KPO by Matthew G. Cohen (best book clubs .TXT) 📕

to it. She paused before finally saying, “ Cynthia is a very sweet girl, I hope she’s got faith in you and your future together. Willfully but respectfully, he responded, “ I think my dedication to computers can be my driving force. There is lots of money to be made in this field Mom. I just hope Cynthia will trust my vision and me. Mom now sensed her son’s passion, and in doing this she asked in an endearing tone, “Baby, do you love her?” Without even the slightest hesitation, Will retorted, “Mom, I love her and together we are unstoppable…..”
Falling, falling.. a pit, a bottomless hole. Must… stop… myself from falling… Will awoke from his slumber. Crinkly creases from the vinyl couch were embedded in his arms and cheek. Drool dripped from his lower lip onto his shirt collar. The bad breath stench kicking in his mouth, he thought to himself, “I must’ve dosed off…I guess I haven’t been sleeping too well lately he concluded, remembering he was on the second floor of KPO and still without a purpose.
“Hello?” he called only to hear his voice echo among the empty rooms.
“Is anybody here?” No noise, not a sound. Silence never sounded so empty. Walking about the floor free of people, best known as “F”, Will entered the kitchenette. It was your regular office-styled kitchen, complete with cabinets, a fridge, and microwave with inexpensive plates and glassware. He looked at his watch and noticed it was roughly the time he’d be having lunch. That too was usually consumed at his desk at work. Opening the fridge, he noticed that it was nearly empty, except for a few condiments and a jar of pickles. Naturally, he tried the freezer as well. It was completely barren, except for a single frozen dinner, the TV-dinners that you microwave. “Isn’t that a bit too coincidental he thought”…
It wasn’t just any dinner, but his favorite kind: Chicken Piccata. Freezer burn had only gotten hold of the outsides of the package. “Funny he thought, how can an item be burned by a freezer? Chuckling at the thought of how this occurrence belongs downstairs, he strode across the room with hopes of salvaging a meal from this frozen concoction.
After inspecting the microwave’s cleanliness, he took matters into his own hands and loaded it with his imitation favorite, and programmed the buttons before pressing cook. Will paced around while his meal cooked. Glancing about the empty kitchenette, he assumed that this was where “F” and their employees had lunch, when they were working that is. Pinned to the bulleting board in the room were memos, reminders, and advertisements. Just beneath the bulletin board, he discovered an Italian takeout menu. Hunger now growled in his stomach as he began to smell the lean cuisine cooking and thought how he could go for a nice authentic Italian dish. Pictured on the menu was the very dish he was cooking and beginning to smell. Gone were his thoughts of coincidence. Here and now were ironic thoughts that reeked more like this was being done on purpose. Smelling the smell of sweet white wine and lemon mixed together as the microwave prepared his feast, he began to remember…
Cynthia could make a mean Chicken Piccatta… slightly breaded breasts of chicken pounded thin, now tenderized his taste buds. Nothing triggers one’s memory quite like the power of scent and a person’s sense of smell. Although this was clearly not a home-cooked meal, his memory surged through him with hurricane like intensity. He could taste it now… Closing his eyes, he remembered…..
“Turnwell Software Group, how can I help you?” a friendly voice asked over a telephone, only to quickly reply, “Mr. Turnwell is in a meeting at the moment, can I take a message, or direct you to his voicemail?
“One moment please.”
It was a one-voice conversation. At least to Mr. Turnwell’s ears for he was just a few offices away, and heard Sarah, his secretary’s courteous nature. There was no meeting. There were no other employees at TSG now save for Sarah and Will. She knew he was hard at work developing a new browser program to replace the obsolete and outdated programs. Glancing at his watch, Will suddenly realized he had worked well into the seven o’clock hour, and selfishly overlooked the fact that Sarah must be ready to retire for the evening. Mr. Turnwell rose from his desk and paced around the office a bit. He was onto something big, real groundbreaking work. Every hour or so, he’d stretch his legs like this only to return to his computer to put in another lengthy session. The ringing of the telephone began once again. Ignoring it, Mr. Turnwell was glad that Sarah was there to field this one too. After the third ring, the sound subsided and thirty seconds later Sarah emerged in the doorway looking a little anxious.
“What is it Sarah?” the workaholic asked
“Mr. Turnwell, it’s your wife on line two. I told her you were very busy, but she seemed really upset.”
“Thanks Sarah, good job today. Go ahead and head home. I’ll see you first thing tomorrow morning.
“Hi baby!” The workaholic asked speaking into the receiver.
“I’m really upset and disappointed.” Cynthia returned. You promised you’d be home earlier tonight so we could celebrate…” Her voice deadpanned into the phone, as her words, the few she had spoken had gone home.
A moment’s silence followed. Mr. Turnwell’s stomach sank faster than the titanic. Much faster. How could he have forgotten? Their anniversary! Four years earlier they’d married, a blissful ceremony on the beach. Sweaty palms now gripped the telephone. Mr. Turnwell went to speak but nothing seemed to come out. How could he be so forgetful! What could he really say? His wife was disappointed. Disappointment sometimes is worse than anger. This was one of those times. In a scratchy voice, Will tried to salvage this dreadful lapse of memory.
“Honey, I… I’m sorry. Please forgive me.” he mustered.
But inside, he knew that there was no real forgiveness for such an outstanding oversight. Cynthia had gone to serious trouble to make them a special evening together and he knew he was about to hear all about it. At home his wife was waiting, waiting patiently for her husband’s company. Not his computer company that seemed to dominate her husband’s priorities, but for his interpersonal company. Company that she found to be most special. But finally Cynthia responded, the disappointment evident in her tone, “Will, I made your favorite…Chicken Picatta and now it’s nearly cold on the table. I even let Ellie skip her nap today so we could enjoy the evening together, just the two of us.” She pleaded sounding as if on the brink of tears.
“Honey, I’ve been working on this new program, and the time just got away from me…I’m on such a roll here right now…I promise I’ll be home by nine o’clock. Your cooking won’t go to waste, I’ll eat it for lunch tomorrow.” Will selfishly suggested before ending the phone call.
Nine o’clock? What type of person eats dinner at nine o’clock? Cynthia thought to herself as she looked at the candles burning brightly within the romantic setting she’d created. The light of each candle seemed to radiate and cast loneliness upon the workaholic’s wife. She rubbed her belly as it was now beginning to kick. “I guess I’ll have dinner for two after all…” she bleakly thought cutting into her lukewarm chicken breast.
“Ding!” the microwave announced. Not the normal ding announcing the food has been cooked, but a reminder ding that the meal in a box, his favorite imitation meal was ready, and had been ready. Awakening from his reverie in “F’s” kitchen, the wafting smell of lemon and wine had kick started his hunger. His diet had undoubtedly been scant lately and sustenance was needed at a time like this. To eat. To eat, and perhaps cope with his shortcomings. Peeling the plastic wrap off of his TV dinner, he prepared to eat. To dine. Dine alone, without candles… Chewing contemptuously, he felt remorseful, sullen, and selfish all at the same time. What if he had remembered? What if he returned home on that forgetful evening? He had never realized how that evening must have hurt Cynthia, nor the preparations she must have made. He realized now.

Only feeling slightly less hungry, Will exited the vacant kitchen. “Those TV dinners never really do the trick” he thought to himself. Feeling fortunate to have eaten something, he continued to explore this vacant floor. It was clear that this had once been an office branch for some company. Although it must have been quite some time ago as all of its contents seemed extremely outdated, once trendy now obsolete. Will entered and exited offices only to find them all empty except for a few that contained basic furniture.
He discovered that “F” also had a boardroom. A long table stood in the room’s center, but was kept company by a dozen chairs, six to a side. Will sat at the head for a moment and pretended to give orders to this office branch that was in desperate need of a makeover.
“Alright people, I need all of these computers updated! I want this wood paneling replaced with drywall at once! And for God’s sake people let’s purchase some new furniture! This place is stuck in the 80’s!” He fictionally boomed to the empty room smiling at his own playful nature. Bored with that room, Will snooped his way into a vacant office. A busy looking mess was piled on a wooden desk. Atop the desk was a prehistoric looking computer monitor with keyboard in front. Will rolled the chair out and marveled at the relic from the dawn of technology. Touching the mouse, the computer seemed to wake up. Internalizing his thoughts for a moment, he thought…mouse? Small monitor? These devices took him back, way back it seemed.
Both of these output devices seemed to resonate in his short-term memory. Suddenly, déjà vu struck him, or what do you call it, clairvoyance? Memory came rushing over him like a wild stampede….
His dream now vivid in his mind, he suddenly longed to spend time with Luke and Michelle, to have dinner with them again. His lifelong attraction to his separated wife now burned powerfully in his being. His prevalence he had placed all his life upon money and his career was a burning coal to the firestorm that welled inside him for his family, now that he was apart from them. Staring at the computer screen, a generic screensaver came to life awakening from its dormant doze. He stared at the colorful screen and began to remember. It was a photo of a serene landscape, a beautiful tropical beach. Dazed by thoughts and feelings, he remembered…..
“Honey! Isn’t it wonderful here? Cynthia asked, the wind whispering through her hair.
Enveloped by palm trees, aqua blue waters, and surrounded by his loved