Revolt of the Rats by Reed Blitzerman (feel good novels .txt) 📕

HELP ARRIVED UNEXPECTEDLY: chirpy and caffeinated. “This place is a goldmine.” Margaret’s was beatific,  as if actual gold nuggets were scattered beneath the dust on the racks.

“More like a crypt,” Kahle preferred some time in bed studying the insides of his eyelids. “What are you doing out here on a Saturday?”

Margaret made blue cursive notes in the margins of Oroszco’s cheat sheet, comparing it to the Department 765 shelves. “I told my manager I needed to finish an inventory report, which is not a total lie. Thought I’d help you out before Queeg shows up again." She stepped closer, well inside his personal space. “Glad to see you too. Keep it up and I’ll put you over my knee.”

A warm, not unpleasant feeling radiated from his chest to the rest of his body.

Boomer rolled up on his bicycle while they were talking. A Texas A&M baseball cap covered most of his skull. “I called her.” A pair of work gloves, stained near to black, poked out of the basket between the handlebars.

Margaret took a step back and headed for the shelves while she read from her clipboard. A blush of crimson began at her collar and crawled up her neck. “Parts for your fifteen missing orders might be in here,” she said. “Let me show you something.” She slid between the racks to the last aisle, covering her shoulders in chalky lines of dust then pointed. “There's the control boxes we need.”

Black Bakelite cubes protruded from a nest of dust bunnies. Steel terminals screwed to the outsides pointed dejectedly into the air. The reject tag read in copperplate print:

Company: Kresky Systems.

Manufacture Date: 1-14-1990

Reject: 3-24-1996

Issue: broken solder joint

Inspector: Phan

Kahle said, “Good night! These things are already nine years old!” Why hadn’t Oroszco already thrown them away?

Boomer said, “If the design hasn't changed we could still use them.”

Margaret plucked one of the boxes and held it up to the light. “What about repairs?” She asked. In her oversized hand, it looked like a toy, left on the playground by an absent-minded child.

Boomer said, “Let’s call the manufacturer.” He climbed back on his bicycle, the issue decided.

“I can get the number,” Margaret said.

“Since we’re not supposed to be here, let’s be a little stealthy. I’m not interested in losing my job.” Boomer sketched on his spiral notebook then tore off two pages. “I know a place. Each of you take a different route. We can call him from there.”

Kahle locked the cage and followed the map to a steel safety ladder that disappeared into the rafters. He climbed up to a catwalk and followed it to a second ladder, the heat increasing as he approached the top. It opened into a wide room with desks, couches, several weight benches, and an aged rotary dial phone.

“Maintenance group crash pad,” Boomer responded to their amused glances. “The guys found this room a few years ago and neglected to tell management. They come up here on their lunch break to lift weights, play cards—“ He plugged the phone into a speaker and microphone system. “—or make phone calls.” Margaret passed him the number and Boomer dialed, listening to the rotor click through its stations.

They jumped when the ancient ringer brayed over the speakers and Boomer adjusted the volume down.

A flat voice picked up on the twenty-third ring. “Kresky.”

“Boomer Lorenz at Motomax, how are you?”

“Good.” Kresky asked, “Tell me who you are again?” There was a scrabbling noise in the background like the shuffling of paper.

Boomer leaned forward in his chair, his elbows on the tabletop. “Boomer Lorenz at Motomax.”

Kresky asked, “What's got you calling?” The delivery was brusque, making Kahle think he had bitten off the end as if he were going to add “on a Saturday” at the last minute.

“We've got your control boxes here on reject,” Boomer said. A small smile was on his face, as if Kresky’s question had been the punch line to a good joke.

“Haven't had issues in years.” Kresky said.

“I suppose these are from then.”

There was a decrease in sound at the other end, as if Kresky had just closed his office door. “Your engineering manager called a few years ago. I called back several times without luck. Even sent a letter. Then Motomax cut my contract.” The silence that followed seemed forced, as if he had more to say.

In what sounded like a speech she’d given many times, Margaret said, “I don't know about that, but if you can help us maybe we can help you.”

There was a soft wheeze like a large man sitting in a leather chair. Kahle visualized his burning eyes, reminded on a Saturday about a cancelled contract and the money still owed him.

Margaret said, “Maybe you can help us with an engineering question.”

Kresky spoke slowly. “I should be able to. I designed this product myself. You got something saying why it’s not working? A tag or something.”

“We have a red tag,”  Kahle said.

“Read it to me.”

They did.

“Ok. A broken solder joint you say?” Kresky sighed in his throat, like a swimmer taking a quick breath of air. “A solder joint is like a blood vessel. Only instead of carrying blood, it carries electricity. But we can fix it.”

The low hum of a computer powering up was followed by the flap of Kresky turning pages. “Here's what you need to do. You’re going to need to write this down....” After fifteen minutes they got off the phone and darted to the local pizza place in Kahle's hatchback and returned when work ended at two thirty. They transferred the control boxes to a pizza tray before the restaurant owner fed them into the oven.

Boomer said, “Consistent heat over an exact period of time. I would never have thought of using a pizza oven to reflow solder.”

“Furnaces in the plant were too hot,” Kahle said. He imagined the solder inside the boxes melting and reforming, brought back to life by a little bit of heat.

“And monitored,” Margaret said.

Kahle said, “We won’t know this worked until we test them.”

The control boxes rolled out of the oven, their cycle complete. The owner accepted the hundred dollar bill but didn't charge for the breadsticks. He waved goodbye as they pulled away.

The secon shift cars occupied the Motomax parking lot as Boomer took a key from his wallet and unlocked the door to Bodge's private entrance. “Never expected I'd be breaking into this place.”

“Tell me again why we’re going this way?” Kahle asked.

“No badge swipe record,” Boomer said. “Means we were never here. Do you want to explain why we came back into work on a Saturday after everyone else left? Queeg would just love a chance to say it was theft.”

They locked the control boxes in the cage of Department 765 racks to cool. They retraced their steps, locked Bodge’s entrance, and stepped out of the plant.

Early Monday morning, Kahle wheeled the control boxes to Mei Phan in inspection. She was amazed to see her rejected product resurrected from the cage. She powered up the test stand, verified current through the electrical contacts, and cycled through the boxes. The lights on the front glowed green for “Go.”

Mei said, “All okay boss.”

Kahle tapped a text to Boomer and Margaret, still in a state of shock. A surge of power disoriented him as if a circuit inside him had closed. It had worked.

He considered the other parts lost on those shelves. If it was good for one, how many other orders could they clear with those parts?

First shift left the plant in a hustle of heavy boots. He was packing to go home, when his pager buzzed with a text from Margaret.