The Second Continuum: Book One of the Collective Cosmos Series

By Dave Stanson

Jim Mulligan's personal and professional life is in shambles. Only his beautiful and loving wife, Ellie, makes life worth living. In an instant, she was gone. Despairing, he drives into the night and over the edge, literally.

Awakening from a car accident that should have killed him, he finds himself uninjured in his seventeen-year-old body, in the 1980's. Taking bold chances he would never have taken the first time, his life improves, but his ultimate goal, to rewrite his life happily ever after, is thwarted by diversions, temporal paradoxes and his own character flaws.

A story of the rewards and pitfalls of taking the other road, the weakness of moral relativism and the profound consequences of indulging personal desires with a gift meant to be used for the greater good. Of the practical challenges of involuntary time-travel, the inter-connectedness of every event in life, and how certain events shape a person, and how memory conflicts with fact.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Nov 1, 2018
• ISBN: 9780359191154

Book preview

living.

Prologue

Many times, in daydreams and half-remembered near-sleep reminiscences, he’d wondered if there was a single point on which all things in a person’s life hinged. As was his habit, he gave his theory a pseudo-scientific name: The Temporal Fulcrum Theory. A life, a society, a civilization, any sufficiently advanced system or organism could divide itself into what went before and after a certain event. On the way to the fulcrum, life was looking up, there was potential, even though it was an uphill journey. On the other side of the fulcrum, life was sliding downhill, inexorably, even easily, with a momentum of inevitably.

The problem was, very rarely could anyone pinpoint the event that was the tipping point until it had been passed. Hindsight was useless because time and causality are unidirectional. So life was like walking blindfolded from one end of a seesaw to the other; assuming you didn’t fall off completely, you would eventually pass the tipping point and there could be no turning around.

But what if, as he suspected, the fulcrum was instead one of many, a crossroad, a nexus leading to infinite other points, events, decisions, choices? What if life was not simply divided into before and after, but divided fractally into billions upon billions of possible outcomes based on every choice? What if you had a rough map of even one path? Could you choose your destiny by changing what had gone before, once you knew how certain actions would turn out? Was there some cosmic police force to stop you from doing this? Yes, time itself prevented people from retroactively improving their lives.

The cruel irony of maturity was that once experience had been gained, circumstances would never again be aligned exactly as they were so you could apply your wisdom and change the outcome. You could only use the wisdom if roughly similar situations presented themselves, and even then, new variables would probably enter the equation and render your knowledge useless.

For example, say you were so nervous around a certain girl that every attempt at talking to her ended up an embarrassing failure. You might learn from this that she respected confidence. You can’t apply your newfound confidence to her because your fumbling attempts have already labeled you as awkward and unsure in her eyes. So you meet a new girl and resolve to be confident from the beginning. But the new girl sees confidence as arrogance or cockiness, and prefers shy men, so you’ve now blown it with her too.

This was, of course, all academic, and passed in the blink of an eye through his mind as he was looking out the window one wintry morning at breakfast.

Hey, what were you thinking just now? His wife asked.

Oh. Just that I can’t believe I’ll be forty next week.

Chapter One

Rendered Obsolete

If you cannot work with love but only with distaste, better you should leave your work.

~Kahlil Gibran

December 2009 (First Continuum)

James Mulligan hunched his shoulders against the cold as he went to the car and got in. The beat-up old Pontiac groaned its disapproval as he turned the key, but started anyway. The heat was dying, he knew, as even at full-blast the car wasn’t getting much warmer. Another goddamned thing I gotta fix, he thought, wondering where he would get the money.

It was unlikely that the short trip to the computer company where he worked would be enough to get any heat built up. In the summer he rode his ten-speed bike to work, a half-hour affair that got his mind clear and put him in a reasonably good mood. But the winter was dismal and gloomy. He was glad to have an indoor desk job on days like this, though. He didn’t make a lot of money, just barely enough. There had been a time when he had been well paid, but so many companies were outsourcing overseas that his pay had shrunk to half of what it was.

He’d searched for other work, but the economy was in desperate shape. People were reluctant to call it a depression, using the less-dramatic recession. But what else could it be called with record unemployment, businesses folding up, and more people dependent on government welfare than at any time in decades? He and his wife both worked, had no kids, a small house, old beater cars and yet barely scraped by. His parents, who had died a few years earlier, had left them a bit of money, and it would supplement their income for a while, but eventually that would dry up, and he wasn’t sure what would happen then.

He found it difficult to believe there had been a time when one income could support two people, or a family of four. Yet his parents had been a one-income family until he was eleven years old, and had provided for two kids, a dog, a cat and a widowed grandmother. His grandparents had raised kids through the Second World War, yet had a nice big house in the suburbs. They could never have imagined this nightmare version of America. But then, neither could he have foreseen what would become of the American Dream.

When he was a teenager, in high school in the 1980’s, things seemed hopeful, optimistic. The country was still in good shape, and it seemed like it always would be. If he had thought about the future, it was abstract. Gleaming white and chrome domed cities, flying cars, servant robots, and enlightened citizens in togas spent their days discussing philosophy or doing art.

A self-defeating, neurotic, easily offended and politically correct nation of crybabies was unthinkable. He mused that it was probably adolescent ignorance that had made it seem like a utopian golden age in retrospect. Everybody thinks the world of their youth was so much superior to the reality of their adulthood. Where had it gone wrong?

Up until high school, it seemed, he had been an achiever, something of a prodigy or wunderkind. He was an A-student, he had lots of friends, and he was involved. Adults knew him to be an upstanding kid who told the truth, did not steal, and who was very creative and bright. Things came easily to him and if he failed the first time, he usually succeeded the second. People liked him, without his even trying.

But then, in tenth grade, things became a struggle. Old friends found new social circles, and he was excluded. His studies were over his head; he lost his direction. He hadn’t turned to crime or drugs or anything illegal, but he started to realize he was on the outside looking in.

College brought some change, new situations, new people, and new freedoms. Still, though, it was never as promising as it once had been. His second year he’d had to drop out, and go to work to help support the family. He eventually made it back to college, many years later, but his friends had moved on, and being the oldest undergrad had isolated him further.

He had a way with computers, and studied to become a programmer. He had done well, put down a deposit on a house, and thought about marriage. His dating life had been as disappointing as his school experiences. Whatever women were looking for, it wasn’t him. There had been a few short-term relationships, but nothing ever panned out.

Finally he’d resigned himself to giving up, when, on a whim, he signed up for an Internet dating site. After two or three mismatches, the last woman on the list turned out to be very nice. She had a quirky sense of humor, a genuine desire to be someone’s best friend, and a longing to be a wife and mother. She had not one dishonest bone in her body, and an instinctive grasp of how other people were feeling. She was the love of his life, and their first few years together had been very happy ones.

When a few years had gone by, and they had wanted to have children, the economy had started to deteriorate; he’d gotten downsized to tech support from programming with a pay cut. Her job as an interior decorator had taken a hit with the decrease in disposable cash, and they’d actually had their cars repossessed. This was not a situation ideal for having kids. So she had some of her optimistic spirit worn down, and he had sensed a growing disappointment from her, though she never said as much in words.

They went through the motions of married life, which was almost worse than divorce sometimes. He spent more and more time alone, lamenting missed opportunities, adventures, great works he had imagined doing when he was young. For practical purposes, it had become a sort of living death.

He sat at his computer terminal, turned it on, got himself some coffee, checked his inbox in the mail room, came back and opened the envelope he’d found. It had that horrible official look, stark white with unfriendly black block printing on company letterhead. Anything that began Dear Mr. Mulligan, in his experience, was trouble. When followed in the first paragraph by It has come to our attention, it was worse. When there were multiple signatures in actual hand-written ink at the bottom, you were screwed.

He read through it with a sinking feeling. With jobs in short supply, and so many people lined up for each of the few jobs available, you really had to be on your guard against mistakes. This same situation had given employers wide latitude to criticize, to find fault with minutiae as a means of terminating employees or to harangue them into quitting. Gone were the days of prosperity that brought signing bonuses, stock options, even medical and dental. But worse, gone were the days when you could go to your job, do your best for eight or nine hours, have the occasional small error, and be overlooked. Companies were looking for any tiny hint of irregularity to exploit as leverage to downsize you and bring on an entry-level applicant at lower wages.

At Gigatech, the company Mulligan worked for, monitors watched your every keystroke, timers ran on each service call, bosses listened to your phone calls, ostensibly in the interest of creating a better customer service experience. What it meant, in practical terms, was that you lived your work-life in fear. Fear of making any slight mistake, fear of your phone call going ten seconds over the recommended time limit. Even if you had a 99% success rate at solving customers’ problems quickly and in a friendly manner, they would question why not 100%.

So when you were at 86% and you got an official memo, personalized, blood-pressure rose, ulcers started, you began frantically wondering if you could still flip burgers at your age.

He looked at the time written in the memo. The end of the day. On a Friday. Damn. Friday was the day you were most likely to be fired. The current Human Resources wisdom was that an employee was less likely to make a scene late on a Friday. And the weekend would give him some time to regroup and begin the job search for Monday. It also gave management time to clear all traces he’d ever been there, to discourage questions and unrest. On Monday he might not even be missed. Very Orwellian.

All of this completely failed to work as planned, since people are individuals, and when they feel sufficiently outraged will not always act in accordance with some study done by university eggheads. Case in point: himself. In his mind he was running through everything he’d done at work for the last week, searching for any mistake.

In another corner of his mind he was running through different termination scenarios, trying to decide whether or not to plead for another chance. If the situation was completely absurd, should he make a bold statement about the ridiculous policies of Gigatech and storm out?

No, he’d probably need this place as a reference, couldn’t afford to burn bridges. He also might not be eligible for any severance pay or unemployment if he made the management sufficiently angry. So in the end he would go out, tail between his legs, beaten.

He had trouble focusing on work. Between incoming calls, while he completed paperwork, he found himself daydreaming about being rich. He imagined in great detail the life he would lead instead of this one. Sleeping in, traveling, having an indoor pool, only driving when he felt like it, riding his bike every day. He thought of being finally able to give Ellie the kids they had dreamed of, and a nice house with a big yard for the dog and…the phone beeped and he answered it.

It was an easy call, almost comically easy. The customer had simply set his spam filter so high none of his e-mail made it through, even from people he knew. He was conscious of being impatient with the caller, wanting to keep his call time especially short. Maybe, if he kept all his calls under time, he could make a hundred percent to show as evidence of his value to counter whatever they were going to say. The really awful thing was that they told you to keep your calls brief, but not to end a call before the issue was resolved. You were at the mercy of the customer, who might be computer illiterate, have a slow computer, or was simply an idiot.

Lunch was dismal, some horrific pseudo-Mexican health food wrap. The company did provide free cafeteria as part of your pay, but the choices were very limited. It was cheaper than going out to lunch or bringing a bag-lunch, so he couldn’t complain, but coupled with the cloud over his head, it made for a rotten lunch experience.

As the hour of the meeting drew nearer, he felt his stomach eating itself. He thought more and more of the happy era of childhood and adolescence, a time before such things as car payments, utility bills, or mortgages. Some days he wanted to be a kid again so badly he could taste it. He checked his e-mail again, hoping for a last minute reprieve. A reschedule, or a cancellation, anything would be welcome. No such e-mail arrived. He clocked out and went to the office with the memo. The door was already open, and inside sat his immediate supervisor, Deb, and the Vice President of Customer Service, Neil.

They had the air of having been sitting there waiting and discussing him. There were no smiles, but no frowns, just an absence of any emotion, which was frankly frightening. To him, if something was worth doing, it was worth having a feeling about. To do a task apathetically cheapened and degraded it, and offended everyone involved. If his performance was worth a memo and a meeting, at least have the decency to care. But he knew, he had learned, that people were no longer important as individuals, not to the American corporation. The change from the personnel department to human resources exemplified this. Those in power had removed the person and turned the worker into a resource, no more or less important than office supplies or technology.

Hi Jim. Have a seat. Deb said. She was an unattractive African-American woman; short, fit, well dressed. Her attitude was one of patient disdain. Everything she said or did had an air of inconvenience, like it was interrupting her day. He had wondered idly once if, upon hearing she had won the lottery, she would roll her eyes and mutter, Oh if I must!

She flipped through her papers and avoided eye contact. Neil, the VP, sat impassive, looking at his papers and saying nothing. Finally, with a satisfied sound, Deb collected the third of three papers she sought.

Well, do you know why we set this meeting?

No, not really. Performance review I suspect. he replied.

You got the memo, correct? she said.

Yes, I have it here. He proffered the paper.

Then we need to discuss a few items, she said.

O.K. he said. He was in no mood for double-talk, and was not going to give them any help firing him.

As you know, we monitor randomly for quality assurance.

He nodded yes.

We want you to succeed, and to provide the best customer service possible. So we look for areas that can be improved. Pursuant to this, we’ve assembled a list of things for you to devote more attention to. She said.

O.K.

Let’s just start with that, Neil said. A more appropriate response might be ‘yes ma’am’, or ‘I’ll see to it immediately’.

I beg your pardon? Mulligan said, leaning forward slightly.

O.K. isn’t really appropriate in business meetings. It’s not an expression that connotes respect. We must respect our customers and co-workers alike.

Mulligan clenched his molars together in an attempt to avoid saying anything provocative. This was micromanagement. Undue attention to fiddling details in an attempt to fix bigger problems.

Yes sir. He managed to say.

Much better. Now, other items are in the same vein. Here is a transcript of the last two weeks’ worth of calls. Your success rate at resolving customer issues is impressive. Your timings are within acceptable limits. But, there are some factors we feel inclined to point out so you can correct them.

Such as? he asked, raising his eyebrow.

This spreadsheet lists certain verbal elements, and the frequency with which you use them.

Mulligan looked at the spreadsheet. It had several columns, one of the offending phrases, another with the number of times he had said them in the previous two weeks. There were, in subsequent columns, the times and dates of these infractions, there were breakdowns and averages, and notes in the margins written in red pen. Someone had been paid to sit down and listen to two solid weeks, eighty hours, of tech support calls and record everything they saw as a problem.

As you can see, you said ‘OK’ a total of one-hundred and six times, you said ‘um’ two-hundred and fifty-eight times, cleared your throat eighty-seven times. You sighed forty-three times, you apologized for the computer being slow seven times, you chuckled twenty-nine times and made reference to a television program five times.

The silence that followed was intense, broken only by the hum of the fluorescent lights. Mulligan felt, more than heard, his own heartbeat as he contemplated whether or not this was some sick joke. He wanted to believe this was all some kind of test to see how he would react. He made every effort to look as though he were really studying the report in front of him. This was mainly to disguise his outrage, but also to give him time to consider his options.

Times were desperate; he couldn’t afford not to have a job. If he made some grand statement about the stupidity of this report and meeting, he would likely be fired on the spot. Then he could collect unemployment for a while. If he said nothing inflammatory, said he would do better, they would find something else to harass him about. He had somehow come onto their radar screen as a possible target to eliminate for budget reasons; his anonymity was compromised. From here on, it was a matter of when he would lose his job, not if he would lose it.

Deb broke the silence.

Do you have any questions? she said, not really expecting any.

Have I broken any laws? Or company regulations? he asked.

Excuse me? she was surprised.

Can you show me precisely how this costs the company money or violates any rules?

It’s not about money or legal concerns. Frankly that’s an inappropriate question. It shows a flippant attitude.

I think it’s valid. I of course have to implement these suggestions, it’s my job, but I’d like to know the reasoning behind this. It seems like an awful waste of time and money without good reason. So can you explain it?

Neil chimed in. He had been watching Deb handle the situation and obviously felt it was time to take over.

We’re trying to provide the best customer service in the industry. Our phone reps need to be professional, to sound professional. These slip-ups sound amateurish. People lose confidence in the company and take their business elsewhere. That’s how it costs us money.

This is charted, demonstrable? Mulligan asked. He knew full well he was pushing his luck, but he suddenly didn’t feel like being bullied. They had made him feel inadequate, merely for being human, and they were damn well going to see he was no pushover.

It’s well-known. How would you feel if you called for assistance and the person on the line sounded fumbling and unsure of himself? Neil said.

As long as they solved my problem, I wouldn’t really care. People want their issue resolved quickly, completely and in a friendly manner. That’s what the company policy manual says. Nothing in there mentions ‘ums’ and ‘o.k’s.'

We’re aware of the manual. But there are…intangibles. Rules of communication that ought to be common knowledge. It’s just understood that professionals speak more concisely. Neil said.

When and where would I have learned this? I didn’t go to business school. I’m a computer programmer. I'm used to talking to other programmers. I solve problems, and use the clearest wording I can. If this company sent all the programming jobs overseas and dropped me in customer service with a reduction in pay, the least they could do is train me. Instead I get the Holy Inquisition treatment, and am made to feel like a naughty child who has been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. That’s my definition of unprofessional.

It sounds as if you’re unhappy here. Maybe you should rethink your employment with Gigatech.

I have a mortgage to pay. I’m not leaving voluntarily.

There are dozens, maybe hundreds of people who can do what you’re doing for a job. For less money. Tell us why you should be retained. What makes you special? Neil countered.

Nothing, Mulligan said after thirty seconds.

"There’s nothing special about me. You’ve drained all my uniqueness, all my creativity and left a soul-less drone. I don’t go out of my way to be unprofessional, yet you keep defining professional down further and further. The company demands I be friendly to the customer, but I do that naturally. Real people are friendly by connection with others, finding commonalities, by way of humor, by realizing the other person is human and fallible and humble.

I don’t know how to be friendly and professional at the same time by your definition. Professional to you means sterile, robotic, and cold. I solve problems. I make people’s computers work when they are desperate, and I put them at their ease while I do it. Do you do that, Neil? Or do you spend your days in an office wasting company money counting ‘ums’?

Neil and Deb looked agape for a few seconds. Neil composed himself, looked down at his notes, and without lifting his eyes, said, You have fifteen minutes to empty your desk.

Mulligan stood up. He was still too angry to be scared.

I’ll just take my fifty-two customer compliment letters, my five programmer of the month awards, my two programmer of the year awards, and my ten year anniversary plaque. With that he flipped the memo in Neil’s general direction, where it fluttered and finally fell to the floor.

He walked purposefully toward his cubicle, opened a drawer, took out an empty copy-paper box he had brought back for just this possibility, and dropped his awards, his pictures of Ellie and a few funny comic strips he’d displayed into it. He put his small plant, his congratulatory ten-year service coffee mug and his stress release ball in the box. He put the half-finished box of fudge stripe cookies, his good pen, his headphones and his spare reading-glasses in the box.

He logged onto his computer and deleted all his e-mail, a few funny pictures someone had e-mailed, and the file containing some songs he had uploaded to listen to on his break. He logged off his computer, took his box, put on his coat and headed to human resources to turn in his I.D. badge. Halfway to H.R., two security guards intercepted him and escorted him.

Really? I’ve worked here ten years, seen you guys at the gate every morning. Do you actually think I’m going to do something violent?

Sorry Jim. Orders are orders. I got kids to feed, y’know?

The burly blond security guy, Eric, had spoken. The other one, a dark-haired guy named Mort, almost never spoke. You always had the vague sense he was hoping he’d get a chance to break someone’s arm.

Well, I’ll go quietly. I’m not a fist-fighter. If I were really pissed off I’d have set a virus loose in the system. Can’t really escort that out by arm, can you?

Did you…? Eric said looking alarmed.

Relax. If I did I wouldn’t come out and tell you, would I? Besides, I’ll probably need this place for a reference.

Shouldn’t really say things like that. If some jack-hole unleashes a virus, and you were overheard talking about it…

If it happens, and everybody’s account is deleted except yours, you’ll know it was me. Then you’ll owe me, and you won’t say anything. Agreed?

Now you’re just being obnoxious. This is what got you let go.

If I was a good enough programmer to do that, they wouldn’t have stuck me in tech-support hell. They’re canning me cause it will save them money. You guys are safe; they can’t farm out the onsite security to India, can they?

S’pose not. Eric said.

He turned his badge over at the human resources office, and they walked him to his car.

Well, it’s been nice working with ya. You’ve always been good to us. Never treated us like we were lower than you. Eric said.

Alright. Drink one for me tonight, eh? Mulligan said.

Can do. Bye, Jim.

Mulligan drove halfway home in a trance, when he realized he was going to have to tell Ellie. That’ll be a cheerful conversation, he thought to himself. She had done a great job holding up through the pay cuts, the fruitless job searches, the car repossessions, but this might be the final straw. He would not blame her at all if she left. At thirty-six she was as beautiful as she’d ever been. She could snag herself a better husband, start over and do it right.

Hoping against hope, he bought a lottery ticket at the gas station, and a newspaper. He would have a better chance online, but there was a slim possibility there would be something listed in the paper that hadn’t been online. He was oddly optimistic, despite the situation. Maybe the extra time would allow him to apply to far more jobs. He wouldn’t have to worry about taking a day off to interview; every day was a day off.

He pulled into the driveway, checked the mail and went inside. A mid-size old black lab jumped and pranced and wagged its tail, delighted to see its master, and desperate for a pee. She wasn’t home yet. Not unusual, she sometimes stopped at the store on the way home, or went to the video store on Friday nights, or brought a pizza. Ellie was a wonderful wife; devoted, fun, thoughtful, patient, sweet, sexy, smart, and talented. What the hell was she doing with him? He had a fleeting, awful feeling, thinking what if something happened to her? What if she gets hurt or dies? What if she meets somebody and leaves me?"

Then he shook his head, dismissing these possibilities. She was not only faithful; she was wily, confident, and worldly. He put the dog on its rope outside, then got a Coke and some pretzels, sat down at the kitchen table and opened the paper to the classified section. It was too quiet, so he turned on the radio. Some light jazz would soothe him while he searched for a new job.

The listings in the want ads were disappointing. But he had expected as much. Newspapers were dying. Paper and printing were expensive, and the Internet was not. The whole nature of information was changing, and newspapers as they had been for a century, were on their way out.

He was about to text or call her when he heard the dog going nuts barking out back and then the garage door activate. He heard her car pull in, turn off, and she came inside.

Hi. No History Channel tonight? she said. He usually sat in the living room recliner watching the History Channel on cable until dinner. She really didn’t care for it, but he didn’t care for her reality TV, either, so it worked out. Then she caught sight of what he was reading, and her face went white. The want ads, on a Friday night.

They didn’t. she said, Not right after Christmas!

I’m afraid so. Downsizing, budget cuts, attitude.

Attitude? Like What?

I’m too friendly, too laid back, not professional enough.

That’s stupid, isn’t it a customer service job? Wouldn’t you want maximum friendliness out of your employees?

That was my reasoning, they seem to disagree.

She moved forward, put her arms around him from behind, touching her cheek to his.

Anything good in the paper? she asked.

Not so far, but I’ll get on the Web tomorrow morning.

Good. You could sign up at some temp agencies.

Yeah. Gotta file for unemployment, too. He said.

"What should we have for dinner?’ she said, straightening up and taking off her coat.

Got a taste for anything? he asked.

McDonald’s, but I’m not going out in the snow again tonight. Besides, we gotta start saving every penny. She said.

What about chili? he asked.

Hey that sounds good. We have garlic bread in the freezer, too. Go change your clothes and come back down. I’ll start dinner, and you can set the table. She said, getting ingredients out of the pantry.

He stopped on his way out of the kitchen and kissed her.

"I’m sorry about this.’ He said.

"Shit happens. We’ll find a way.’ She replied, stroking his cheek.

I love you. He said.

Love you too. Now get your unemployed ass out of those clothes and into something relaxing and help me make dinner.

Mulligan felt a strange emotion as he changed his clothes, a combination of happiness that he had Ellie by his side, and great shame that he couldn’t do better financially. Aside from their financial situation, there were no significant problems in their relationship. They didn’t fight, they had some friends, and they still laughed together. But there was always the undercurrent of their childlessness; brought about not by infertility or unwillingness, but economic necessity.

There were times it seemed like they were being punished for some unknown sin. At least he was. She was just the unfortunate bystander, caught in an undertow. He felt his mind slipping out to check over everything he had ever done, searching for the hideous wrong for which he was atoning. It was futile, a stupid exercise in excuse making. Again with the temporal fulcrum. No single event had brought him to this situation. Every life was the result of thousands upon thousands of choices, decisions, and some circumstances beyond one’s control. It got progressively harder to get back on track the older you got, because the patterns were more deeply ingrained. He was forced to admit that there were many things he would do differently if he had the chance to start over. Missed opportunities, 50/50 chances where he would like to try the other option, all ridiculous what-if scenarios.

The aroma of homemade chili and warming garlic bread wafted up and he was brought back to the here-and-now. Ellie was making dinner, cooking for him, after his epic failure. Time to go down and focus on his domestic life, now that his professional life was in ruins.

"Can you stir this for me while I run to the bathroom? She said.

Sure babe. He said.

The dog had been let in and was clearly hoping for a bit of dinner, so Mulligan poured a scoop of dry kibble in its bowl and stroked the dog’s ears.

Eat slowly, Teddy, make it last.

He decided that he would do better. He would make better decisions from now onward. For her, for himself, for their future, he had to take control. He looked around the kitchen at their sparse possessions. They weren’t fancy or expensive or new. But they were home. She had made a warm home for them out of what they had. She had been patient and supportive and had never been accusative or laid blame. She deserved better and he was going to see that she got it. As he stirred the chili, he thought of options. He knew computers, but computer jobs had been declining for years. While looking for work in his field, he could start looking to change careers. He had thought about teaching computers before. His skills were current; he could probably find work teaching computer programming. His mood improved and he was excited to tell Ellie when she came back.

Now that’s a great idea! Let’s look into that. She said, finishing dessert.

But start tomorrow. I have something I need you to do tonight.

What’s that? he asked.

Me. She said, and led him to bed.

Chapter Two

Interviews and Introspection

While the law of competition may be sometimes hard for the individual, it is best for the race, because it ensures the survival of the fittest in every department. ~Andrew Carnegie

February 2010 (First Continuum)

Mr. Mulligan? Mr. Deshpande will see you now. The secretary said. She could only be described as perky, because, in every facet of her body, face, mannerisms and speech, she seemed like she was leading a cheer. He half-expected she had pom-poms under her desk, just in case. She had a ripe, fresh, delicious air of innocence tinged with a hint of flirtation.

He had a moment of mild sexual attraction to her, then immediately thought of Ellie and felt a hot flash of shame. He felt his wedding ring and did the math in his head. When he was the perky secretary’s age, she had been in preschool. Even if he had been the same age as her and unmarried, she was not the type that ever went for him.

Ellie was beautiful and sexy and usually upbeat, but she could never be called perky. Her body was shapely and soft and womanly, and her movements were smooth and graceful and dignified. She was thoughtful and intelligent and deep. She didn’t bounce, flit or giggle. That was why she appealed to him. That was why he loved her. She was a woman, not a girl.

Hemant J. Deshpande came out of his office and shook Mulligan’s hand warmly, smiling and waving him inside. He was a thin, average-height Indian gentleman with an expensive suit of dark blue, with an impressive tie. His nails were manicured, his teeth were gleaming white and his jet-black hair was immaculate.

Ginger, hold my calls, please. He said to perky-girl. Ginger. Unusual but somehow appropriate, Mulligan thought.

So, Mr. Mulligan, may I call you James?

Of course, or Jim.

So I’ve looked at your résumé, and it’s impressive. To be employed with one firm for ten consecutive years is rare anymore.

Well, I believe in loyalty to the company. They were good to me at Gigatech. Even as he said it he knew it was a lie, and worse, sounded like ass-kissing.

Can you tell me about why you left? Deshpande asked.

Gigatech downsized. They’ve outsourced a lot of programming jobs overseas.  In fact, for the last three years they had me transferred to tech support.

He was volunteering too much. Shut up, Jim! He told himself.

Mm, yes. There’s been a lot of that in recent years. Getting difficult to afford good help domestically with all this government interference. Taxes, healthcare, that kind of thing.

I understand. This is why I’m hoping to move into teaching.

In this economy, that might be a wise direction for you. Here at Sheffield, we believe in an environment of instructors with real-world experience and you certainly have that. We…also insist on professionalism, which is a source of concern for me.

How so, sir? Mulligan asked, feeling uncomfortable.

When I spoke with Neil Roberts at Gigatech, he said that though you have excellent technical skills, you do have some challenges with authority.

Goddamn Neil, Mulligan thought. Deshpande was waiting for an answer, a comment, something. The next sentence was crucial, and could determine if the interview continued. Fortunately, or unfortunately, this was not the first time this issue had come up, and he had been thinking about an answer. He smiled slightly.

Mr. Roberts and I didn’t always see eye-to-eye, it’s true. I saw technical proficiency and excellence as paramount, and he saw propriety as the goal.

Aren’t both important? Deshpande asked.

Absolutely. More importantly, he was my supervisor, and well within his job parameters to expect unquestioning obedience.

Yet at your termination you became agitated with his criticisms of your performance and told him as much?

It became apparent to me that his criticisms and suggestions were not constructive, but punitive and…well, inflammatory.

How so? Deshpande actually seemed interested; maybe Mulligan still had a chance.

Well, you know how a performance review would ordinarily highlight your strengths, and then proceed to areas for improvement? And you might expect these areas, in a technical job, to focus on technical issues, ways to eliminate errors, correct?

For starters, yes. Deshpande nodded.

Well, this performance review made no mention of ten years of consistent excellence that I strove for, and achieved. It began with a large transcript of my phone conversations, with a statistical breakdown of the number of times I sighed, said ‘um,’ or spoke informally with a customer.

You’re kidding. Surely you’re exaggerating? Deshpande asked.

I’m completely serious. It didn’t address the facts that I had a successful track record of solving problems; it was more in the nature of a personal attack. I should have asked for a copy of that transcript, in retrospect. Well, I suppose I should have simply thanked him and told him I would improve, but I got curious as to how these ‘informalities’ hurt the company.

He offered you an answer?

He said that competence was not enough, basically. In a customer service environment our speech must be flawless at all times to project an image of professionalism.

You disagreed?

My sense of it, from my training, was that one can strive for perfection, but in reality human speech is not robotic. A person calling for help wants to know he’s talking to a friendly, as well as knowledgeable person. Neil was of the opinion that friendliness and professionalism are incompatible.

Don’t you think that’s an exaggeration? Deshpande raised his eyebrows.

He said there were basic formalities in business that were just known, and that one of these was that you never make small talk with customers.

Hmm, I think I understand where he was coming from, but I see your point as well. Deshpande said.

So, how can I serve Sheffield Community College?

Deshpande seemed taken aback at Mulligan’s boldness.

Well I’ll be perfectly frank; we don’t usually hire people without some practical teaching experience. We do make exceptions when a candidate is exceptionally knowledgeable or gifted. That’s why I set the interview. I like what I see with regards to your knowledge and experience, but teaching is quite like customer service, so demeanor and bearing count for a good deal.

There was an awkward silence where Mulligan couldn’t be sure if he was expected to say something. Deshpande seemed to be waiting.

Perhaps it matters even more. Roomfuls of students who have paid to be taught a subject are more immediate than a customer on the phone. Higher expectations, personal rapport, that sort of thing. Mulligan said.

Exactly. I can see that you are an intelligent, honest, good programmer. I can see the Gigatech support line wasn’t a good fit, too limiting for a person with your talent. I believe you have the potential to be an asset to Sheffield, provided you can handle the intensity of the undergrads.

I know I can. Mulligan said, feeling too eager.

College kids today are a handful. They are highly intelligent; they demand that you be smarter than they are, yet somehow be able to understand their crude humor and social situations.

I can be authoritative, yet a bit irreverent. A lot of my co-workers at Gigatech were recent college grads, and they kept me current with the way students think and talk.

This brought a smile to Deshpande’s face, and he nodded promisingly.

I have two more people to interview, but I’ll be honest, I haven’t got the sense they have as much going for them as you.

Thank you, sir. Mulligan said.

"Well then, I’ll let you know one way or another by Monday.

I certainly appreciate that, Mr. Deshpande.

They shook hands, and Mulligan went out into the office, where he saw Ginger the secretary signing in someone he assumed was the next candidate. The man had an immaculate suit, and was at least ten years younger, and sixty pounds lighter than Mulligan was. The man projected Neil Roberts’ ideal of professionalism, and it made Mulligan shudder.

The competition was fierce in the job market, and every detail counted. Mulligan’s suit was five years old and didn’t fit as well as it once had, and he wondered if the plain conservative tie he had on was appropriate. He’d never liked or understood ties, but he’d heard that the tie could make or break an interview, which he also thought was stupid. If he wanted a product or service, he didn’t search the Internet for companies where the employees wore good ties.

He drove home, listening to the radio. The weather was normal for this time of year, this team had lost, that team had won, unemployment was up, housing starts were down, the stock market was down, the war dragged on, some celebrity had been caught cheating on his wife. The ridiculous drivel that poured from the radio that passed as news always disappointed him. There was rarely, if ever, any positive news. There was news that played to assumptions, or there was news that shocked.

A professional athlete has a mistress? How shocking! He had the mistress while his wife was pregnant? Scandalous! He has a dog-fighting arena at his mansion on weekends? Outrage! He votes Republican? O.K., that’s just too far. Stop the presses, send him to counseling, and suspend him from playing (after the big game next week, of course). How any of this was supposed to have any effect on Mulligan’s life or anybody else’s escaped him. He was still going to have to pay taxes, he was still going to owe more money on his house than he could afford, whether or not the latest reality stars were caught with cocaine. So much of the perverse priorities of people today stemmed from media manipulation.

It was no longer enough to create a desire for products: Buy cookies! Buy jeans! Buy cigarettes! Buy beer! Now the media had learned to twist peoples’ very values: Money is everything! Religious people are weirdoes! White people are evil! Pregnancy is a disease to be cured! Homosexuality is preferable! Diversity is strength! Law and order is oppression!

Where selling products was profitable for the economy, for keeping people employed and able to feed their families, what was the real motive for selling points of view? He stopped thinking about it, as he had so many times before. The times he had tried to reason it out to any kind of reasonable conclusion, he had become angry and gotten a headache.

He didn’t have a lot of anger or hate in him, but problems with no solutions bothered something deep inside his soul. Unsolvable problems and self-defeating beliefs were his demons. Logic ought to solve most problems, but emotions always threw a monkey wrench into the works. Emotions could be positive, motivating people to make improvements. But emotions, including irrational fear or greed, that caused people to do things counter to common sense, made his blood boil. Do what is in the best interests of yourself and your community, how hard is that? If your best interests are destructive to those around you, your priorities need to be reevaluated or you need to go elsewhere.

He pulled into the driveway, got the mail and went inside. Ellie was at work, so he threw the mail on the kitchen table, got a Coke, and went upstairs and changed clothes. He came down, had lunch and called her.

How’d it go? she asked.

Pretty well. Said he would call me Monday either way.

Well that’s good. Any other prospects?

I’m about to go up and check the e-mail and the job boards.

O.K. Will you change the laundry before you do?

Sure.

What’s wrong? I can hear it in your voice. She asked.

Ehh…Gigatech came up again. He said.

Jeez. Sorry. Well you gotta expect that when you leave the way you did. But you’re pretty charming when you want to be.

Thanks. I think my answers to his questions were good.

Well good. Hey I gotta get back to work, client’s coming in at one today. See you tonight. Love you!

Love you, El.

He promptly forgot to change the laundry in his hurry to get back to his job search. About an hour later he remembered and headed into the basement. The basement was a museum of unfinished projects, broken dreams and unfulfilled promises. It had once been a haven, where he could go to do woodworking, or build models, or draw or paint for relaxation.

With the pay cut and demotion, and finally the termination, though, hobbies had gone on the back burner. Looking for work was his full-time job. There was neither time nor disposable income for anything else. He could not enjoy any of these outlets while their future was in doubt. Stored in the basement, as well, were relics of good times. He and Ellie used to play tennis on weekends, they had gone on skiing vacations, and snorkeling on their honeymoon. Now skis and tennis rackets and snorkels sat on shelves, covered in dust. Worst of all, a box he most feared and hated. It was a constant reminder of failure.

It was a large cardboard box containing items he’d intended to give to his future son someday: his old baseball bat, glove, and Chicago Cubs hat. His Hot Wheels cars, his Star Wars collectibles, his Lego blocks, his Tinker toys, his trains, his radio-controlled car, all sat taped up waiting for a child that seemed increasingly less-likely ever to be born. If he’d had a daughter, he was going to build her a custom dollhouse, complete with handcrafted furniture. Sometimes he built a small chair or table to put inside, and he had put these into the box of stuff for his son.

He glanced at it on the way to the laundry and felt a pang, a stab of sadness, regret for all the things that would probably never happen. Sometimes he thought they should throw caution to the wind and just have a baby. They could figure out the logistics later. They could sell the house, move to a smaller house and be OK. Provided he had a job.

As he switched the laundry, he went over the interview again in his head. He hated that it had become about Gigatech again. Why hadn’t he just shut up and done as he was supposed to? He wasn’t used to being assertive or speaking his mind, and that definitely wasn’t the time to start. The time to be assertive would have been as a teenager or younger. A lifelong pattern could have been established and he would never have ended up in this predicament.

He had always been just adequate in social situations, never exceptional, never someone people went out of their way to meet. He had never taken risks and so had never reaped any rewards. Only Ellie had been worth embarrassing himself, she was the only case where doing nothing and never meeting her would have been far worse than any humiliation he could have suffered.

He had written and sent out follow-up letters to the three places he had gotten interviews out of the fifty or so places he had applied. He called once or twice a week to see if there was any news. The job market really was a nightmare. High-degreed professionals, CEOs, were competing even for entry-level jobs. The available jobs, such as they were, were completely at-will. No contracts, no pensions, even 401K was rarely offered anymore. Benefits were extremely rare. The slightest blemish on your work record was justification to ignore your application.

Worse than that, it wasn’t just jobs in his field. He knew he was getting too old to do manual labor or food service, and so, he reasoned, did potential employers. But he applied anyway. The temporary agencies had nothing, which was shocking to him. Since nobody was hiring full-time employees anymore, he had thought the temp industry would be booming. He had begun to wonder how the temp agencies were staying afloat at all. Not a nibble in two months, for any job, however humiliating or low-paying.

Mulligan went back upstairs and resumed his job search. Though he had a positive feeling about the interview at Sheffield, despite the Gigatech inquisition, he knew it would be foolish not to find and apply to as many jobs as possible.

Chapter Three

Follow-Up

If one does not know to which port one is sailing, no wind is favorable.

~Lucius Annaeus Seneca

March 2010 (First Continuum)

Ring. Ring. Ring.

Thank you for calling Sheffield Community College, this is Ginger, how may I direct your call? Oh yes, Mr. Mulligan. Mr. Deshpande asked me to thank you for coming in the other day, but that we’re going to proceed with another candidate at this time. We will keep your résumé and application on file for one year. O.K., thanks for calling, buh-bye.

Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring.

Thank you for calling Metadyne Corporation, this is Chantal, how may I direct your call? Who? How do you spell that? I see. Let me just pull you up on the computer, sir. Ah yes, Mr. Mulligan, here we are. Yes, the position has been filled, but we’ll keep your résumé on file for six months. Yes, sir. Thanks for calling.

Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring.

Thanks for calling Sierra Marketing, how may I help you? Yes of course. Mr. Mullins was it? Oh, Mulligan. I’m terribly sorry, sir. Yes I’ll transfer you to Miss Collins now.  Elevator music.

This is Jillian Collins. Who? Oh yes we spoke a few days ago. I’ll be honest, I liked your tech experience but you don’t have any experience in sales, and I need someone who can hit the ground running. I’ve got no time right now to train anybody. But I’ll keep you in mind if we need any tech support. O.K., thanks for calling.

Ring. Ring. Ring.

Bob’s Hardware, Bob speakin’. Oh yeah, Mullins. Whatcha need? Hmm? Oh, no. Well to be honest I don’t know if this position is right for ya. Might bore ya, day in day out. I’ve got a couple more people to talk to, but I’ll keep ya in mind. Yep. Thanks.

Ring. Ring. Ring.

Thanks for calling Pizza Hut, can I take your order? Uhm…yeah the manager’s not available, he’s training the new guy. What’s that? Yeah, hired him this morning. Well if you wanna leave your name and number I can…. Click.

Chapter Four

Darkest Before the Dawn

Life is the art of drawing without an eraser. ~John W. Gardner

June 2010 (First Continuum)

Mulligan sat on the couch, his hand loosely clutching a can of beer. He hadn’t shaved in days, his hair was uncombed, and he needed a shower. He wore gray sweatpants and a dark blue t-shirt, both of which needed washing. A blanket and pillow on the couch hinted he might have been sleeping on the couch, and the half-finished chips in a bowl on the coffee table had been his only sustenance. He watched the morning news through heavy-lidded eyes, and his voice was hoarse with the morning phlegm as he muttered, sometimes breaking into a yell at the TV as the news anchor said unemployment numbers were declining.

He had been unemployed for months, the unemployment checks were running out, and Ellie had been working a second job to keep things afloat. After hundreds of applications and dozens of interviews without a job offer, one morning he had gotten up and simply refused to try. He had the vague idea that he might let new jobs accumulate online and in the newspaper for a couple days, to see if anything new appeared. He had spent all day every day, even weekends, searching job sites, newspapers, calling old colleagues, all to drum up leads. He’d put in at temp agencies, called head-hunters, looked in other states, looked overseas, anything that might lead to a job, all to no avail. The same jobs kept coming up in his search, not just the same type of jobs, but the same few actual positions.

He’d taken to beer in the last week as a way to numb the pain of failure, but it wasn’t working. It would begin to be expensive anyway, if he became alcoholic, so he was strongly thinking that this would be the last case. He’d had some desperate ideas for new businesses he could start, his mind flailing around for any idea to bring in money, but they all required money he didn’t have to get started. He’d put an ad in the papers and online advertising himself as a freelance tech guru, but then got calls from the state asking what licensing requirements he had. Apparently there was a several-thousand dollar fee to be self-employed if you were going into other peoples’ homes to do work, and several thousand more in insurance in case you really fouled up their computer. He’d abandoned the idea, and then become really depressed. He’d started watching late night television just to have some company in the long sleepless nights of worrying, and Ellie frequently found him asleep in front of the TV in the morning on her way out. She had been stoically silent about his condition, trying not to further bruise his already shattered ego, but she was beginning to really worry about him.

If he didn’t get back on the horse and try, she didn’t know what she would do. She’d never seen him lose confidence this completely. He’d always been able to pull through somehow, but he seemed out of options. Between jobs, she’d been putting out feelers herself for possible jobs for him, but even she had to admit, this was the worst job market she’d ever seen. There weren’t even jobs no one else wanted. But she hadn’t lost faith in him, not completely. As long as he still had a heartbeat he might still recover. This new business with the beer worried her more than anything, though. He’d never been a drinker, and this was not going to help him get back on his feet. Teddy the dog followed her into the living room and licked Mulligan’s face.

I’m going. She said. Are you going to look for work today?

Yep. Gonna go shower and shave and get dressed and have breakfast, then make some calls. There should be some news today. It’s Monday, you’d think they’re looking at applications and interviews for callbacks.

O.K. she said, sitting down next to him on the couch and putting her hand on his cheek. I know something is gonna come through. It’s gotta. Keep your chin up. And she kissed him.

I will, El. Have a good day. I love you.

I love you too. She said. She ruffled the dog’s fur and kissed his head. You help daddy out today, puppy, OK? She said, and went out the door.

He heard her car start and drive away, and turned back to the television. More pointless world news and celebrity gossip weren’t going to get him employed. He turned the TV off and stood up, a bit dizzy from being sedentary too long. He threw away the bowl of chips, recycled the beer cans, made some coffee, vacuumed the living room and the couch, then went upstairs, stripped, and climbed in the shower. It felt good after two days to wash away the grime. He shaved and even began to hum a bit. He felt strangely optimistic, and as he brushed his teeth, he suddenly got very eager to get on the computer and check his e-mail and the job sites. He got out, got some clean clothes on and combed his hair. He sat down in front of the computer and opened his e-mail. There were a few e-mails that said thank you for applying, but no thank you. There were five advertisements for erectile dysfunction drugs that had somehow escaped his spam filter; there was a letter from Ellie encouraging him. But no job offers.

He looked in his spam folder before purging the 150 pieces of junk mail. Third from the top was an e-mail that shouldn’t have been in spam. It was from one of the many job sites he subscribed to that connected him to employers. He unspammed it, then opened it and read.

Dear Mr. Mulligan:

After reviewing your résumé online, we would like you to call our office as soon as possible. We have a position available for someone with your qualifications and need to fill it immediately. We are a new company and very eager to get a programmer with practical experience within the next two days. We’ve checked with your previous employer, Gigatech, and find that the reasons they gave for your separation are an asset to our company. At Prairie Cyclops we believe in results and knowledge, not a lot of phony rules and protocols. In fact, most days we come to work in jeans and a t-shirt. If this sounds like an environment you’d be comfortable with, call us at 555-9738. Ask for Kevin. We hope to hear from you soon.

Kevin J. Edwards

Hiring Manager

Prairie Cyclops, LLC

Tech Solutions for Midsize Midwest Business

Mulligan’s heart swelled and he actually jumped up and danced around the bedroom laughing. The dog looked at him like he was nuts. It was the first real encouraging feedback he’d gotten in weeks. He decided to call them right away. He looked at the date of the e-mail. Friday. Well, this was the next business day, so maybe he had a chance. He called, thinking with a shiver how fortunate it was that he had looked at his spam before he deleted it. He started to wonder if he’d inadvertently deleted any job offers by not being careful. It wasn’t like him to be careless with technical details, but maybe the long unemployment had dulled his edge, or the beer had fogged him a bit. A tiny thing like a misdirected