. “If it’s all right with you, let’s wait until Carlos and Travis show up.” “No problem.” Brock left the table for the bar to order a shot of vodka for Kenny and a specialty beer for himself. Brock loved beer and prided himself in his ability to handle it. While most guys had trouble functioning on a normal level after a couple of beers, eight or nine at a time was no problem for him, and except for his breath, he could mask it just fine. The breath issue he minimized by using some special mints he had found by trial and error. He rarely ever touched the hard stuff, not because he didn’t like it, but because he was a purist: beer was his passion. His daily norm was just shy of a gallon, and less than five beers defined a bad day. Fortunately, he had a high metabolism, so while others quickly expanded their mid sections, he was able to keep relatively trim, even though the sheer quantity of liquid did limit what he could eat. The only time he didn’t drink with the guys was when they went to the strip bar. On those days he drove to a secluded spot in the hills and bonded with the liquid as he listened to country music. Kenny, Carlos, Gavin and Travis were the only ones who

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knew how much he drank each day. And just like he kept their dirty little secrets in confidence, they protected his. If Cindee found out, more fuel to the out-of-control fire. If upper management found out, he’d be tested and fired. If the cops found out, well, that had never happened because he always made sure his driving habits were to the absolute letter of traffic laws: a chipped windshield was always replaced immediately, a broken taillight was fixed within the hour, he never started the truck without his seatbelt on, beer cans were never left in the truck, his registration and license plate were always renewed a couple of weeks before expiring, and he never drove over the speed limit. He remembered one time when he was leaving the bar before everyone else, and, as he headed for the front door, Kenny had called out, ““Hey Brock. Why don’t you ever take a cab?” Brock smiled inside as he had responded, “Because unlike you girls, I drive straight down the road.” Kenny, Carlos and Gavin drank to get drunk. He didn’t, or at least that’s what he believed. For such a mellow personality, Kenny was fast and furious when it came to drinking. “Bring it hard and bring one right after the other,” was his approach. Zero to gone from reality was measured by a stopwatch, not a clock on the wall. Carlos and Gavin shared Kenny’s methodology, which is why all three of them always needed a ride home. Travis, on the other hand, was a lightweight social drinker. He shared Brock’s passion for a good beer but differed by sipping his very slowly. If the occasion called for it, he was the designated driver by default. Carlos and Travis hurried through the front door and over to the table Brock and Kenny were sitting at. They didn’t even

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think about ordering drinks and Travis blurted out, “What’s up?” Brock directed them, “Sit down and wait until Kenny’s ready to talk.” The weight of the words describing the day’s events must have been heavy, because Kenny was immediately ready to get them off of his chest. He narrated to six attentive ears every detail of his five conversations with Gavin and his visit to Yuri’s office. While his eyes slowly moved from one glass on the table to another, six eyes stared directly at him. When it was obvious that he was finished, Carlos, always the goofball, grabbed the only full vodka shot glass sitting in front of Kenny, opened his mouth, and threw its contents down his own throat. Swallowing with his whole body, he mercifully declared, “I’m going to buy you 10 more of these,” and headed off to the bar. Brock was feeling Kenny’s pain and confusion. Kenny had been his boss for three and a half years and he respected his management and leadership skills. What can I say to him? Don’t sweat it? It will all work out for the best? No, how can it? Tell him he didn’t do anything wrong and someone else has to be at fault? I have no idea what’s going on. Try to remove his pain with the hope of a positive outcome? Tell him he needs to call an attorney? No, better left to tomorrow when the dust is settled. Brock played it safe, “Kenny, the best thing to do is to get stone drunk and deal with this later.” Kenny agreed and was anxious for Carlos to return from the bar. Travis directed his question at no one in particular, “I wonder when Gavin’s going to show up?” He was immediately answered by the front door of the bar opening the fastest he’d ever seen, Gavin’s sudden appearance in the doorway, and the instant recognition that Gavin was ready to kill someone as he

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headed towards their table. At least Travis knew they were safe. After a few drinks, Gavin calmed down and the five of them sat quietly at the table drifting off into a fuzzy world, as far away as they could get from the real one they lived in. ----Cindee wrote down her thoughts about Lens One and decided to read one more lens before letting her mind drift into either oblivion or another reality…

Lens 2 – Absolute or Relative …is truth absolute and relative? How can something be true and be relative? What does relative really mean? Absolute makes sense, but relative…….is…….doesn’t make sense……. Her eyes were now closed and the next thing she knew she was doing the butterfly stroke through a strange world where everything had a sign on it. Some of the signs displayed the word “absolute” and the rest of the signs displayed the word “relative.”

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Chapter 6

Brock’s heart was still sitting in his stomach. Two of his best friends had been fired on the same day, and he had no idea why or what had happened. He had consumed more beers than usual, stayed much later than usual, and he tried to be extra careful driving home, because he was pretty sure he was drunk. When he opened the door to their bedroom, he could hear Cindee softly breathing in the darkness, which meant she was asleep. Noo neeeed to annoyy hur tonnnight. Brock changed clothes and was asleep about the same time his head hit the pillow. At 4:08 the next morning, during his robotic bathroom routine, he noticed a book he hadn’t seen before on the counter next to Cindee’s sink. The World’s Greatest Spectacle. Now that definitely doesn’t fit with “Dream Man,” or “Knight in Shining Armor,” or “Almost Heaven.” Whatever. Cindee never is predictable. I wonder what it’s about? Brock picked up the book, opened the front cover, and using his thumb began to quickly fan the pages. Almost immediately something caught his eye, and he reversed direction until he had the book completely open to the page Cindee had written on, in between the introduction and the first lens. She’s writing down her thoughts in a book? That’s impossible. And this isn’t a romance book! Suddenly Brock felt a wave of guilt sweep over him, and the open door to the bathroom made him feel vulnerable to

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exposure. He was invading Cindee’s private world and, though it had never happened, if she walked into the bathroom, he would have no defensible explanation for what he was doing. He closed the book, set it back down on the counter positioned exactly as it had been before he picked it up, and continued on with his day as if nothing unusual had happened. Cindee waited impatiently with the covers over her head until she heard the front door close. She jumped out of bed, hurried to the bathroom, and turned on the light. How stupid could I be? After reading the second lens the night before she had carried the book into the bathroom before going to bed. She must have been tired, which would explain why she left it on the bathroom counter, and why she hadn’t read more, even though she had wanted to. Her mind was starting to form questions and trying to hypothesize answers. One bite at a time, she had concluded. She had remembered years ago when she was a teenager, lying in bed on a hot, sticky summer night and trying to answer the question “What is truth?” She never came close to an answer; truth seemed to be such an evasive word. Last night, however, the words “absolute” and “relative” turned on a light in her head. Maybe truth really can be clearly defined and understood. If nothing else, it’s helping my mind forget my hell while I’m awake, and not just sometimes when I’m asleep. Fortunately, the book was still next to the sink, and it didn’t look like it had been moved. She wasn’t exactly sure why she didn’t want Brock to know what she was reading. Maybe it’s because we never share real thoughts and feelings with each other, and this book might be important to me. I don’t want to risk giving him the opportunity to use it as a dagger. Maybe it’s because if I

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find something that might be beneficial to me, I don’t want him to benefit from it also. At least the book is still here; he probably didn’t open it, and I’m not going to be so careless again. Instead of waiting to get dressed until after Dustin left for school, today she showered, dressed, and had her make-up and hair done well before it was time to wake him up. After sitting down in the rocker in their bedroom, and recording her thoughts about Lens Two, she turned to…

Lens 3 – Universal or Personal …Cindee closed her eyes and mentally digested the concept of universal absolute truth. I can relate to something being 100% predictable like the laws of nature. But what about Brock? Is he universal absolute truth because he is 100% predictable to be noncommunicative, defensive, and off in his own world unless he’s looking for a way to stick a knife into me? What about Dustin? He’s 100% predictable to argue everything, to accuse me of hating him, and to listen to his music so loud that his ears must keep ringing after it's turned off. And Brinlee is guaranteed to make a mess in her diaper, scream at me if she doesn’t want some food I’m trying to feed her, rip the leaves off of my favorite plants, and then mock me as she giggles to my face. Absolute realities either apply to everyone the same, or they are personal to me, or Dustin, or Brinlee, or to all three of us but not to everyone else in the world. My personal absolute realities that I create rarely ever are the same as the personal absolute realities that Brock creates, except when we fight. That’s about the only time we share reality: when

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we are both trying to hurt each other. I’m living in my world and he lives in his. Now that I’m thinking about it, I really don’t know much about his world, and from the way he acts, he probably doesn’t know much about mine. I don’t want to know about his world. When we were dating, our worlds were totally connected. I couldn’t wait to see him, talk to him, touch him, or go somewhere with him. It seemed he felt the same. Was that time in life really real? It was so long ago. How did our united worlds move to opposite ends of the universe except when they occasionally collide? And why does his world enslave mine? And what’s this about not all humans wanting to be free? I want to be free: free from Brock, free from Dustin, free from Brinlee. Who wouldn’t want to be free? Everyone wants to be free. Do some people really want to be enslaved? ----It had been several days since he had seen the second magazine, and Dustin realized that he couldn’t get rid of the guilt. Each day, a sick-to-his-stomach feeling swept over him. Each day, all attempts to get rid of it had failed, probably because he didn’t have another magazine to escape to. Why do people wear clothes anyway? If they didn’t, then I wouldn’t be curious what women look like. And why do I feel guilty? This shouldn’t be a big deal. I’m curious, and I’m satisfying my curiosity. It must have something to do with Mom. But that doesn’t make any sense. She hates my guts. She’s always trying to control me. If she doesn’t care about me, why would she care if I look at pictures in a magazine? She keeps saying she makes rules because she cares about me. Caring would be her actually showing some interest in what I’m interested in and

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letting me do what I want. She never even asks about my grades. The last time she looked at my grades was a year ago. Of course they were all A’s. She just ignores me. I do something good and she’s not interested. I do something bad and she’s all over it. She didn’t even go to parent/teacher conference. I work hard for those grades. I’m not going to work in the oil field like dad. I’m going to graduate from the best engineering school in the country. I just hope I can figure the money thing out. And that’s the thing: she doesn’t even care to ask what I want to do in life. All she does is act like her life is terrible, as if my life doesn’t matter. It’s never about me, unless she’s saying I can’t do something. ----Cindee was determined to better understand this concept of wanting, or not wanting, to be free. Dustin definitely wants to be free, which is probably why he won’t obey me. He thinks I’m trying to enslave him. But I’m not. I’m trying to teach him that…wait a minute…rules...make...him...free? This is too confusing. Okay. I can figure this out. The rules are to help him learn not to make stupid decisions, decisions that would cause him problems. If he did anything he wanted, he would make stupid decisions and then would…would…what? He would…oh, yeah, he would end up enslaved by the decision. What’s an example? Umm, , like if he took drugs. I wonder if someone selling drugs at school has approached him. I don’t think he has taken drugs. I haven’t seen any signs. Back to the point. Stupid decision to take drugs equals addicted to drugs. Addicted to drugs is enslaved to drugs. So does that mean that if someone decides to take drugs they want to be enslaved? I don’t think so. They want the drugs but they don’t want to be

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enslaved. But then again, if they knew drugs would enslave them would they still decide to take them? You wouldn’t think so, but most kids have it pounded into their heads that drugs are addicting and they end up taking them anyway. Hmmm... Even though she seemed to be formulating more questions than she was answering, Cindee felt she was opening her eyes in ways she never had before. ----Brock hadn’t felt these same nerves since he had shown up for his first day at work sixteen years ago. Must be the uncertainty of what’s waiting on the other side of those doors. One foot in front of the other and just deal with whatever it is. Brock opened the front door and headed for the break room. He didn’t make it to the break room. Javier was standing in the hallway and asked him to walk with him to his office. When they arrived, Javier closed the office door and, as he walked around his desk to sit down, he said, “You’re probably just as confused as I am.” Brock countered, “I figured you would know what’s going on.” “I don’t, really, and even though I’m probably not supposed to, I’ll share with you everything I do know.” Javier always was cool, even after he got promoted. “Vanessa is the name of the lady from corporate. I think she tells Yuri, then Yuri tells me, and then I know what I’m supposed to do, but I don’t know why.” “That’s it?”

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“I wish. Yuri told me this morning what else I’m supposed to do.” Brock froze. Not me too? He didn’t want to be left hanging in midair for even a second and so he quickly responded, “Just spit it out.” “Oh, no, you’re not canned; if that’s what you were thinking. It’s bad, but not that bad. You’re being moved to a different crew.” Strangely enough, the news really wasn’t even bad. He had intellectually acknowledged the reality that Kenny and Gavin were gone, which meant the party was over. I might as well move on to new faces and make a clean break. At least my job is still intact. For now. I wonder what’s going on? “What about Carlos and Travis?” “I think Carlos is also being transferred to a different crew, and nothing will change for Travis.” He paused and then added, “Except for everything around him.” ----Her quiet peaceful time was just about over, and she knew this would be her last lens for a while…

Lens 4 – Mostly Relative …Cindee closed the book and stood up from the rocker; this lens was going to be on her mind as she proceeded with her day. The current problem to solve was where to hide the book. After

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considering several different possibilities, she finally settled on the bathroom. Brock had his drawers in the large bathroom vanity and she had hers. She kept hand towels in her bottom drawer, and the book would fit perfectly underneath them. Brock never uses hand towels. He uses a shower towel for everything. Yuck. I hope he doesn’t use mine. He probably doesn’t even know what’s in this bottom drawer, and if he does open it, he’ll shut it when he sees the hand towels. And with it hidden in the bathroom, I can shut and lock the door and read even if he’s home. This is the one place in the house where I can actually escape. Cindee carefully hid the book, closed the drawer, and headed to the kitchen. Dustin is going to have a good breakfast today. As she was scrambling eggs, cooking bacon, cutting up grapefruit and burning toast all at the same time, this idea of relativity simmered in her mind. Most of what we know is relative. Hmm. Most of what we know is relative. Is this true? If almost everything is relative, then why do most of us think and act like everything is absolute? Is it just human nature to be absolute? We think and act like we know everything but in reality we probably don’t know very much. I do know what absolute realities I create each day, and I know what Brinlee does. On the other hand, I really don’t know what Dustin or Brock do. Of course, except for infidelity, I don’t care what Brock does. The more he’s away, the less he can hurt me. But Dustin. I should know what is going on in Dustin’s mind and what realities he creates. If I don’t, I can’t really help him with his life. The problem is how could I ever find out what goes on in his mind? He won’t talk to me. He does everything he can to shut me out of his life.

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The second attempt at making toast was much better than the first. Satisfied with the breakfast spread she had set on the table for Dustin, she went to his room and knocked on his door. He always locked his door at night. She wasn’t sure exactly why, and wondered if he was hiding realities she wouldn’t want to know about. I really need to figure out how to understand what’s going on inside of his head. The first knock was answered by silence. The second knock she included, “Dustin, breakfast.” She heard a little sound on the other side of the door but couldn’t tell if it was a grunt, a groan, or her imagination. Before knocking a third time, she checked the door handle, just in case the impossible had happened and he had forgotten to lock it the night before. It was unlocked. She hesitated, and then resolved, she slowly turned the knob, cracked the door open and peered into the room. Dustin was sitting on the edge of his bed deciding if he really wanted to stand up or not. When he heard the door open he was startled and blurted out, “Shut the door!” Cindee ignored the command, and, leaving the door open before she headed back to the kitchen, politely informed him, “I made you a nice breakfast.” Dustin was confused. The door can be unlocked from the outside with a little screwdriver, but she’s never done that before. Why would she do it now, and what’s this bit about a nice breakfast? How dare she invade my privacy!?! Dustin stood up, walked over to the door, and gave it a hard push. It was only open about a foot, and so the collision between the door and the frame produced a noise that would cause an unsuspecting bystander to take notice but not to physically react. Cindee heard it in the kitchen. That didn’t go very well, but it never does when I have to wake him up. I wish I knew how to do it without any

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unpleasantries. Brace yourself, Cindee. He’ll be on the offensive when he finally shows up to eat his breakfast. Eight minutes later, while Cindee was cleaning last night’s dirty dishes, Dustin sauntered into the kitchen and sat down at the table. What the ^%#$*&@? She really did do more than cold cereal and a glass of apple juice. Is she setting me up? She better never unlock my door again. “Don’t ever unlock my door again. It’s my right to lock it, and you have no right to unlock it without my permission.” The words were like a familiar electric shock Cindee had felt far too many times. Yesterday she would have reacted by sarcastically hurling a counterattack such as, “Get your facts straight. I didn’t unlock your door.” But milliseconds before opening her mouth to retaliate, a new thought stopped her. Most truth is relative. His perspective is his. Can I respect it even if I know he’s wrong? Respect his opinion no matter what I think of it. I want to understand what is going on inside his head. Don’t try to insert my thoughts. Only he can accurately tell me what is going on in there. There’s got to be a way I can help him open up and be honest with me. She delivered the words as if she had walked up behind him, carefully turned his chair around, softly put her hands on his cheeks and bent over so that her eyes were gently looking into his, “Why do you think I unlocked your door?” The question caught him off guard. He didn’t know what to say, or even what to think. He tried. She answered me with a question? And she wasn’t even sarcastic? I don’t even understand the question. Why do I think that she unlocked the door? She unlocked the door. I don’t know why she did. She’d have to tell me why she did. I’m not going to guess what her reason was. His tone

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was a little less confident than his first directive, “You tell me why you unlocked it.” Cindee had observed the unusual. Typically, a response would come immediately if it came at all, but Dustin had paused for almost a minute before answering her question, and during that pause he had taken two bites of bacon, one bite of toast and a sip of the freshly squeezed orange juice. Maybe I am getting somewhere, even though I have no clue where I’m going. Don’t try to prove I didn’t unlock it. Just try to understand where he’s coming from. ”Dustin, I want to respect your privacy. If your door is unlocked and I knock first, do you still not want me to open your door?” Dustin’s head was spinning. Respect my privacy? Yeah right. What’s this bit about using my name when she’s not yelling at me? Is she admitting that she did unlock my door or is she saying that it wasn’t locked? And she’s asking another question pretending that she cares? What is going on? Is it possible that she really does care what I think? Why would she all of a sudden start caring? His confidence was like a deflated, shriveled balloon on the kitchen chair, and this unique reality was detectable in his voice, an uncertain and unpredictable voice that was beginning to transition from the high pitch of a child to the deeper tone of a male adult. “You didn’t unlock my door?” Even though she was behind him and he was staring at his grapefruit, the way she delivered the words allowed his imagination to see the little smile that actually was on her face when she replied, “I don’t remember unlocking the door, but then again I am getting old and senile.” He didn’t smile even though a thought in his head suggested that he should. Without saying anything else, he finished his breakfast, grabbed his backpack, and headed out the

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front door, hoping that by the time he got home after school he would have been able to sort through this confusion. Cindee, on the other hand, was less confused. She could tangibly feel that progress had been made down the road that led to where she wanted to end up. She didn’t know what the rest of the road looked like, but that unknown didn’t seem to matter; she would find out soon enough. Besides, she could hear Brinlee playing happily in her crib, which meant it was time to change a very heavy diaper. Brinlee always wakes up happy in the morning. I just wish it could last throughout the day.

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Chapter 7

It was one thirty-three, Thursday afternoon. Cindee had read Brinlee her favorite picture story, and then had rocked her until she fell asleep on her lap. Fortunately, she transferred to her crib without waking up. Minutes later, Cindee was lying on her bed letting her thoughts unwind so that she could catch a quick nap. Dustin’s words were playing hide and seek in her mind: “It’s my right to lock it, and you have no right to unlock it without my permission.” His right? It’s not his room, or his door, or his lock! These are loaned to him. He didn’t work to earn these. Why does he think it’s his right to do whatever he wants with them? As if a bomb had exploded, she heard the front door open and crippling fear immediately seized her. A week ago, she had heard of a couple of house break-ins on the other side of town, but they had all happened at night when the residents had been on vacation. The police hadn’t discovered any viable leads to the perpetrator. Why didn’t I lock the door after Dustin left? Her ears listened intently for any additional sounds. She didn’t hear the front door close. Do I hear footsteps? I should have locked the door. I never lock the door during the day. Brinlee’s asleep. I have no way to protect myself against the intruder. I wish Brock didn’t have his guns locked up. Why doesn’t he trust me with the combination? It wouldn’t matter anyway. I wouldn’t know how to use one. What should I do? What can I do? All of the bedrooms were upstairs. Her racing mind paused just long enough to recognize that she might be able to slip into

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Brinlee’s room undetected, if the intruder wasn’t in the entry or coming up the stairs. She silently slipped out of her room and down the hallway. Brinlee’s door was nine feet away on the other side of the top of the stairs. Cindee trepidly peeked around the corner to get a single eye view of the stairs, the entry, and the front door. The front door was open about two feet and she didn’t see anyone. She scurried past the stairs and disappeared behind Brinlee’s door, as quickly and quietly as she could. She locked the door behind her. What now? What can I barricade the door with? Besides some small toys, the only furniture in the room was the crib and the rocking chair she had used to help Brinlee fall asleep moments before. She wished she had purchased that large dresser but had opted instead for one of those fancy closet organizers. Instinct told her she didn’t want Brinlee near the door and she didn’t want to remove Brinlee from the crib in case she woke up and started crying. The rocking chair’s not much but it's all there is. She moved it in front of the door. If the door opened, the crib wouldn’t be immediately visible, so she gathered all of the toys in a pile and knelt down next to them in front of the crib. If the intruder breaks in the room, I’ll throw all of the hardest toys at him as fast as I can, and then use my fingernails and feet to try to hurt him. Her ears strained to pick up any sounds that would lead to her impending reality. All she could hear was Brinlee quietly breathing through her stuffy nose. All she could feel was her heart pounding against every rib in her chest, even though it wasn’t. All she could see was the motionless door. Seconds passed like minutes. Minutes passed like hours. After seven minutes she finally moved her eyes from the door to the pile of toys beside her. Which toy is the best one to throw first? The

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biggest, the hardest, and the heaviest. She chose a clear, hard plastic ball about six inches in diameter. On the inside of the ball it was divided into eight sections. In each section were loose objects of varying colors and shapes. She didn’t dare touch the ball until she needed to use it, because all of the loose objects were intended to make noise. Her eyes quickly moved back to the door when she heard the sound that sent needles up and down her spine: someone on the other side of the door was testing the door handle. She held her breath. No more sound. Still no sound. She started breathing again, but as much as she wished she could relax, she couldn’t. Once again time had become suspended, and now it wasn’t just scary silent, it was freakishly silent. Why would he leave the door alone? I want him to leave it alone. But will he? He must know that someone is in the room because the door is locked. It must be a he. Women don’t burglarize homes or seek to prey physically on innocent strangers. And why did he leave the front door open? A passerby would see it and be alarmed. Or maybe that’s his twisted logic? A slightly open door means the owner is home and they went back inside to get something before coming back out? Maybe he only left the door open for a few minutes and then shut it so quietly I couldn’t hear it while trapped in Brinlee’s room? Maybe he’ll just steal whatever he’s after and forget about the locked door. Please forget about the locked door.

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