Authors: George Donnelly
Ian yawned.
Candy turned and put a hand on Larry’s bicep. “I don’t know what is going on with him.”
“It’s okay, don’t you worry your pretty little self,” he said and touched her face. “We’ll sit down on the couch and chat until he—”
Ian took a deep breath. His hands trembled. He felt like he was floating just above the surface of the bed. This was a big decision. There would be no turning back from it. He had to burn this bridge down to the ground. He had to nuke it, otherwise the temptation would return. They would wear him down.
Candy and Larry stood side by side at the entrance to the master bedroom, their expectant eyes on Ian.
“I’m not taking the job, Larry. I wouldn’t work with you again, not for anything. You’re a liar, a slacker and an all-around bastard.”
“He doesn’t mean it,” Candy said to Larry.
“Oh, but I do. Furthermore, Larry, you are not welcome in my home anymore.”
Candy’s mouth hung open. She was a deer in the headlights.
“I will not tolerate you putting your fat fucking hands on my wife or my daughter anymore.”
“How dare you!” Larry said in a low tone of voice. “After everything I have done for you…” He huffed and swung his head around like a hyperventilating owl.
“You may now get out. As for you,” he said to Candy, “and the kids, all of those spending cuts and other changes we discussed go into effect immediately. Hand over your credit cards and account logins.”
“No!” Candy screamed. “You can’t do that!”
Larry studied Ian with a sense of calm wonder, the edges of a smile pulling at his cheeks. He put his hand on Candy’s shoulder and massaged it. “Relax, girl. I know this guy. He pulls stuff like this. I remember back in college when he was hurting and I found the El job for him. Remember that, baby?”
Candy’s face slackened with exhaustion. “I just can’t take this anymore. It’s not fair.”
Ian closed his eyes. There was nothing to be gained from further interaction.
“And he took it. He eventually took it, because he’s a smart man who provides for you and the kids. Isn’t that right?” Larry asked.
She nodded and caught her breath. “He better do the right thing,” she said in Ian’s direction. “And he better do it right now.”
“Or what?” Ian opened his eyes, a smile of amusement breaking onto his face.
“Or you’re out of here. I don’t keep useless, lazy dogs around for my own entertainment.”
Ian chuckled.
Michael appeared behind his mother. “He wants to punish us, Mom. He’s disappointed with Stacy and me because we’re not scientists,” he said with air quotes, “like him. We’re lazy good-for-nothings, isn’t that right, Dad?” Michael stomped away and slammed the front door behind him.
“Listen, guys,” said Larry, “this isn’t necessary. Ian is too old to start a new career. He hasn’t even looked at a robot in twenty years.” He laughed. “Come on, this guy is washed up.”
Ian turned his head and glared at Larry.
Larry held his hands out in front of him. “It’s true, buddy. What can I say? You’re old. You can’t get another job, not unless you want to fall overboard in the Bering Sea hunting for the last few crab. But you have a big family here to take care of. They love you. You can’t do anything else.”
Jack came and sat on the bed next to Ian, a look of doubt and pity on his face.
“Have you been listening to this?” Ian asked the boy.
Jack nodded. He reached for his father’s hand.
“Let’s face it, buddy, this is the end for you. Your last hope is to keep working with me. And,” Larry added before taking a look at his watch, “you have just six hours to stop tempting fate.”
Ian looked at Jack and then Candy.
They care about me. Larry didn’t have to get me that job. He didn’t have to take me along. Maybe this is the right call. I can keep working on her in my spare time.
Ian rolled over and closed his eyes. He had to give in and take the job, that was certain. But he silently begged for just a little more time as a free man.
I’ll tell them in the afternoon, after a quick nap.
What if? The thought raged in Ian’s mind. What if he failed? What if he succeeded? What would success even look like? He couldn’t imagine it. What if they had to move apartments? Could they get another one like it? What if all three kids had to share one room? Stacy wouldn’t like it. For that matter, neither would Michael, even though he was hardly ever there. Even Jack prized his alone time.
Ian opened his eyes and looked up. A pale, contorted rectangle of light flickered on the ceiling. He glimpsed the moon outside. What if they ended up in the street? What if Candy left him and took all the kids? What if he was all alone?
It’s not worth it. The risks are too high.
He rolled over. Candy was not there. All-night virtual reality games again? He frowned and shook his head. There was a dead end. Depression, despair, isolation, everything fake. What did they see in it?
Enough.
A surge of exasperated energy hit him. Ian swung his legs out of bed, tightening his abdominals and landing on his feet like a ninja ready for a surprise fight.
A pang of doubt hit him. He stood at the windowsill and looked out at the abandoned alley below.
You’re not an inventor. You’re a train engineer. You supervise machines. You don’t make them. You don’t even fix them.
He collapsed, cross-legged to the floor, facing his nightstand.
Desperate for some distraction, he opened the bottom drawer and pulled out the first thing he touched.
It was his high school yearbook. He flipped it open with a mix of apprehension and nostalgia. He braced himself against any unhappy reminder.
There it was on page one: a note from Francesca. “You’re a great inventor. I’ve learned so much from you. I know I’ll be using your inventions someday, and thinking of you, no matter where I am.”
Wow.
It all flooded back to him. He stood up, the yearbook under his arm. He walked into the living room, sat down at his workstation and noted the time: 3 AM.
Push through it.
He yawned.
***
Jack nestled against his chest and Ian adjusted his right arm to support the boy’s head.
With the left, he tapped away at the dusty old keyboard in the living room. On the screen, he looked at his work so far.
It’s shit, all shit. Unoriginal, won’t work. An amateur’s plaything. A delusion.
Ian felt his insides collapsing on each other in a self-defeating race to the bottom.
The boy sighed deeply and exhaled in a stutter. He was at peace, happy in the arms of his father.
I have to do this. If not for me then at least for Jack.
***
“We voted and you’re out,” Candy whispered.
Ian stood up from the living room workstation and turned around. He stretched, then yawned.
In front of him stood Candy, Michael and Stacy. Stacy looked at the floor, Michael obsessively scratched his scalp and Candy glared at him with her arms crossed.
Ian brought his wrist up in front of his face: 5 PM.
Is it that late?
He looked up at them. “Did you say something?”
Michael spoke up. “We voted, the three of us, and we decided that you have to leave. You’re not contributing to the household and you’re trying to control us.”
A burst of laugher escaped Ian.
The three stared at him steadily.
Ian looked at them dubiously. “This is my house. My work paid for this. It paid for every gram of food that went in your mouths.” He pointed at Stacy and Michael.
Michael turned away. Stacy tapped her foot against the floor and continued to look down.
“This is a democratic household, Dad,” said Michael. “We’re occupying it, therefore we have a voice. And we’re using it.” He shrugged. “I know your capitalist pig asshole point—”
“Michael, shut up,” said Candy. “He is still your father.”
Michael threw up his hands. He opened his mouth to speak but choked off the sound.
“Why don’t you three go somewhere else, if I bother you that much?” Ian asked. “Go live on a farm out near Amish country, like I did when I was your age.”
“Where are we going to go, Daddy?” Stacy asked. Her voice reached a high pitch, cracked and almost didn’t return. “Who do we know? What do we have? We have no family, no cousins, no money and no Amish farm.” She sobbed.
Michael put his arm around her and she pushed him away. “Fuck off,” she whispered.
“Who are you going to throw out next? Jack? Is that the kind of family this is?” Ian asked.
“It’s a democratic household!” Michael yelled. “Respect our will!”
“If it’s so democratic, how come I didn’t get a vote?”
“You can either leave,” Candy said in a low voice, “or we can go live with Larry.”
Rage boiled up within Ian. His nerves tingled and his head twitched. “How dare you, after all I have done for you.”
Candy turned away.
Stacy ran to him, pressed her head briefly against his chest and then shuffled to her room.
“What’s important is that he’s leaving. I’ll take charge—” Michael started.
Candy slapped him. “I’m in charge of this home and this ends now.”
Michael’s face showed the inner struggle between hate and hurt. He put his index finger in her face. “Violence is not helpful. I’m on your side.” He went to the window and looked out, his back turned to his parents.
“Get some things and get out,” Candy whispered.
“Just because of the job?” Ian asked her.
“It’s complicated.”
Ian shook his head. “Jack comes with me.”
“He needs his mother.” She pushed him back into the wall, knocking the computer screen off the desk. “Get out! Get out!” she screamed.
***
The elevator dinged and Ian stepped out into the chilly bare cement hallway. He turned right and walked down the narrow path. He carried a change of clothes and the workstation in a backpack. In a box, he had a mug, some instant ramen bowls, near-coffee and an electric pot.
He walked through the boiler room door and immediately stepped on someone.
“Close that door!” a familiar voice yelled.
“That you, Hector?” Ian asked the dark room.
“Who that?” Hector asked.
“Ian. From 2304.”
“You, too?”
Ian was silent.
Why are there people in the boiler room?
“We’re full up, man. Got sick people and everything,” Hector said.
Ian found the light switch, flicked it and a dozen men groaned at once.
“Turn that light off!” said one.
“Trying to sleep here,” said another.
Ian glimpsed another one snoring. There wasn’t much space around the central boiler unit - a great black cauldron - but it was filled from wall to wall with sleeping men in their underwear. He knew these men. He’d seen them around. They were his neighbors.
“You can not—” Hector appeared next to him, flipped off the light and stepped outside, pushing Ian along ahead of him.
Ian looked at him, disbelieving.
“Find somewhere else,” Hector said. “No more room here.” He turned to re-enter.
Ian grabbed his shoulder. “Did they lose their apartments?”
“You didn’t see us here.” Hector closed the door gently behind him.
Ian stood in the hallway puzzling it out. It made no sense. A dozen men wall-to-wall in that hot box. They couldn’t all have been thrown out by their wives, too. Or could they?
Ian walked to the other side of the basement, through narrow and poorly-lit cement corridors to the storage boxes. He found number 2304. As a four-bedroom apartment, their storage box was considerably larger than the others, many of which weren’t more than a locker.
He fumbled for the key in his pocket and ran through his options. After the boiler room and the storage box, it was… the street.
I can make it work, but it won’t be fun.
He caught himself.
The street? How did I fall so fast? All I did was save a baby. What did I do?
A thread of doubt paralyzed him. He sat down on the dusty floor next to the storage box door. He sat there awhile, suffering under the weight of the self-doubt, debating between staying the course and begging Larry and Candy to take him back.
Ian’s mind wandered. Jack was grown up now, ready for college. Michael and Candy were giving him advice. No point in college, they said. Only do what’s good enough. Stick to the beaten path. Don’t take risks. Set aside your dreams.
Ian stood up, inserted the key into the storage box door and opened it.
Metal boxes fell out. One hit him on the head and knocked him back. Another pair fell on his foot.
Ian reeled, a thread of blood trickling into his eye. He hopped on one foot as the sheer physical pain overwhelmed him. “Goddamnit!” he yelled. He limped back to the storage box and looked in. It was full from floor to ceiling with metal boxes, cement bags and blood-red bricks.
Where the hell did all this come from? And how am I going to get it out!
***
Ian leaned back and his chair squeaked. He was satisfied but hesitant to congratulate himself quite yet. He was making progress.
It took him three days, a scraped shin and three jammed fingers but he cleared the storage box. Inside now there was a hammock with a sleeping bag, a wobbly glass-topped desk, his fully-unrolled screen on its stand, an electric kettle and a box with his near-coffee and ramen.
But that was the easy part. The hard part was the robot. It wasn’t coming together. His old prototypes were lined up behind his screen. They taunted him. All you can make is antiquated toys, they said. You’re a washed up woodcarver making rough-hewn wooden ducks in your basement. That’s all. You eat ramen, drink near-coffee and every shit burns.
But he wasn’t giving up. It was momentum that kept him going, and the desperation of not knowing what else to try.
He started to make himself another cup of instant near-coffee but instead headed outside. It was only two steps from his chair to the door. He locked and closed it behind him, first patting his pocket to be sure he still had the key.
I’ll read Jack a story and then straight back to work.
A chill wind blew in the sub-level. He tightened the scarf around his neck and pulled his winter hat lower, over his ears. He sneezed, then sneezed again.