Seemingly Different.
Is anything ever as it seems? David Anderson, a 39-year-old office worker seemingly had the perfect routine.
Yawning in the retina-burning brightness of the nine o’ clock sun, David Anderson had just briskly drove by the bakers he – not usually – always bought his identical sausage and bacon roll from every morning at exactly six thirty. Still fumbling with the uppermost button of his white-collar shirt, his stomach growled at the sudden, unforeseen change in routine. In all fifteen years of working at one place, Anderson had never once been late – he still couldn’t believe it! He was old school and didn’t like the that every year, despite himself working at a call centre for one of the largest global tech companies, several ‘newer’ versions of the same smartphones; smart fridges; smart doorbells, among many more quite pointless products would be released each year like it was something never before seen and, of course, got exponentially more expensive. So, he stuck with his reliable buttoned flip phone from his late teens, and only bought a new computer when his had been worked so close to death it was on the verge of internally exploding and its obnoxious fans wouldn’t shut up. However, due to not even having a smartphone, he was without many of the apps the average person took for granted: maps, chat groups, even a good camera. One of the more relevant was the alarm clock function. His phone had one, but it had stopped working several years ago, so he’d turned to his late grandfather’s physical alarm clock. Anderson thought it had at least another week’s worth of juice before the battery in it died. He’d planned everything accordingly, as he always did – “never leave any room for error or surprise” was his colleagues’ most annoying catchphrase of his. Thus, when things didn’t go to plan, even as he was nearing his forties, he didn’t know what to do.
Arriving only once every hour, he’d missed the bus he always took to and from work, so had to take his knackered run-down family car. He didn’t have any family to use it with, but it provided a lot of storage space at least, however had been on its last legs for well over a couple years and he avoided using it when he could; not taking it to a mechanics out of fear they’d find a dozen problems and it’d cost him far too much. Unfortunately, the morning traffic wasn’t on his side and, although he knew he couldn’t have walked faster, the slow-moving hundred-car traffic jam made him want to try. If he wasn’t furiously tapping on his leather steering wheel, too anxious to actually try the horn for once in his life, or wishing he could’ve abandoned ship and ran the rest of the way, he was constantly checking his wristwatch, watching the creeping seconds pass by. Every time the traffic jam moved a few metres then came to a gradual halt, Anderson feared for the life of his car when it’d stall or the engine would splutter like it had tuberculosis. He felt the judgemental, prying eyes of pedestrians each time.
When he finally rolled up to the office car park, he made two laps around it to confirm that there were, indeed, no available spaces. Spending a further fifteen minutes doing circuits of the nearby blocks to find just one space, he eventually parked, sprinted towards the office a hot, sweaty mess, and fumbled the pen to sign in at the reception desk. Managing to write his name and the time down, he pushed the elevator button, breathing heavily; wiping the sweat drowning his face as is it fell from his glistening dark hair like a waterfall. Waiting half-a-minute before pushing it again, he vigorously mashed the button with his index finger until a cough from the interned receptionist, in a low, dulled tone, let him know that the lift was under maintenance for the day.
Rarely had David Anderson ever felt so unlucky. There was no word he knew of to describe how vexed he was. He took some deep breaths. Unclenched his fist. Humbly thanked the intern through gritted teeth. He only had to travel up sixty-three flights of stairs.
Climbing the stairwell, he grew tired by the sixth floor. Colleagues he didn’t recognise passed him by every now-and-then without even acknowledging his presence as he wheezed up the steps, drenched in sweat and his clothes sticking to his skin – his shirt feeling especially uncomfortable as he unbuttoned it on five separate occasions, hoping some air conditioning would turn on and cool down his skin. His legs craved to give in; his stomach whined; the heat exhaustion gave him a moderate headache and he felt overly nauseous by the time he reached the fortieth floor. He groaned out loud that there was only a little bit more to go, resisting the urge to travel up on all fours, knowing – at least when he was a kid – it was faster and less taxing. By the time he reached the fiftieth his body wanted nothing more than to collapse, and when he reached the sixty-third it was actively working against him. Staring down at his watch, waiting for his blurred vision to readjust and wiping the sweat out of his eyes, he was nearly four hours late, but by then he didn’t care, he just wanted a seat and a cold drink.
Dehydrated and starving, before Anderson was even able to open his three-dollar fizzy water, he was intercepted by his boss asking to see him in her office immediately. She and Anderson, he thought, had a good both in-and-out of work relationship. For a while he almost thought they had a thing between them – a spark. She was, to him, stunning. A beautiful brown-haired and similarly dark-skinned middle-class lady. She was snarky at times but overall a genuine woman who worked hard and took pride at what she did, even if it was being on the corporate ladder of a call centre, barking down orders from the top. She did it with elegance. With style. Unfortunately, he never worked up the courage to ask her out anywhere and eventually she stopped inviting him to conveyor belt sushi nights. In fact, the last time he ever went out to eat rather than buying cheap takeout or just shopping, was the final time the two of them ever spent out of work together. Wiping that frown off his face as he entered the cramped office behind her, shutting the door and closing the blind on her orders, he took a seat on an uncomfortable thin metal chair. His boss, however, remained standing; pacing back-and-forth until she could find the right words. Addressing him by surname, an unfamiliar sternness hidden in the back of her tone, piercing and, honestly, worrying him, she started by saying how disappointed she was in him.
The meeting passed by in what felt like a second. From him standing by the vending machines and being called into her office without time to rest, to him walking away with a cardboard box bursting with his possessions and a bottle of half-eaten sleeping pills given to him by his boss as she escorted him to the elevator. Despite being told it was working again, he took the stairs without looking behind him. He lobbed all his belongings into the back of his car, and he sat there – blankly. With no idea what to do with himself as the worst day of his life had battered him. His stomach growled; felt like it was eating him up from the inside.
Time passed. He didn’t know how long it’d been since his firing when he found himself at the counter of a bar, a dozen empty shot glasses and a plate of half-eaten food in front of him. Recognising the place, it was where he vowed to have one final drink before going sober on the night of his mother’s death. His mind full of despair, he couldn’t recall the last time something truly good or fun happened to him. For so long he’d trapped himself in a repetitive cycle of dull daily activities consisting of work, watching tv while he ate the same meal he never deviated from, then slept and repeated it all over again. Finally, it dawned on him how miserable his life was. Once it turned two in the morning – still pitch black outside besides the flickering streetlamp in the light mist – David Anderson was out at least a hundred bucks from drinks and food but was confident – confident of his next steps to a richer, fuller life that he controlled.
Returning home in the dead of night, grateful that the lift to his apartment was functioning, he slipped the keycard out from his slim, traditional fabric wallet and opened the door after the high-pitched beep. Automatically, the ceiling lights illuminated the hallway with a gentle yellow glow that relaxed his eyes. Stumbling through to the living room, Anderson kicked off his black laced ankle-highs, about to slump down on the decade-old brown leather sofa when an unfamiliar beige envelope caught his eye. Lying face-down on his polished wooden coffee table, he reached down and flipped it over. It was addressed to him. Ripping open the seal, his vision wobbling, he slid the letter out. Even though many of the words smushed together and blurred, even while holding it inches from his eyes, he understood the gist of it: a letter sent to him detailing how the L.I.W.E.E Corporation (who he worked for until hours ago) was shady and that they’re working on something dangerous and only he can help as a former employee. Dated from fifteen years ago, the signature was too blurred for him to read without some rest, so he threw it back onto the knee-high coffee table and retired to his room, turning the television on as he collapsed into bed.
Morning sunshine flooded the room once the grey clouds parted, waking David Anderson from his drunken slumber. Hungover, his head pounding and his stomach sick, the television had turned itself off at some point and his alarm clock – again – didn’t go off. Unsurprising. Too tired last night, he hadn’t closed his curtains at any point, but when he looked down at the watch he still wore on his sweaty, wet wrist – noticing he’d slept in everything but his shoes – it was practically noon! Then, the grogginess hit like a truck at full speed. He groaned and groaned and moaned before finally forcing himself out from underneath the covers and into the living room where he shakily slammed some bread into the toaster and took his butter out from the fridge. As he waited, his attention turned to the letter that still sat there from last night. He decided to re-read it; get the full context. LIWEE Corporation, the wealthiest and largest tech company in the world with influence over many different countries and the one he was ultimately fired by, were, according to the estranged letter, organising a shady deal that could spell disaster for the people who bought its products. Such disaster apparently included spying from their smart devices if that wasn’t happening already and practically total control over all the buildings, devices, and people who had their tech installed. The letter also mentioned that there was a keycard attached, belonging to LIWEE Corporation and that the keycard was so old it could be used to open every lock in the building, like a master or a skeleton key – one that the company had thought they destroyed all copies of but still worked. It was an old letter, as he noticed by the date on the envelope yesterday, however, it was specifically addressing David Anderson on that particular day of the present year. Additionally, it was also signed by him, yet he had no memory of ever writing a letter so unusual. About to dismiss it, instead shifting his focus to how it got there in the first place, he felt something more in the envelope. Opening it wide with two of his fingers, out dropped a metal keycard belonging to LIWEE Corporation from fifteen years ago.
Nothing was adding up. He wanted to dismiss it so badly, yet suppose he had written it, when and why and how did he predict he’d still be living in the same apartment? Questions flooded his mind, he needed to sleep on it, but if what the letter said was true, there wasn’t much time to wait around and decide, and since he’d just been fired and was determined to make something of his life, he said “fuck it.” Packing nothing but snacks and his wallet, he took the company keycard with him to his car and started the shaky engine. With an address to follow all the way from New Mexico into California to the abandoned old headquarters of LIWEE, he took his physical state maps and planned to drive through the cities and deserts in just over a day. Stopping at the gas station on the city outskirts to pick up a couple bottles of vodka, he officially started his journey – one towards greater things!
Rumbling along through cities and across motorways for nearly half-a-day straight, David Anderson felt his car jolt and complain so much that he lost count but by that point it didn’t fuss him, rather his mind was already consumed by the drink; his driving became increasingly reckless with each passing hour. Eventually, he reached the Mohave Desert. Dusty roads, the chattering radio cutting in-and-out as the hosts discussed a weather warning, Anderson’s vision blurred as his windows were down and he roared across the lonely, sandy roads, coughing up dust that flew in from the cloud his speed created. If it wasn’t for the fact he’d get covered in sand, he’d have thrown his top off ages ago thanks to the heat. Later, as he zoned out from the droning radio and focussed on a blinding light speeding toward him, he felt his seat shudder as the speed visibly dropped on the dashboard, and his car slid to a stop. First, he slammed the steering wheel. Next, he beeped the horn over and over again as if that would help, mostly using it as an outlet for his frustration which hadn’t been uncommon since he set off, constantly beeping at slower drivers on the roads in the cities. He swore. Throwing it out the window, he smashed his first emptied bottle of vodka and watched a crew of tumbleweeds casually roll past. Standing out of the car, he felt the wind had really picked up and the bonnet was smoking. When he opened it up he spluttered as fiery hot steam burned his hands and the hood of the car slammed back down before he managed to prop it up, almost catching his fingers! Distant vrooming caught his attention as he patted down his clothes of the smoke and dust, moving out of the way onto the sand by some dry cacti. The light he’d seen earlier was rapidly approaching as a reflective silver pickup truck zoomed past him, the passengers screaming profanities out the open windows as their blasted music stung his ears. Head burning, throat stinging, the car’s engine still rumbled but it wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon and his vision was too blurred to safely look into it - he couldn’t even touch the bonnet without his hands getting burned. Sitting in the driver’s seat with the door wide open, letting the breeze hit his moist grey work shirt he hadn’t changed in three days, he took his comically large map off the seat adjacent and tried working out where he was.
David Anderson: a 39-year old unemployed drunk didn’t have a clue what the map said but he did know one thing – he had a mission. He was chosen in some aspect. David Anderson – lost – slammed his car door, brought his map and what was left of his second bottle of vodka, and walked out into the harsh environment of the breezy Mohave Desert, alone.
Nate Daniels carried a cardboard box of his belongings with his name written poorly on the side in black sharpie. His car wasn’t in the greatest shape and he’d just spent the day drinking after being – in his opinion – unjustly fired from his job of nearly two decades. He was the perfect worker and yet employers don’t care. “They just don’t care – one mistake and you’re out, was that all it took?” He’d rambled on and on and on to his wife but she’d left him for another man the same day and he felt battered. Surreal but definitely happening to him, he felt depressed and taken advantage of. When the keycard to his home beeped, he slipped it into his back pocket, almost losing control of his box brimming to the point of overflowing and rushed indoors. Automatically, the ceiling lights turned on and he shouted for the blinds to open – which they did, too, on their own – letting the moonlight flood in. Dropping his box of things on the dirtied sofa, he went back to close his front door when he saw a small envelope laying on the doormat. Live, Laugh, Love. When he picked up the envelope, he flipped the doormat over. Very thin but something else rectangular bulging within it, he ripped the top of it open and emptied out the contents. A white letter and a keycard fell out into his hands…
