Kindred Spirits: Book Two of Solid Rock Survivors

By John F. Harrison

She's Determined to Make a Difference, Even If It Kills Her. It Just Might.

More than anything, Rosalyn Pitts longs to find meaning and purpose in her life. A calling. But with so much of her time poured into a soul-crushing job, it's hard to find energy to pursue lofty ideals.

After an especially traumatic day at work, R

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pressing Way Books
• Release date: Dec 21, 2023
• ISBN: 9780998056838

John F. Harrison

John F. Harrison wrote the Solid Rock Survivor series about tough issues and thorny questions Christians often face but rarely discuss. Besides being a writer, John has been a minister, a musician, and a business owner. He is still happily involved with three of those, and greatly misses his music. His greatest ambition is to get up eight times after falling down seven. He chronicles the tribulations and triumphs of deeply flawed people because he knows no other kind. Though a firm believer in hope, he doesn't own a single pair of rose-colored glasses. Find him online at www.jharrisonwrites.com.

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PART ONE

EVERY ANT

IN THE ANTHILL

CHAPTER 1

DESTROYER

A Friday in June

Someone always cried. And that wasn’t even the worst of it. What started in tears might end in real trouble. Rosalyn Pitts closed her eyes and rubbed her temples, but the pounding in her head did not abate. Her stress level had climbed all morning as she contemplated having to leave people disappointed, angry, and maybe even frightened. Roz, as her friends called her, had been through this twice before. For the umpteenth time, she wished she had discovered some helpful technique for softening the blow. Since she had not, she settled for putting a box of tissues on the round table and reminded herself to say something encouraging to each of the chosen.

Phil was first, and it soon became clear that he wouldn’t need any tissues. Phil had always been the guy with multiple irons in the fire. The youngest person in the department, he was full of energy and always hatching the Next Big Thing. Roz could almost see his attention drifting to Plan B and Plan C. He took the news of his job loss like someone relieved of an annoying chore. She informed him of his severance package, directed him to Human Resources, and thanked him for his contributions to the team. He left her office with a spring in his step.

Pam was next. An efficient worker, she had always held herself at a chilly distance from the other employees in the department. It was as if she were seething all the time, but under the surface. No one knew who or what caused this anger, but her prickly personality and self-imposed social isolation had made it easy for the decision-makers upstairs to let her go. She glared while Roz delivered the news and did not say a word when Roz thanked her and wished good luck as she left.

Two down, two to go. Best to get it done right away, as prolonging unpleasant tasks gave them more emotional weight. Roz picked up the phone and called Julianna.

I know why I’m here, Julianna said, before closing the door. Half the floor is talking about what happened to Phil and Pam. I assume I’m next.

Word traveled fast through the maze of cubicles, though Roz doubted half the floor knew yet. I’m sorry to have to say you’re right, she confessed.

How many are being laid off?

Company-wide, they’re reducing head count by thirty.

How many of us are getting the boot in this department?

Roz had no compunction about revealing the larger figure, as the company was going to issue a press release confirming it. While only four people from her department were being let go, details that granular were not for general consumption, so Roz kept the answer vague. There are only a few from our group.

Julianna leaned forward, as if keen to know the answer to whatever question was coming next. And how were the lucky few from our group selected?

Roz shook her head, her admonishing look making her feel like a parent who had caught a child reaching for the cookie jar before dinner. You know I can’t tell you that. I can only tell you about you. And you already seem to know about Phil and Pam.

Okay, tell me this about me. Was I selected because of my transition? I know you’ve never been comfortable with it.

Four months ago, Julianna had been Julian, one of only two men in the department. He had taken a brief medical leave. Upon returning to work, Julian had informed HR that he was to be known thereafter as Julianna, preferred pronouns she/her.

Roz studied her soon-to-be-ex-coworker. Julianna’s appearance was almost convincing. The floral Bohemian-style outerwear worn over jeans and a dark-blue top looked chic. A stylish haircut featured bangs that couldn’t quite hide a heavy brow ridge, and light makeup struggled to soften the angular facial features. The ever-present lace choker was doubtless there to obscure an Adam’s apple. Still, someone who had never known Julian might notice nothing amiss . . . until Julianna spoke. The voice was a tell. But that was no business of Rosalyn’s.

Yes, Roz had misgivings. From her childhood up, she’d been taught that male and female were distinctions of biology, simple and objective. Adults with two X chromosomes were women, while those with both X and Y chromosomes were men. Science had no way of swapping out the chromosomes from the body’s cells, so a person’s gender was an immutable characteristic. That had been a universal truth until a few years ago, when someone decided that biological sex and gender were no longer synonymous, and people could be whatever gender or genders they felt like. Despite the novelty of that idea, it was now socially unacceptable to gainsay it or even question it. It was as if a voter referendum had managed to repeal objective reality. At this rate, it wouldn’t be long until people sent twiggy anorexic women off to liposuction clinics because they identified as fat. Roz found it all surreal, and more than a little baffling. But regardless of her thoughts on the matter, she was certain that she had never discriminated against this person.

Julianna’s question still hung between them, so Roz replied, My comfort level is not at issue. It hasn’t affected your career here and has no bearing on your layoff.

I hope not, Julianna returned. I have friends at the Mass. Commission Against Discrimination. I wonder whether MCAD wouldn’t be a little suspicious of a trans woman getting laid off by her devout Christian supervisor so soon after gender reassignment.

Roz resented the insinuation that she harbored some hostility toward Julianna. Any hostility had come from the other direction, from Julianna to her. She had never said a disparaging word about Julian’s transformation. But neither would she celebrate it, and that fact might have been enough to get her branded as an enemy. A hater. She wished the culture warriors in her workplace could be as accepting of her presence as she was of theirs. Live and let live. That’s what she’d always tried to do. But for some people, that would never be enough.

Roz was smart, but not always quick on her feet. If there were a way to defuse and deescalate the tension without denying her own convictions, she would have jumped at it. Unable to think of anything, she settled for saying, I can’t worry about what MCAD or anyone else finds suspicious. I’ve told you the truth.

That’s what you say, Julianna began. But—

Yes. That’s what I say. Interrupting people was out of character for Roz, but she’d had enough of this conversation. Hurt feelings made her sound angrier than she intended, and she regretted that. With an effort, she moderated her tone. I also say that making implied threats is never a good career strategy for someone not looking to burn bridges. Julianna said nothing to that. I think we’re about done here. Make sure you see HR on your way out. They have a package for you. Good luck in your future endeavors.

While Julianna swished out of her office, Roz closed her eyes and willed herself to relax, rolling her neck and shoulders and taking a few slow, deep breaths. She knew she’d soon get over Julianna’s bogus accusation and veiled threat. But she’d been losing sleep for days over the irony of these personnel moves. Senior management had ordered job cuts to boost the corporation’s bottom line. According to the newspapers, the CEO’s compensation package rewarded her for hitting certain profitability targets, and she would earn $20 million this year for making the numbers. To help ensure this, Roz had to terminate four colleagues, none of whom earned over $70,000 per year. It felt wrong. She realized with sudden clarity that, whatever she ought to spend her days doing, this wasn’t it. She needed to find out what was.

But that would have to wait until this morning’s unpleasantness was over. She’d delivered the bad news three times, but all these were the beginning of sorrows. The hardest exit interview still awaited.

Roz picked up the phone and called the one employee she considered a friend. Trina had graduated from Framingham North High School the same year as Roz. By chance, they had both attended Mass Bay Community College and majored in marketing. Roz had transferred to a four-year college to get her bachelor’s, while Trina had not. But the two acquaintances reunited a few years later when they both landed entry-level jobs here at RHV Couture Corp. They’d renewed their connection over cafeteria lunches, sometimes daydreaming out loud about climbing through the ranks together all the way into upper management. Now Roz had to push her friend off the corporate ladder.

Trina stepped into the office wearing the gutted expression of a condemned prisoner walking the last few steps to the death chamber. All that was missing was a priest and a warden to accompany her. Looking at her face, Rosalyn’s heart broke.

I had a tiny crumb of hope until right this minute, Trina half whispered. When you called me, I prayed it wasn’t to fire me. I thought maybe you just needed a friend to vent to about what had happened with the others. I knew better, deep down, but I still had hope. Now that I see the look on your face, that hope is gone.

I’m very sorry, Trina, was all Roz could think of saying.

Nowhere near as sorry as I am. You’re still employed, yes? Roz didn’t respond to that, so Trina continued. When we last had lunch together, I told you that Steve and I had bought a house. We haven’t even unpacked everything yet. And now this happens? Unemployment compensation won’t replace my entire salary. How are we going to keep our house? Her pitch and volume rose. She was almost wailing.

Roz squashed the urge to pat Trina’s hand. I know the timing is bad for you. Not that there is ever a good time to get laid off. If there is any good news here, it’s that the economy is strong. Unemployment is low, and lots of companies are hiring. I’m betting you’ll find something in no time.

Trina rolled her eyes. That’s our Roz; brings her own sunshine to every storm. If you had to walk barefoot on hot coals and horse manure, you’d still find a way to look on the bright side. But all your sunny optimism can’t change how awful this is for me.

After a brief and awkward silence, Roz asked, What can I do to help you, Trina?

Trina looked at the floor for a long time. A thought seemed to seize her. One thing you can do—for the sake of our friendship. Tell me you tried to talk them out of letting me go. Tell me you fought for me.

Roz couldn’t say that, not without lying. This was worse than awkward. She tried deflection. I’m sorry. I don’t feel at liberty to discuss my conversations with the folks upstairs. If there’s some way to help you navigate the process—

You wouldn’t have needed to discuss anything, boss. All I wanted was a simple yes. You can’t say it because you didn’t fight for me. Trina was blinking hard. Don’t you even care that we’ve been friends since the ninth grade? We got hired here on the same day, like it was fate or something. The plan was to help each other make it. Be cheerleaders for each other’s career. Be accountability partners. What’s happened to you, Roz? You’re not a helper, a cheerleader, or an accountability partner. I don’t even think I can call you a friend anymore. Now you’re just a . . . a corporate minion doing the dirty work for the suits so they can keep their hands clean. Maybe you can live with that. I know I couldn’t.

Roz watched as Trina, red-faced and sobbing, fled the office. The face of the big wall clock was blurring, but Roz could still see it read 11:03. Six more hours before this work week ended. Six hours before she could go home, crawl into bed, and hide in a book. In the meantime, she had to keep up appearances for those employees who remained. A good leader wasn’t supposed to go to pieces and start crying in front of the troops. She had to hold it together for them. Sniffling, she reached for a tissue, only to realize Trina had taken the box.

Security called a little after 4:30. Because a pair of the terminated employees had made a bit of a scene near the break room, HR sent a security guard to escort Roz to her car. In the central corridor, the guard reached for the call button on the elevator. But Roz gestured toward the stairwell. The guard’s eyes widened for a second, but he wrestled his expression back to neutral and adjusted his course without comment.

No one ever expected her to take the stairs. People assumed she would take the path of least resistance. She was what her employer’s catalogs called plus-sized. Dating sites would say she was a bbw. Her doctor tarred her with the label morbid obesity. She knew it was a technical term, but it still felt like medical slang for disgusting. She thought of herself as a big girl, at least on happier days. On days like today, Roz settled for brutal honesty: she was just plain fat. To help alter that reality, she’d been taking the steps instead of the elevator for months.

On her way home, she stopped at the corner market for a pint of ice cream. Ice cream had been off limits for almost a year, though she had been planning to indulge on some yet unspecified special occasion. But tonight’s mood called for comfort food. She knew she would berate herself in the morning for this dietary lapse tonight.

Once home, she spread the local newsweekly on the dining room table and ate the ice cream in lieu of dinner. The paper was full of the usual stuff: road construction projects, small business profiles, sports news. One article caught her attention. It was an analysis of a voter referendum in which her hometown had opted to become a city. Roz found this news almost as upsetting as the day’s earlier events, which made no sense to her at all. She hadn’t much cared about the outcome when she voted, so why should she sweat the results now? She sorted through the facts. With around seventy thousand residents, Framingham was the largest town by population in the whole of Massachusetts, and the largest municipality in the nation still governed by the direct democracy of town meeting. Now, by a mere 108 votes, the electorate had thrown away the very things that had made the place special. As a city, Framingham would be an also-ran, fourteenth largest of fifty-seven cities in the Commonwealth, with a mayor and city councilors, bureaucracy, and the usual political foolishness. This was not her idea of progress. Maybe she wouldn’t care tomorrow, after the trauma of her workday had worn off. Besides, the newspaper was no place to look for solace. That’s what books were for.

Books were an introvert’s best friend. Roz had fallen in love with them as a child, and now her home was full of them. Every room in the house had at least one floor-to-ceiling bookcase in it. Entertainment, inspiration, education, and escape—especially escape—were never more than a few paces away. The historical fantasy novel in the dining room could deposit her amid the perilous intrigues of the emperor’s court in Tang Dynasty China. That crime drama in the living room could fill her with shivers of guilty pleasure as she experienced the fictional victims’ terror from the safety of her recliner. Books were the world’s greatest invention, the original teleportation device.

Truth be told, they were more than that; they not only whisked her away to other places and times, but they also held up a mirror to her soul. By learning what moved her, which characters she bonded with, which locations she felt most at home in, Roz could discover her true self in the pages of her books. Today’s events had blurred her self-image. She hoped the right reading material would restore some needed clarity.

She got ready for bed early and sent a text message to her friend Shawna Bell, inviting her to meet at noon tomorrow. Roz needed someone to talk to, so she was glad when Shawna agreed to meet. As wonderful as books were, sometimes what you needed most was a flesh-and-blood friend to talk to.

Once in bed, Roz turned to four biographies stacked on her nightstand. She had always been one to read several books at a time and was partway through all four of them. On the top of the stack was A Woman of No Importance. It was the story of WWII spy Virginia Hall, an American woman who had spied for the British and helped ignite the French Resistance. Roz had always loved reading anything related to WWII, and the true story of an unlikely woman who played a significant role in helping the Allies defeat the Nazis had been irresistible. But tonight, she couldn’t get into it, and she put the book down after reading a handful of pages.

Next, she tried a biography of William Wilberforce. Over twenty years of struggle, Wilberforce had been the primary driver of the movement to end the slave trade in Great Britain. But the sorrow Roz had been fighting all evening only deepened as she read about the life of this man who spent himself in the successful effort to make the world a more humane place for millions of people. Book two went back onto the pile.

She didn’t bother picking up the biographies of Beethoven or Frederick Douglass. Biographies, it seemed, were not a good choice for a night like this, since they are about significant people who did meaningful things. Roz was not a significant person, and her life was not meaningful. These books would only sharpen the contrast between her and their subjects. A book about her, unlikely as that was, would have to bear the title Minion. It would relate the trivial tale of an errand runner for the suits, a corporate functionary who killed friendships and destroyed dreams on command. And with that thought, she turned off the light and cried herself to sleep.

CHAPTER 2

THE BODY ELECTRIC

Brandon had no love for thieves, so he hated becoming one. Not enough to dissuade him from his task, though. A man does what he must. On the plus side, the weather was ideal for his needs. The evening’s fog and drizzle would decrease the typical Friday night foot traffic, and also hinder any security cameras pointed his way. The rain gave him a reason to keep his hood up and his head down. Anyone who passed by would be doing the same thing, so no one would get a good look at him.

The trick was not to look furtive. Skulking from shadow to shadow would only draw attention to himself. He needed to stride right up to this job and do it. He set his small toolbox down in front of the commercial van he had targeted. Opening the box, he eyeballed the license-plate bolts and surmised what size socket to use. A few turns of the ratchet did the trick. Brandon walked to the back of the van to repeat the process. He slipped both plates into the oversized pocket of his yellow slicker, closed his toolbox, and turned to go.

Beautiful evening if you’re a duck, eh? Why did some people insist on talking to strangers about the weather? Brandon raised his gaze enough to see a stooped old man shuffling along the sidewalk and peering at him. He knew the man must have seen him removing the rear plate. Maybe this was a test of sorts. Brandon decided not to ignore it.

Yep. Into every life a little rain must fall. Brandon tried to put the right mix of grumpiness and humor into his voice. He patted the plates in his pocket as if he had every right to them, and wished the old man a good night before walking away. Fatigue was setting in. It must be eleven thirty by now. He had one more place to go. He wasn’t looking forward to it, but at least it was out of the rain.

Brandon clambered up the staircase at midnight, moving more by feel than by sight in the artificial twilight. The faint orange-red glow of an exit sign provided the only illumination. The wooden stairs were steep, like a stepladder. Halfway up, he paused, hearing a skittering sound off to his right on the floor below. Rats. He couldn’t abide rats. City rats were too bold, too aggressive, and smarter than they had a right to be. At least their tiny footfalls were moving away, not getting closer. Thank God for small favors.

Reaching the top step, Brandon edged onto the landing, careful not to let the weight of his backpack unbalance him. He took a long stride over the square of sheet metal on the floor. He could not see it, submerged as it was in a deep pool of shadow. But memory told him where to place his feet to avoid jostling the steel plate or the cord that was fastened to it. Once clear of that obstacle, he swept aside the blanket that served as a makeshift curtain and stepped into the lightless interior of the place he hated most: home.

His fingers found the rotary switch that turned on the lamp. Darkness fled the room, but the pervading gloom did not. The light revealed a rough plank floor painted black, bounded by walls of unadorned gray cinderblock. It was a smallish space, cluttered with the evidence of life’s unfairness. Along the wall to his left, stacked milk crates and plywood shelving held most of his worldly possessions. On the opposite wall, a mattress lay on the floor, with neither bed frame nor box spring to make it a respectable bed. Near the corner, blackout curtains covered the chamber’s sole window. Not that he was missing out on any great scenery; the window overlooked a parking lot that served several drab light industrial buildings. By day, the lot was full of employee cars. By night, it teemed with street people who gathered to drink, shoot up, fight, and pass out.

From his backpack he withdrew dinner—a convenience store sandwich, a six-pack of Budweiser, and several bags of Goldfish crackers. Noise from the homeless hordes wafted up from the parking lot. He opened the first can and raised it in mock toast. To life in the Athens of America, the City of Champions, and the Hub of the Universe. Not that he wouldn’t get back on his feet again; Brandon Heckler was nothing if not resourceful. He reminded himself of that several times each day to keep despair from setting in.

Motivational affirmations aside, it was impossible not to brood about his previous abode. He’d lost the Acton condo in the divorce after that accursed woman dealt him the wound that would never heal. He wound up couch surfing for three months at the homes of his few remaining friends until they ran out of sympathy and patience. Now he lived in this refuge of last resort, an off-the-books perch on the top floor of a warehouse near Boston’s Methadone Mile. That made him not much better off than the addicts and crazies down there dozing in doorways and arguing with the voices in their heads. Preserving the slim distinction between himself and the urban campers cost five hundred dollars per month—cash only, please and thank you. Two big, beefy guys came around to collect the rent each month. They appeared devoid of both sympathy and patience, men it would be foolish to disappoint. Brandon always paid on time.

The apartment had no refrigerator, no stove, and no running water. The bathrooms were down on the lower floors, the ones occupied by the electrical supply company. Those floors were off-limits during business hours, so Brandon and the five other hard-luck cases who called the warehouse home had to take their daytime bathroom breaks at the McDonald’s half a mile away on Mass. Ave.

Though life stank now, he didn’t waste all his time on self-pity. He’d devised a plan to get back on top. Most of the required tools were on the shelf in front of him: a music playlist, four five-gallon buckets, a sink stopper, oversized hiking boots, a stout walking stick, and gloves. He added the final necessity to the collection, the purloined license plates. Tomorrow he’d put all these tools to use. Tonight, he’d allow himself to celebrate the changes that were coming.

One