Passageways & Portals: Rebirth, Part 1

He opens his eyes.

            The bright sky of the foreign world surrounding him momentarily blinds him as he tries to wake up from his haze. The ground beneath him is hard and dusty. The world spins around as he shuts his eyes tightly until he finds his bearings. His eyes adjust to the daylight around him and his equilibrium evens out after his case of vertigo.

            He realizes that he’s lying on his side in the fetal position. A spasm runs through his lungs and he begins to cough; a whooping cough, signaling his return to the world of oxygen, that forces him onto his back. As the spasms subside, he looks at the sky.

            No clouds dot the sky. No sun shines. Yet the sky is bright and blue. He does not notice the lack of celestial beings, though; he just basks in the realization that it appears to be a beautiful day. He sits up and looks at the world around him. Nothing but desert surrounds him. He’s surprised at the coolness of the air caressing his skin.

            As he looks around, he realizes that he’s in something of a desert valley, rocks jut up to the sky in every which way he turns to look. The more he observes, though, he realizes he’s in the midst of a crater. In the very center of it. Looking this way and that he sees that in every direction the wall of dirt, sand, and boulders that surrounds him is evenly spaced from him in all directions. Directly to his left he sees a mountain climbing up into the sky. Where it ends he doesn’t know for it climbs beyond the sight of his eyes. The length, width, and circumference of the crater surrounding him escape his perception. At this moment, he’s curious as to how he came to be here.

            He stands up and looks around him. How does one come to be in a place like this? he asks himself. He tries to think of how he got there. Then he tries to think of how he could have gotten anywhere. Where was he before this? Where was he before that? Who was he?

            The questions swirl around in his mind and make him dizzy. He plops back down on the dusty ground. He looks to the sky. How can I be if I feel like I am not? he asks himself. He can’t even remember his name. While his name might not clue him in to who he is he feels that a little more knowledge into his past might.

            Maybe it’s just a temporary lapse of memory, he thinks to himself. Perhaps if I just go for a little walk I’ll begin to remember. He stands up and begins to walk aimlessly toward the edge of the crater. He strains to remember something of where he came from and how he came to be here.

            Eventually his mind forgets what he’s trying to remember and turns to the beautiful weather and what a great day it appears to be for a stroll. He looks up into the sky and notices the lack of clouds, but feels there’s still something else missing. His eyes turn to the edge of the crater and he questions what’s out there beyond it. Could he possibly scale the steep grade and make his way out of the crater?

He begins to think that his situation may be more dire than he had imagined at first. What if he can’t make it out of the crater? Would someone eventually find him there? He realizes just how much he doesn’t know. He doesn’t know where he is. He doesn’t know when he is. He doesn’t know who he is. If someone doesn’t find him, or if he can’t crawl out of the crater, then he could die there of hunger or thirst. What would happen to him at night? He doesn’t know how the weather is at night, maybe it will become so cold at night that exposure will kill him. He doesn’t know where but he recalls something about how desert areas become extremely cold at night, and this does seem to be a desert like place.

            He begins to pick up his pace with each question until he finds himself sprinting for the edge of the crater. No thought is given to the physical exertion it causes him, nor does he think about the length of time it takes him to get to the end of the crater.

            When he reaches the edge of the crater he collapses against a boulder while he tries to catch his breath. His mouth feels parched and he realizes that he’s going to need water soon. He curses himself for his overexertion. After all, he still needs to scale the wall of the crater to get out. A pang of hunger hits him and a slight panic washes over him. He tries to calm himself. He knows he’ll never make it out of there if he begins to panic.

            At first he didn’t even notice the old man sitting on the boulder just above the spot where he rested.

The Black Ring: Chapter 1, Part 8

He went back to his desk and sat down to see that he was already two minutes late logging back into the phone, but he was in no way motivated to hop back on the phone. As he sits there contemplating whether to jump on or flee the institution, someone walks up to his cube and peers over the wall at him. “Hey, how's it going?”

“Hey Brian, I'm here,” Bryson replied before adding, “unfortunately. What's up?”

 “What are you doing tonight?”

“Probably going home, having a few beers, eating a snack, watching a little TV, maybe viewing some porn, and to top it off possibly blowing my brains out.”

“You sarcastic bastard. So am I to take it that means you're not coming?

“To what? Oh, tonight's movie night, isn't it?”

“Yeah it is, you thinking of changing your mind and showing up? We're playing Predator tonight. Please don't tell me you seriously forgot.”

Brian worked at one of the local movie theaters in town. Originally, movie nights started as a chance to preview movies before they came out. The theater workers had the opportunity to watch movies before they came out with a guest, so Brian took Bryson to see a few movies the week before they came out free of charge with free popcorn and soda. Then Brian learned that some of his coworkers at the theater would hook their PS3's up to the digital projector at the theater and play video games. This opened up a whole new world of opportunity. Brian decided to hook his PS3 up to the projector, but instead of playing video games he decided to watch blu-rays of movies that he didn't have the opportunity to see in theaters when they first came out. The opportunities were nearly endless, and now every Tuesday night they would get together with friends and watch the movies they loved in high def as if they just opened. Die Hard, The Big Lebowski, Jaws, Blade Runner: they were all available at the local theater now late at night, after the theater closed.

“Yeah, I forgot,” Bryson said. “I've had a lot on my mind the past couple of days.”

“Well, are you going to be able to make it?”

As much as Bryson wanted to relive his moment of empowerment watching Predator almost ten years ago, he really didn't feel like being around people at the moment. Sure, he thought, I could use the kick in the ass to effect change in my life at this moment, but I can't say that I really want to think about it or do anything about it right now. “No, I'm just going to go home and surf the web for a little bit and go to bed. Maybe I'll have a beer or to. I don't feel like going anywhere tonight though.”

“Seriously? You suck, dude.”

“You trained me.”

“To do your job and be awesome, not to be a pussy!”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, have a good night.”

“You too,” Brian says as he walks away.

Bryson puts his headphones back on, and hits the button on the phone to start taking calls again only to hear the beep signifying a call was coming in. “Client service, this is Bryson speaking. May I have your policy number please?”

The Black Ring: Chapter 1: Part 7

In the break room, past the cork bulletin board of useless customer compliments and company news, past the refrigerators filled with lunches no one will ever eat but they'll complain about if someone takes them, past the microwaves and coffee maker; Bryson makes his way to the vending machines. Not sure of exactly what he wants, he looks through the soda machine, a snack machine of chips and cookies, and a machine known around the office as “The Wheel of Death.” The Wheel of Death is a vending machine that contains burgers, chicken and fish sandwiches, and other assorted snack items that were premade with an expiration date. Bryson was never sure where the name came from, but it's possible someone had purchased a perishable item from the vending machine past its expiration date. If you want to take your life into your own hands, just grab something from “The Wheel of Death.” Of course, other snacks weren't any better. How were they able to maintain their freshness without an expiration date?

            As Bryson stands in front of the vending machine holding the soda, an older man walks into the break room and reaches into the refrigerator as he looks over at Bryson, “How's it going? You working hard or hardly working today?”

            Bryson pushed back tendencies reserved for a more sarcastic approach to a stupid question like this while answering, “I'm alright, you?” Lying was ingrained in the job.

            “Trying not to work to hard, it's against my religion,” he responded, laughing at his inanely brilliant joke. “Have a good night.” The man grabs a lunch bag and leaves the break room, and Bryson just glared after him. He hated that phrase, working hard or hardly working. It was, unfortunately, a popular phrase used by the easily manipulated who couldn't think for themselves. Even the guy who invented that phrase had to hate it, every idiot around the world in seventy different languages repeated that phrase on a daily basis. The guy who created that god-awful phrase probably wishes he died before he could have come up with such a phrase that was repeated by easily lead automatons regularly.

            As Bryson thought of it, other thoughts poured into his mind. He wished he could pound in the faces of anyone he talked to on the work lines who asked, “How the weather was?” Hey, if the weather was nice did they really think he wanted to be reminded that he was stuck here? If the weather was bad, well at least it wasn't bad enough where he couldn't answer they're calls otherwise they'd whine and bitch about how the weather inconvenienced them. If they seriously questioned the condition of the weather surrounding planet Forrester than maybe they should check the weather channel or the internet. People always liked to ask where he was located, and when he said Green Bay, Wisconsin another shit storm of stupid comments assaulted him. No, he didn't care about how the Packers were doing this season. No, he didn't care who Favre was playing for this season or if he was going to be in the league next season or if he was retiring for the umpteenth time.

            Then all time stopped. From the corner of his eye he saw her walk in from the other side of the break room. Her khaki skirt revealed legs that went on for days, or at least he wished they did so he could look at them forever. Her blouse was cut just low enough to reveal a little bit of cleavage, but not low enough for people to call her a slut. It was like the slow motion passing of the hot girl you see in some movies, complete with her mid-back length brown hair waving behind her as she walked through the room.

            “Hi,” she said as she passed through the break room with a smile that brightened the room around her.

            “Hey,” Bryson feebly responded back as she passed the room, leaving it darker in her wake. Women like that didn't go for guys like Bryson. What was dating if it wasn't about finding a mate and procreating? Girls like that procreated with beautiful people or strong people. All they really wanted in offspring was either a model or a body builder. Some of the geeks got the girls, but that was being they were funny, intentionally or unintentionally. Bryson was none of these things. His clothes were nothing special, and even if he did add a little muscle to his physique that he casually maintained from when he was in the Marine Corp he wasn't a strong man. He had his moments when he was funny, but nothing special and he definitely wasn't anything spectacular to look at. Even in an intelligence race Bryson had to concede that he was quite possibly the most average person on the planet. If he had to describe himself in one word that word would be: generic.

            He sighed looking in the direction she left as he finally settled on a Pepsi. He reached into his back pocket to grab his wallet, but when he looked into his wallet nothing but a receipt and a few pennies greeted him. “Son of a bitch,” he muttered under his breath as he replaced the wallet. Forget smart, he couldn't even tell you the balance of his wallet or bank account let alone explain the mysteries of the universe.

The Black Ring: Chapter 1, Part 6

After entering it to the system Bryson pressed enter and came up empty handed once again. He rubbed the back of his head and tugged on his hair in frustration. “I'm sorry,” the lies he told to keep his job, “but I still can't find you in the system. Do you have an account with us?”

 “Yes,” the interpreter replied for Paulo, “I'm calling about my credit card.” Believing that Paulo was talking about a card that was being billed for his account, Bryson pulls up another program to search for Paulo's account by credit card number. This is really starting to get ridiculous, he thinks as he asks for Paulo's credit card number, why no one is ever prepared when they called in to talk about their account will forever remain a mystery to Bryson. He hears some rustling around in the background through his headsets as he lets out a sharp exhalation of breath.

Finally, the interpreter relays the full credit card number to Bryson and he enters it into the system, once again coming up with absolutely nothing. Zilch. Nada. What the hell was going on here? Bryson runs his frustrated hand through his frustrated hair as he tells Paulo through the interpreter that once again there is absolutely nothing on file to prove the client should even exist, and by comparison maybe the client shouldn't exist if he was incapable of giving Bryson the proper information. Now he's curious as to the exact reason this client has called in today and why it was that he, Bryson, had to be the one to receive such a call. “Well,” the interpreter relays, “I just received my credit card statement and I had a few questions about some charges that appeared on there.”

Incredulously, Bryson asks, “Were you trying to reach the credit card company?”

 “Yes,” the interpreter interprets, “and I tried calling the number on the back of my card but they don't have a menu in Spanish I could follow, so I got a number off the statement and tried calling it.”

Bryson slams his hand down on the desk. I'm now late for my break because this fudge packer can't speak English, Bryson thought. Seriously, are you kidding me? “Sir, this is not the credit card company,” Bryson said. “I’m fairly certain if you call the number on the back of your credit card again, you could possibly keep hitting one or zero and you’ll eventually get someone that can get an interpreter to further assist you.” But don’t you ever call here again, chum bucket.

 “Thank you,” the interpreter said for Paulo, “I’ll try calling the credit card again. Have a good day.”

It’ll be much better when you’re off the line. “You too, is there anything else I can help you with?” Bryson felt no point in asking this, but it was still unfortunately protocol.

 “No,” the interpreter said, “that will be all for today.”

 “Okay,” Bryson replied, steeling himself for the next lie he had to tell, which at this moment felt like a whopper. “Well, I hope you have a great day,” and don't get hit by a car while crossing the street, or get the shit kicked out of you in the local gringo bar, or die of a massive myocardial infarction while taking a crap.

Paulo hangs up and the interpreter inquires, “Is there anything else I can do for you?”

“No, that'll be all for today, thanks,” Bryson responds. As the line goes dead he takes his headphones off and tosses them next to the monitor on his desk and just sits for a minute. In his head he's musing over the fact that the sound of every call that comes through those stupid little headphones seems to be the sound of the requiem for the death of his career and his dying life. Twenty-eight, and with every call he takes he sees his life flash before his eyes. This rut, this murderous rut, how would he ever escape it?

There's more that he wants out of life but he can't seem to find out what it is, doesn't the world owe him more than this? He knows the answer is no, but as long as he looks around and sees others take take take, he no longer feels he needs to give give give as a member of society. Unlike some though, he has a conscience, he feels, and he must continue to work as a functioning member of society. The real question is how can he get out of this funk. He can go back to school. But then where is the money and the time going to come from? He can look for another job. But what skills does he have to market to a new employer? He could drop out of the race and become a wino sleeping on street corners and park benches holding signs begging for money for food. Unfortunately he doesn’t like wine, and has never been one to rely on the kindness of strangers because strangers are rarely ever kind

He reaches over to his phone and pushed a button marked Aux and then tapped the 1 button. Finally, Bryson gathered the energy to stand up, and walked down the aisle past the rows of empty cubes that earlier held other representatives, trapped in their rooms within the customer service prison. Following the walls past more cubicles, formerly stacked full of representatives like hens in a hen coupe, there to take the never ending string of calls from the cretins who can't figure out things themselves, he made his way to the break room.

The Black Ring: Chapter 1, Part 5

“Customer service, this is Bryson speaking, may I have your account number, please,” Bryson spoke with a tone that, to him, sounded as if he was bored out of his skull. Of course, he couldn't help it after what felt like thousands of calls with the exact same greeting over and over and over again. Now he just prayed for an over and done call, after all, his break was merely three minutes away.

            “Eh, speak-a Spanish?” came the voice ringing through the headset covering Bryson's ears.

            Dear God no, Bryson thought. This call was going to take forever. “No, but I'd be more than happy to bring a translator on the line,” he lied in the happiest and least sarcastic tone he could muster. He was really thinking something more along the lines of: No, but if you go back to Mexico I'm sure you will find more than enough people who would be more than happy to further assist you in your native language, because I'm definitely not willing or happy to.

            “Thank you,” the client replied. Reluctantly, Bryson pushed the conference line and dialed the extension for an interpreter. There's no way his break was going to start on time now. With an interpreter call he'd be lucky to be off the call in time to end his shift.

            As he waited for an interpreter to come on the line, he wondered what he was doing. Here he was in this ridiculous office, sitting at his ridiculous cubicle, with his ridiculous headset, talking to this ridiculous client, waiting for this ridiculous interpreter. When the interpreter finally came on the line, he told them his name and the code number for his job site and as he did he was really just hoping the Hispanic gentleman on the line would drop dead before he could patch the interpreter into the call so he could simply take the break that was owed to him by his company thanks to state law.

            Channeling his agitation into a rainbow colored mini slinky, Bryson told the interpreter he has an ass of a client on the line who can't learn English and probably is an illegal immigrant, but he must service the prick like they're best friends. Naturally, most of the previous sentence doesn't escape his lips, but can easily be read through his tightly gritted teeth. He told the interpreter to ask for the client's policy number. The interpreter said she'd be more than happy to further assist.

            Bryson patched the client back into the line. “Hello, sir, thank you for holding, I have an interpreter on the line.” The interpreter translated Bryson's previous request as he looked around his drab cubicle for anything that could possibly lift his spirits.

            It has occurred to Bryson that this building, this place where he spends 40 to 60 hours of his week life, is like an asylum for the mentally ill, and this cubicle is his padded cell. If it wasn't an asylum then why does he come here every day of the week expecting a different result only to get the same crap handed to him day after day? Still, each day he worked his eight hours with the hope of getting off at the same time every day with good behavior, or as close to it as possible. It really was a meaningless experience wrapped in mediocrity. He looked around his cube, and even with the personal flourishes he felt the need to bestow on his work area, this place still appeared to lack any kind of warmth.

            After meaningless words spoken in what sounded to Bryson as childish gibberish are exchanged between the halfwit client and the interpreter, the interpreter relayed what could possibly be, but may not be, the exact words spoken by the client in a dialect Bryson can actually understand. “I'm sorry I do not have the account number, can you look me up a different way.”

            With a release of air that could be nothing less than a sign of exasperation, and with the feeling that much more was exchanged between the client and the interpreter than what was just relayed, Bryson says, “I can look it up by your phone number.” More mumbo jumbo is passed between the two Spanish speaking freaks before the interpreter finally returns to speaking something comprehensible in the form of a nine digit phone number. Bryson enters it into the computer and nothing is returned in his fruitless search to find this asshole in the system. “I apologize, I could not find you in the system using your phone number, if you could possibly spell your last name for me, I may be able to find you with your name.”

            After a moment of the client saying something irrelevant to the interpreter, the interpreter said in English, “R-O-D-R-I-G-U-E-Z.” As Bryson typed the letters, he thought, Wow they don't even spell like regular people. Bryson asked for the first name, and after a moment of that funky spelling the interpreter returned with, “P-A-U-L-O.” Paulo, Bryson thought, what kind of a ridiculous name is that? How about you drop the O and become an American, while you’re at it maybe you can learn English. Or maybe you'd rather change it to an A and get a sex change.