Looking Away

By Charles Tashiro

The USA has fragmented into a group of smaller, competing nations, some at war with one another. Most people struggle to continue life as close to what they knew as possible, but that proves difficult as things once taken for granted become harder to enjoy.
Tom Forsythe, once a high-flying bureaucrat, has fallen down the ladder of success when his father-in-law and patron is disgraced after antagonizing the wrong people. Tom, his wife Madeleine and their son Lyle retreat to his childhood home in the country, hoping to make new lives for themselves. Tom quickly confronts the fact that things are not the way they used to be and that survival is even tougher than he imagined.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: May 23, 2019
• ISBN: 9780359627431

Book preview

Looking Away

Looking Away

Chapter 1

Without thinking, Tom looked at his shoes.

Water from the puddle outside the Bureau of Internal Control was seeping out the edges, and the worn leather was streaked with salt stains. He could feel the water oozing between his toes and soggy socks.

Inside, a female guard in a tight uniform sat behind a nicked and scratched desk perched on legs that had seen better days.

Didn’t your Mama teach you to wipe your feet when you come in? the guard asked before Tom could speak.

The guard cocked her head toward the entryway. After returning to the door, shoes squishing, Tom rubbed the soles on a mat, then walked back to the desk. She smiled again.

That’s better, hon. Name? she asked.

Forsythe, he answered. Thomas Forsythe.

The guard checked a paper list. Tom could see his name, fourth of six, but the guard pretended to have difficulty finding it. He wanted to ask Can you read? but said instead I have an appointment, letting the guard play her little game.

I know that sugar. Nobody with any brains comes here unless they have to, she said, laughing.

Tom had no desire to be there, but if he and his family wanted to return to the country, that meant permits, forms, stamps and signatures. And fees.

Still with me hon? the guard asked, but before Tom could answer, she said, I just like to give people a little bit of a hard time. Helps to spice things up, you know? She placed a printed register in front of Tom, pointing with a pen at the next blank space. Handing the pen to him, she said Sign here.

Tom signed and handed back the register.

IDs hon?

He dug into his pockets for the multiple identification cards he carried everywhere. When they were not in the first pocket he checked, he panicked, wondering whether he had worn the jacket with holes in the pockets by mistake, but then he felt the cards in another pocket. Fishing them out, he handed them over.

I was beginning to wonder if I was going to have to help you, she said and before he knew what was happening, she grabbed his right hand, forced his fingers on to an ink pad and rolled them on a piece of paper. Gotcha! she said with a note of childish triumph. Tom had just enough time to see the paper was another form before the guard whisked it away.

Stand there, she aid, pointing to a line of tape on the floor.

He moved toward it.

Now this is tough part, the guard said. Stand up straight, and look at me. He glanced up to be blinded by the flash of a photographic bulb. As his eyes recovered, the guard gave him a wink. Room 203. Top of the stairs, she said pointing to a showy staircase at the back of the reception area.

Walking toward the stairs, Tom realized that his hand was still covered in ink. Do you have a paper towel or something? he asked.

Wish I did hon, the guard said But they never give me anything useful. Just forms.

Reaching the stairs, Tom rubbed his hand on the inside of his pocket. As he climbed, it seemed as if the stairs got dustier the higher he went.

The second floor was darker and colder. The hallway was lighted only by weak sunlight coming from a window at the far end; none of the overheads were on. There were desk chairs on rollers that seemed to be broken, or sets of drawers, some without handles, or desks in various stages of disrepair, or the occasional folder or notebook on otherwise empty shelves. Tom almost expected this, but his eye was caught by a pile of computer monitors at the far end of the corridor. He wondered why there should be so many, or why they were stacked higgledy-piggledy in one corner.

The door to room 203 was closed. Taking a deep breath and checking to be sure that his hand was clean enough, he knocked. After no answer, he knocked again, harder. From inside, he heard a muffled cough, and then a sharp Yes?

Tom opened the door to a large, almost empty office in which even more monitors were jammed into a corner. Papers were piled to either side of a single, functioning monitor on a desk in front of a thin young man with cropped hair and glasses. He wore a jacket with a tie and a white shirt frayed at the cuffs. All were too big for his scrawny frame. Though young, he stooped like an old man, and there were two blemishes on his neck where he might have cut himself shaving. What do you want? the young man asked in a voice of intense irritation.

It took a moment for Tom to refocus.

Well? the clerk asked again.

I have an appointment, Tom said. Forsythe. Tom Forsythe.

The clerk looked at him for a moment, then glanced down at the paper in front of him. You can sit down, you know, he said, his voice thick with sarcasm, nodding to a battered chair.

As Tom sat down, his shoes squeaked.

Did you bring a mouse? the clerk asked, amused with his own question. Not waiting for an answer, he looked down at a form he pulled from a pile. All right, Mr. Forsythe, he continued in an ironic tone, perusing the form. You want to go to Cedar Junction. Do you have relatives there?

Yes, Tom said, then I mean, no. He cursed under his breath.

The clerk raised an eyebrow. Well which is it, Mr. Forsythe?

My mother lives there. Lived there. She’s dead now.

The clerk looked back at the form. Yes, we know that, he said, shuffling the papers further. You realize you will have to cross the Free Zone? he asked.

Yes, Tom replied. Anticipating the next question, he continued I’ve signed the liability waiver. He pulled a wrinkled sheet of paper out of his top jacket pocket and handed it to the clerk, who dropped it on the pile.

He continued to look through the paperwork, as if he were interested in something other than what was in front of him. An ironic name, don’t you think? he said.

I’m not sure I understand, Tom said.

Calling it the ‘Free Zone,’ when it is anything but free.

There was a quiet pause as Tom struggled with whether he was expected to answer. He glanced again at the pile of monitors in the corner, as if searching for a response.

The clerk followed his glance. We don’t know what to do with them. Only people with a security clearance can use one. So they become a health hazard in the corner, he said, snickering.

Tom then glanced at the monitor on the young man’s desk. You must be trusted, Tom said in his best effort to flatter.

Of course, the clerk said straightening. I have a masters degree, you know. I didn’t have a life’s ambition to be a clerk.

Tom was torn between trying to think of something to say and wondering why he should care about the clerk’s ambitions one way or another. He was jolted out of his thoughts by the loud sound of stamping his forms.

Twenty-five dollars, said the clerk.

This was the moment Tom dreaded. He was never quite sure how to handle it. There was no way to handle it other than doing it. He took more than two thousand new dollars from his wallet and passed the money to the clerk without comment. He gave Tom his stamped travel permit, then returned to studying his papers in wordless dismissal.

As Tom stepped into the hallway, he glanced again at the monitors at the end of the hall. I wonder what that little snot would think if he knew I used to manage people with those? Not that long ago either, Tom thought with a smile as he remembered his friend and former employee, Tory Bunting, bursting into his office with his characteristic dancer’s grace, a mug of coffee in one hand and a newspaper in the other.

And where were you this morning? Tory asked.

Right here in the salt mines, Tom answered, shifting a piece of paper from one side of his desk to another.

Like butter wouldn’t melt, Tory said, shaking his head.

And that means? Tom asked, playing along.

Half the city gets turned upside down because of your burrowing through the accounts like an industrious beaver, and you act as if nothing happened! he said.

Not half the city, surely, Tom said, smirking. Maybe a third?

And now I suppose you’re going to pretend all those little ‘errors’ you found in the registry and accounts had nothing to do with today’s excitement? Tory said, pointing to the newspaper.

Tom leaned back in his chair, clasping his hands behind his head. He refrained from putting his feet on the desk only at the last minute. I’m just a man doing his job, he said, sighing in mock humility.

False modesty is much more obnoxious than honest conceit, Tory said. Face it, you’re the man of the hour.

No, Tom said. Pappenheim is the man of the hour. I leave the glory to him.

OK, the son-in-law of the hour, Tory said.

Tom laughed. I’ll never forget something Frank said the day I married Madeleine. ‘A bureaucrat’s importance can be measured in inverse proportion to the amount of paper on his desk,’ he said. Of course, I knew it was a coded message, Tom continued, as if that were self-evident.

If anybody knows the system, he does, Tory said. Then looking at Tom’s empty desk, he said smirking, You certainly took his advice to heart.

I’m just a numbers guy, I’ll never have his sense of style, Tom said, stretching. I leave that to you.

Tory ignored the comment and referred to the newspaper. ’135 families to be re-located’ and ‘12 inner-city blocks to be re-developed,’ he said, pausing to muse for a moment. Of course, we all know what that ‘re-developed’ means.

Not my concern, Tom said. The bottom line is that that housing was built illegally, not to mention badly.

The residents certainly didn’t take it very well! Tory said. You’d have thought they actually liked the place. He paused for a moment. God, he continued, It was like a bad imitation of Stonehenge made of concrete.

Tom couldn’t help laughing. I’m sure the quality of the architecture was their first concern, he said, shaking his head.

But Tory wasn’t through. Wailing and crying and shouting, ‘This is our home!’ and other such rubbish, not to mention bringing traffic to a halt for blocks.

You have such a big heart Tory, Tom said.

Tory ignored him. You know, I really do wish that people would understand that free speech is not a license to disrupt the lives of others.

Tom laughed again. You sound as if running late is more important than being thrown out on the streets!

Well, it is important to me to be prompt, Tory said. I have a duty to my job.

Hah!

A sudden rush of cold air brought Tom back to his present. I just hope Madeleine understands, he muttered as he buttoned his jacket against the rising wind and darkening sky.

≈

Madeleine Forsythe shivered as she poured what was left of her coffee substitute into a cup. Whatever the coffee was, it was a thin reminder of the real thing. Her heavy woolen sweater was not enough to keep out the cold air that seeped into the apartment like water. Heat had become so spotty and unreliable that she almost expected such moments. Even the work of packing the pots and pans was not enough to keep her warm. The joys of public housing, she thought.

Madeleine looked around the apartment. There was little furniture left. Dingy spots on the concrete walls marked where pictures had hung. With no curtains or blinds to cover them, the windows served only to let cold air through their cracks. Bits and pieces of this and that poked out of boxes strewn across the remains of cheap, gray wall-to-wall carpeting spotted with irremovable stains. With the lamps packed, abandoned or given away, only the