Revolt of the Rats by Reed Blitzerman (feel good novels .txt) đź“•
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- Author: Reed Blitzerman
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She exhaled. “Good luck, honey. Call us when you leave.”
Dan Rather signed off for the night just before she hung up the phone.
THINGS DIDN’T GO LIKE he’d expected. Kahle bumped into Beezor his third day on the job. She’d handed him a stamping and spoke to him in that beautiful voice that hinted at too much whiskey. She said, “Stop sitting around on your ass and put this in the scrap hopper.”
He was so intimidated he lost the nerve to talk.
Instead, he kept it on his desk, told everyone it was a quality sample. He replayed their meeting and one thing had not changed: she was a splash of color in a sea of grey, winding her way up to the engineering offices, a green light shining beneath the door.
He’d come this far and lost his nerve. But he waited. Seasons were changing at Frampton. He would follow her, he would follow the light, he would solve the Ballad of the Flexible Bullet. Just not yet.
Gold leaves became green after the first week of spring. Vacationers came into town, towing boats still glistening with their factory finish. Drafts of hot air trickled in around the apartment door and across his bare feet, returning his mind to the mission.
Like a good scout, he’d visited most of the plant, getting to know the lay of the land. The only place left was the heat treat area. He’d saved it for last, anticipating a world of swirling smoke and an imminent asthma attack. Tomorrow was the day.
In the morning, his bicycle brought him there of its own accord. Workmen lumbered in heavy aprons checking gages, shuffling forgings in and out, rotating the metals with long, forked staves. Illumination came from open overhead doors or the orange glow of metal heating in the furnaces. Every time one opened, a wall of hot air erupted, took away his breath and bathed him in the Victorian stench of burning coal.
He sauntered around the blast furnaces, imagining the forgings were the cockles of his heart, burning brighter. Beezor on his mind, confusing him. He had nothing to offer. If he cracked his heart open would anything come out? What would a soldier know about love? Maybe friendship was safer.
Kahle thought it over. There was a junkyard down the road where they could scrounge for parts or shoot rats. He knew a guy at a diesel engine repair facility a half hour away, maybe they could get a weekend tour.
Not a good idea. He would keep his engine parts and whatnot to himself. She might think he was a stalker or worse, a fuckup and decide to tell Gary Queeg. He would be hounded endlessly and it would undoubtedly find its way onto his evaluation report.
This is what he got for venturing into heat treat. The smell of baking forgings affected him: the lack of light, the steel glowing orange, the whole cockles thing. Something’s wrong with me that I don’t know how to fix.
He was returning to his office and there Bee was; gorgeous in an Oxblood red pantsuit. She’d let her hair down and it shone, cut in a classic pageboy. Her glasses were gone beneath her safety goggles. He could see her eyes. And her aura burned like a sunburst. His Red Queen.
Standing just behind her was Saffron Meyer, the company Chief Financial Officer. And standing next to Bee, handsome as a movie star, his hand resting oh so lightly on her elbow, feeding her his megawatt smile, was Wesley Brummert the Chief Executive Officer of Motomax.
Kahle remained motionless, frozen. He was a street pole at a parade. They passed by as if he didn’t exist. Perhaps Bee had found someone who was exceptional like herself, making Kahle quite unnecessary. He limped back to his desk and filled out spreadsheets, until the end of shift bell released him to go home.
That evening he dreamed. Bee held Wesley’s hand and a glass of white wine; vibrant in a yellow shoulder-strapped sundress. Wesley removed a blue box from his pocket and opened the lid, where a pearl necklace winked from inside. Bee, eyes glittering like stars, plucked it from the velvet and clasped the bauble to her neck. The pearls shone with dusky intensity, promising future commitments.
She gave Wesley the smile that should have gone to Kahle, and to him alone. His hands on the small of her back, she spoke Wesley’s name over and over, kissing him deeply with a ferocity that said only “yes”. His Chicago friends crowded them laughing and smiling; then raised their fluted wine glasses “to the beautiful couple”.
He was woken by a bang. The transformer outside blown apart, throwing sparks across the parking lot. He called his landlord who called the electric company. There’d be no power tonight. All thoughts of sleep were abandoned.
KAHLE AVOIDED ANYTHING sharp. He discarded an attempt at his morning shave and drove the fifteen minutes to the plant in dejection. He was deluded.He’d done all this for nothing.
After clocking in, he did timekeeping for his employees, and climbed onto his bike. He rolled past his assembly line in a daze, waving absently. He kept going until he reached the next department, the welding area.
Steel tubs of parts were stacked everywhere, waiting to be processed. Operators with welding hoods and heavy aprons trapped the parts in fixtures, manually welded them and placed the finished parts in totes. Dust and soot coated the apron-wearing operators like cursed Oompa Loompas in a chocolate factory hell. Kahle paused, still on his bicycle, to observe the spectacle.
A balding man no taller than Kahle walked amongst them. Everywhere he went he stopped and talked, placing a hand on a shoulder here, asking about an order there. He was in constant motion and filthy from the neck down.
He came over at a walk and extended his hand. “Boomer Lorenz.”
“Kahle.”
“I’m production supervisor over here.” Boomer waved his hand in the general area around them. “You lost?”
“Uh, yeah.”
Boomer adjusted his safety glasses. “Figured you were new, as your clothes are clean.”
“You wash yours, don’t you?” Kahle was amazed Boomer’s wife let him out with those on.
“Sure, but the grease gets everywhere. The stuff never completely comes out. It’s crazy, but sometimes when I blow my nose, everything that comes out is grey.” Boomer shrugged, ran a hand across his scalp, then used the bandana around his neck to move the sweat from one place to the other –exposing a massive gold ring.
“Mighty big rock you got there.”
“College ring from Texas A&M. Everything’s big there. People call me Aggie.”
Kahle felt his spirits rising. “Did you serve?”
“Five years active.” Boomer continued. “Motomax was my second job out of the Navy. I’m second generation. But my family’s needs came before the Navy, thank you.”
“Do you miss it?” Kahle asked.
“We had a small picnic on the day I was discharged. It felt like a funeral. So whatcha looking for?”
Kahle stared at his shoes. “Place to hide, I suppose.”
“What’s got you spooked?”
“Saw Brummert here, yesterday.” Kahle left off the part where he had his hand on Bee’s arm.
“He was doing one of his surprise inspections,” Boomer said. “He thinks we’re idiots so he shows up unplanned with his spy, Saffron. He’s got this initiative, Motomax Future that he’s pushing.”
“Is it working?” Kahle pushed his hands into his pockets, searching for a stick of gum.
“I don’t think so, but I can’t really tell for sure. Well, we can’t just stand around like we’re on rest and recreation. Come on and I’ll give you the tour.”
They strode easily side by side up the aisle, threading between the machines as Boomer pointed out the different welders, benders, and punches “Understand this, in my department, I’ve got three big variables, the skill of the welder, the welding fixtures, and the equipment maintenance.
He tapped each bench as they passed. “Right now I’ve really only got one of the three working for me: the skill of the welders, but if that changes this sucker could go down fast.”
Their conversation went on for an hour and they agreed to meet for lunch.
Will you still love me
When I'm no longer young and beautiful?
Will you still love me
When I got nothing but my aching soul?
I know you will, I know you will
I know that you will
Will you still love me when I'm no longer beautiful?
Lana Del Rey, Young and Beautiful
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WESLEY NEVER THOUGHT the most important conversation of his life would take place in the bathroom; a place he believed ranked statistically high for accidents and suicides. He stood behind his wife in his drawers and a dress shirt.
“Wesley, will you still love me when I’m baggy and grey?” Maisie asked over the shoulder casual like, bent over the sink in their bathroom. Her hands fluttered at her ears, inserting gold posts fronted by dusty pearls.
The mirror reflected his puffy face. Last night would do that to you. They’d signed the Nelson account at the Marriott. The signing was followed by steaks. Steaks were followed by dirty martinis someplace he couldn’t remember.
He meant to say something earnest. Instead, what came out was, “Hmmmmm.” If he’d been sober, it might have gone differently. But he’d broken his own rule and brought a knife to a gun fight. The punishment of course, was death.
“That’s a hell of an answer. I ask you something important and all you can do is mumble.” Her head was raised to expose her neck. Her hands traced the folds there, then the small crow’s feet in the corners of her eyes, maybe measuring the bloom still left on the rose. “Are you gonna say something, Wesley?”
He was looking at her ass. Nothing baggy about it. He loved her face too. He loved all of her. He’d dreamed of nothing but since he was sixteen. He even loved her father, dry as gin.
Her eyes were bright now, clear as crystal, the watchful eyes of a barn owl. She saw where he was looking. The corners of her mouth turned down, a familiar expression of disappointment. He expected about now, she’d demand he dress in the guest room.
Instead she said, “I want a divorce.”
His response squeezed out soft and airless, like a balloon deflating. “Shouldn’t we talk about this?” He had the strange sensation of spiraling backward, passing through the floor, and landing on his back in the entryway. The straight lines in his life whisked away with a phrase.
“I’ve been talking. You don’t hear anything I say. It’s our life, Wesley. The limousines, the boats, the parties, they just hypnotize you. If I hear another word about what important people you’re meeting I’m going to scream.”
He could’ve been fully clothed and those eyes would have penetrated to his pumping heart, dissatisfied with the output she noted in his veins.
“Here’s someone important, Wesley. The nanny that watches our
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