Makeshift Minds: The Seamus Records, #2

By Daniel J Reeves

After several months of gainful unemployment, Seamus is ready to return to the warm embrace of the lower middle class. But when a spacecraft falls from the atmosphere, destroying both his apartment building and general sense of self-worth, he is reluctantly pulled back into the underworld of non-federal espionage.

 

Alys has just one goal, to escape the Stone Lodge Psychiatric Hospital. However her only immediately available accomplices are a convicted mass murderer and an imaginary friend who somehow knows things she doesn't. The world outside has changed, and it seems she's not the only one seeing things.

 

Makeshift minds are causing carnage.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Daniel J Reeves
• Release date: Feb 26, 2021
• ISBN: 9780648684114

Book preview

Daniel J Reeves

DISCLAIMER

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or lack thereof.

Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons – living, dead, or otherwise – is entirely coincidental, and consequently, an occasional source of childish glee.

The views expressed and actions taken herein are neither necessarily condoned nor condemned. The authorial voice exists only to bind events and exchanges together, if often through uncouth remarks and feral similes.

All rights are reserved, but known to start cracking onto total strangers after a third glass of blushy merlot.

©2021 Daniel J Reeves

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Dedicated to anxiety and self-sabotage, through which all things are made possible, if more difficult.

To Anjelika, Oisin, and Hayley – for acting as consultants and emotional supports along the way. I appreciate you all.

Cover design and actual artistic merit courtesy of the one and only Kelly Squirrell.

I

CHAPTER ONE

Cash Is Green

STOMPING STILETTOS APPROACHED .

Just in and to the left. Mr Marsaponi is ready for you.

The young man nodded and stood, before patting himself down in case the couch had swallowed his modern-day necessities. As he stepped, the e-tag embedded into his new and most likely shoplifted suit pants dug into his hip like the fingers of an enthusiastic lover.

Glass panels walled the corridor on either side, giving him an insight into the working conditions of the thirty-first floor. The general lack of desks in favour of armchairs and coffee tables conveyed that this was not a place where one worked, this was a place where one did business.

Newspapers graced wooden coffee tables where he might have expected digital tablets to feature. He felt it a strange twist of culture, that corporations considered obsolete technology to be a status symbol for the elite, instead leaving the latest and heavily consumed digital trinkets for the more impoverished.

In the room to his left sat Marsaponi, a shirt collar folded over his knitwear jumper. Marsaponi beckoned him inside and pointed to a seat opposite his desk. He glanced down at an open folder in front of him, then began.

So, tell me a little about yourself.

Well, my name’s Seamus, but everyone calls me ‘Dude’. I’m twenty-six and have been working in marketing for the last six years. He immediately regretted mentioning the mostly-affectionate nickname in an interview setting.

Marsaponi looked at him with the crease of a smile. Relax, kid, this is an interview, not an AA session.

Is that what you call the sales team meeting?

Dude had learned long ago that this joke would be a reliable hit with marketing executives. This time was no exception. A fondness for the remark grew on his interviewer as the seconds passed, the crease of his lips cracking into a grin as he shook his head and wrote something down. I like that. I might use that.

Dude tried to imagine the words being written, he envisaged terms like plucky or young or inexperienced, each a nail in the coffin of any possible employment from this group, given the seniority of the position described.

Now, why do you want to work at NewTech?

A flurry of unhelpful answers pounced on his consciousness.

Because you were literally the first people to get back to me? Because I’ve been unemployed for the last three months, since quitting my last job in the throes of a midlife, or more accurately, mid-twenties crisis? Because I can’t pay rent? Because fuck you and your lofty assumption that I am at all in a position to choose anything?

I love the ethos of the company.

A microsecond’s pause was enough for Dude to realise that this rosy sentiment alone could not sustain a whole response. He dug around for some nuance or context or other.

I’ve worked with NewTech in the past actually, yourselves being a client of my former firm. Through our dealings it wasn’t long before I became impressed by your commercial attitude – it was pretty clear pretty quick that you were leaders of industry.

The term leaders of industry allowed him to dodge the fact that he had no idea what NewTech actually did.

Marsaponi nodded. Your qualifications are certainly up to scratch for some of the roles we have here. The role you’ve applied for however, honestly, I just don’t see it for you. I don’t see you becoming just another member of the marketing team, no, I see you captaining your own team and working on our grander strategies. I believe we have the position of Executive Marketing Strategist coming up, and according to your references, you’re our man.

Marsaponi closed the folder. When can you start?

What? Dude could not stop himself from saying, Is that it? It’s that easy?

Interviews are easy, jobs are hard. His interviewer gave a friendly wink. You won’t be able to start at that position immediately, of course. We’re still diverting the necessary resources, but in the meantime, you seem like a bright chap who can pick things up easily. You’ll find a way to lend a hand, I’m sure. Before that though, there is a little nitty gritty to get out of the way, just a brief test of your cognizant abilities if you don’t mind, nothing too strenuous, don’t worry.

Dude nodded his consent, still sporting bewilderment.

Marsaponi produced a pair of headphones and a laptop. Plop these on. All you have to do is listen to the call recording, take note of the resulting action points in the text box there, then wrap the call. This should take no more than one and a half minutes.

Dude set himself up with the laptop and identified some kind of VOIP-like software he did not recognise.

What’s the test for exactly? he asked.

Oh just cognition and literacy. Think of it like an IQ test.

I’d rather not.

The call lasted about a minute. From what he could gather, it was a customer service representative receiving a call. They were experiencing a sort of system error. Dude wrote summarising dot points as the conversation went on, something his interviewer made grunts of surprised approval at, then clicked a button in the corner named wrap-up.

Flawless result, dear boy. Marsaponi made the headset and laptop vanish. I think you’ll be a real star champ here. Like I said, your résumé is astounding, and you’ve shown you have all the skills we look for.

Dude continued to digest the experience.

Finally now. Marsaponi grinned and snapped a wad of papers onto the desk, in much the same way a blackjack dealer might snap a picture card onto a hand of seventeen. Can you sign this quickly for me? I have a client meeting with human resources about our product roadmap that I think I’m late for. You know what it’s like.

There was a pen in his hand, though Dude couldn’t remember picking it up. He hesitated for a moment.

Come now. Marsaponi hurried with genial dismissiveness. You’re not signing your family and fortune away.

Not that I have either, he thought and squiggled some swirly something he had perfected as a child, but never properly reproduced as an adult.

Marsaponi grabbed him by the shoulders, kissed each cheek in an affectionate, forceful manner, and pushed him toward the door. Our receptionist shall see you out, and I shall see you tomorrow. Farewell!

The train took him home.

Dude was confused, but pleased, but suspicious. He remembered well the immense imposter syndrome that came with his first job out of university – in his case, compounded by having dropped out, nor even studied in the necessary field.

That’s what this is, he decided. Self-esteem issues, self-sabotage, fear of success. That’s the ticket. There’s nothing improbable about someone seeing your plainly visible, yet somehow indefinable value to a business, even if in a strangely immediate fashion. I’m just trying to trip myself up.

Dude didn’t believe any of it, but approved of the attempt.

His carriage spilled out onto the station platform, and he began the trudging walk home to an apartment building on the edge of Canterbury. It was very different from his previous tenancy in Marlborough. He had neighbours now, both above and below, which had so far turned out to be an unwelcome change.

The building in question came into view, along with a certain mustiness that pervaded the sidewalk and seemed to waft in with the night and waft out with dawn. His building was called the Albion and did not deserve the title. Though he wasn’t quite sure whether really any apartment building deserved a name.

A local resident sat slouched near the steps.

Mr Scheffield, Dude said in the most old-timey voice he could muster, what is the toll today?

One Mr Scheffield woke with a start. He swished his head around as though still assessing if he was in the same city he had fallen asleep in.

Dude knelt. How did we fare today old man?

Scheffield coughed. That high school teacher from your level still doesn’t make eye contact, fucking posh bird she thinks she is. ‘Bout to visit the old country club, are we? Not on a teacher’s salary you’re fuckin’ not! An awful, throaty, cloying cough followed this outburst. His temper settled again almost immediately. But the cleaner brought me a bagel.

He produced the bagel.

You’re saving it?

Treasuring, Dude, treasuring. How’s work been this week?

No work yet, but I did sign a contract.

This remark energised Mr Scheffield. "You what? Good work matey, astounding. Ah-stounding. He offered a non-negotiable handshake. I picked you for it, never say I didn’t pick you for it. Now you’ll finally be able to bring me a bloody bagel, too."

A bagel? Scheffy, son, Scheffy, I’ll bring you a whole bakery.

Your first cheque, Dude, your first cheque, I want you to come show it to me.

One, things don’t work that way anymore, two, I wouldn’t trust you with an empty bottle.

Mr Scheffield adopted a serious, recollective tone. A man can do a lot with an empty bottle. His eyes drifted.

And on that note. Dude dug a packet of cigarettes out of his jacket pocket and handed it over. I’m going up. See you tomorrow. 

And you, oh newly employed one!

Upstairs, Dude took a beer from the fridge, snapped the cap off on the bench corner, and pulled out a cardboard box from under his bed – delivered courtesy of his previous real estate agent. He rifled through an uninspired amalgam of useless trinkets until he found an altogether alien device named The Harvester, that Dude had thus far done quite well to misidentify as a Magic 8-Ball. He wiped the dust from its exterior and saw his reflection.

A question came to mind.

Is starting at NewTech a mistake?

He shook the ball with a vigour usually extended only to cocktail shakers and the fists that old men brandish at an orange sky.

Ask again tomorrow.

Fat lotta good.

Dude kicked the box back below his bed, took a swig of what he was resigned to calling dinner, and lay down. Without internet connection, his nightly entertainment became seeing how long he could stare at the ceiling light until his eyes watered and burned enough that he had to shut them.

NewTech, he thought.

Interesting.

The office building loomed above him, a symbol of corporatism to some, a beacon of tradesmanship to others. The elevator took him to the thirty-first floor once again. The receptionist from the other day resided there, welcoming him with immediate annoyance. The warmth of her greeting barely rivalled that of an unearthed corpse.

Are you lost?

I’m here for my first day...?

You’re on the wrong floor. You’re looking for the twenty-seventh. The thirty-first is for NewTech executives. She evaluated his jeans and crumpled button-up. I think you’re lost.

Ah, thank you. Dude skulked away into another elevator, regretting not having had the time to make a coffee this morning. He pressed the button and it glowed an oddly crimson colour.

Anxiety is the ultimate coffee, he thought.

When the doors opened, an almost identical reception greeted him. Even the receptionist herself seemed similar, but looking more as though made of plasticine than ice.

Excited for your first day? Her enthusiasm seemed generated by a pull string.

Yes? Yes.

Excellent, I’ll take you to your desk.

The doors by reception opened, and an immediate overflow of organic chatter and digital whirs poured through the gap. This office did not resemble his glimpse of the thirty-first, but seemed more akin to a chessboard, save for where the workspaces curled around at fantastic new angles to fit one more monitor and mouse pad. The receptionist led him to a little bay.

Team, she said without making eye contact with anyone, meet your newest recruit. And with as much ceremony as she had arrived with, she dropped a social smokescreen of utter unawareness and disappeared.

The other staff nodded and some murmured something, then turned away and back to their monitors. All wore a headset, many were speaking, some seemed to be taking their final breaths. It was strangely dark. Dude had sworn that it had been sunny this morning, but looking through the blinds now showed only a grey pastiche of other office buildings.

A clammy hand landed on his shoulder like a thick, damp flannel. He turned around, a clammier face smiled at him.

You must be Dude!

Fuck, I hope not. Yes?

Welcome to the NewTech customer interactions team, my name is O’Dogherty. Let me introduce you. He waved his free hand about him. This is Darren, he’s been here since April.

Darren had the thousand-yard stare that usually came from combat.

Over by the window is Cee. It’s not her real name, but the other one’s hard to pronounce. Cee was on the phone, speaking quietly into her headset about a duplicated invoice. O’Dogherty moved on. Over here you’ve got... umm... sorry, he’s new.

Igor. Igor turned in his seat and shook Dude’s hand.

After this clearly unauthorised interaction, O’Dogherty put a hand on Igor’s chair and turned it back to his desk. He continued with the introductions, And the one and only Joseph Scrimshaw, he’s been here since, shit, longer than me even. You’ll shadow him for today to get a feel for the gig. This is your desk.

O’Dogherty left.

Yes, that’s fair enough, Scrimshaw said into his headset. Yes, you can speak to my manager. I’ll transfer you right now. You’re welcome. He punched in four digits and knocked a headphone behind his ear, kicking himself over to Dude’s new desk and quickly launching a program called Bubblegum. Once open, he pressed a big grey icon in the corner, which then turned blue. Rule one, always be on Attention mode in Bubblegum. You get paid by the second here.

Dude felt a wash of overwhelm. Is this the marketing department?

Scrimshaw laughed, it was a kind of generous laugh doused in scorn and rolled in nostalgia. "So they say, technically, yes. Customer Interactions is part of the marketing team. But the rest of them are three floors above us. An understanding smile. What did they tell you, huh?"

They’re still diverting resources...

Scrimshaw shook his head with pity.

The hours until his lunch break went more quickly than expected. Dude wished to learn more about this place. As everyone else got up for their break however, O’Dogherty appeared and stopped him.

Have you had a chance to review our company values?

No?

I want you to read over this. A glossy booklet was shoved into his hands. It is forty-two pages of corporate wisdom, written by our founder and CEO. It will give you all the principles you need to be an A+ employee. Read it over lunch.

Dude looked at the front cover. The NewTechstament. It was brashly black and red in colour palette. He flipped to the index.

NewTech, new ideas, new faces, new futures

What work-life balance means to us

What is the attitude of a superployee?

Have you met your thought leader yet?

The term ‘thought leader’ stood out. He flipped to page eight.

Here at NewTech, we don’t believe in a hierarchical management structure. In fact, we don’t believe in management structures at all! Over the last few years, we have embraced this delineated style across each and every branch and division. Gone are the days of working set hours, gone are the days of the glaring supervisor. Allow us to introduce our thought leaders. These are NewTech employees just like yourselves, but who have distinguished themselves over the years for their insight and appreciation of our values.

It is their sole duty to do away with policy and instead usher in urgency. Out with rigid rosters, and in with unmatched workplace flexibility. Every employee is available for exciting new work shifts at any hour – more on this on page 55! Your thought leader is here to help you excel, help you prosper. They are the first line of defence against hubris. There is no need to watch your manners with them around, only your thoughts. So remember... think new, think NewTech!

Dude felt ill.

The fluorescent lights from the ceiling beat down on his eyelids. The blackish-greenish carpet blurred in front of him. A shouted invitation to join his team in the break room interrupted his spiralling. He acquiesced.

Scrimshaw, Darren, Igor, and Cee. The latter two were wrapped in excited conversation about an upcoming festival.

I see you’ve received the propaganda, Scrimshaw said.

Dude looked at the booklet in his hand. Is this place for real? Thought leaders? I’m surprised no one’s broken out an E-meter or got my tachyon reading or something.

Scrimshaw nodded with affected omniscience. It’s basically a cult, but without the group sex.

They continued with their packed lunches. The festival conversation continued, still excitedly. Cee had a poster from a bus stop. Moncton Music Festival, the most anticipated luxury festival of the year apparently, making its debut here in Sovereign. Dude had neither the money to go nor the inclination toward substance abuse in the company of total strangers.

The rest of the lunch break went by this way. The rest, he noticed, was just a few minutes. Unwilling to let his will already wilt in just these few short hours, Dude decided to speak to his thought leader about this afterwards.

O’Dogherty looked pleased to see him. Just the man I was looking for, we ought to catch up about that booklet.

How come we only get a twenty-minute lunch break?

That’s not true at all, O’Dogherty said. You get thirty minutes of break time. One twenty-minute lunch break, and then two five-minute breaks – one in the morning, and one in the afternoon.

I see. And can I take those two breaks at lunch time?

Sure, but you’ll have to stay back another ten minutes at the end of the day.

Why? Dude asked.

Because of your thirty-minute break.

But you said we get a thirty-minute break?

"I said you get thirty minutes of break time. But you can’t take a thirty minute break. It’s not in your contract."

Dude was determined to play this game. What if I took a five minute break, went one second on Attention mode, then twenty minutes of lunchtime, another second on Attention, took five more minutes of breaktime, then back to work?

O’Dogherty narrowed his eyes. You’re quite stingy, aren’t you?

"I’m stingy!?"

You should be back on Attention.

I thought you wanted to talk to me about the booklet.

I think you need to read it again.

O’Dogherty left, and Dude headed for his desk.

Over the afternoon, Scrimshaw went through some of the hoops and loops he had to learn in the computer systems, all while taking and making calls, or ‘interactions’, on behalf of a seemingly unlimited number of possible clients.

Dishwasher faults, dishwasher sales, dental reschedules, unpaid invoices, technical faults with the public transport system, life insurance sales calls, debt collection reminders, customer satisfaction surveys, residential solar sales, photo ID verification for a recruitment agency, unsolicited surveys for market research, and more. Scrimshaw seemed to know the answer to everything.

Dude intermittently leafed through the so-called propaganda booklet to keep himself occupied while the phone rang out.

The colour of your lanyard indicates your seniority within the company, much like the belts of the martial arts. White belts are precious pieces of clay, yet to be moulded into model superployees.

There were eight colours. Each subsequent colour after white denoted also an increase in pay scale. The final colour was black, just after gold. 

Black lanyards are to be spoken of in hushed voices. These are the tireless souls you may see about the office on their way to client meetings. These powerhouses of NewTech keep the company running and provide the necessary nourishment for optimal performance. One day, you could be invited into the Black Lanyard Society.

Keep reading that book and your brain will spill out your ears.

Dude shut it. Sorry. Where were we?

I’m about to call an eighty-year-old woman to tell her that her health insurance claim has been rejected.

Sick.

CHAPTER TWO

Into A Thunder

TEXTURED GLASS OBSCURED the view of the outside, letting only murky light into the waiting room. Alys sat by herself, or did, until another youth entered and sat by her. He said nothing, just sat holding the side of his stomach with one hand.

I used to have one of those.

She made no eye contact.

I got it off about a month ago now. The boy lifted up a knee and sat his foot on the edge of the chair. He rolled up his track pants to show off scarring around his ankle, though he still kept one hand clutching his side. Seeing his attempts at conversation were unsuccessful, he tried a more tempting approach. Do you want to know how?

Alys snapped her head to the side and squinted at him.

Let me show you, he said.

She weighed him up first. His chin and cheeks were patchy and unkempt in the way of a boy who wishes to look like a man, but does not quite have the growth for such an image. More importantly, he looked sincere. Alys lifted her leg, the pant leg of jeans pulling up by itself to reveal the modern shackle.

All you need, he said with wicked fascination. Is a screwdriver and something sharp like a box cutter or a small kitchen knife. The screwdriver you push into this corner. He tucked a finger under the bracelet. And the blade—he took the hand from his side, one smeared with blood—you slide through here.

The demonstration got a few smears and fingerprints