Fresh spring air gently brushed Jack’s face as the field behind the Gasten Hosiery factory ushered in the light breeze. The tall grassy field was one of the few plots of land left undeveloped in the wake of the population boom that built Burlington. First brought upon by the railroads and then brought again by the factories, the small town’s hustle was becoming all for naught. The Gasten factory was a one of the few remaining relics of a time of economic success that was starting to wane in the quieting North Carolina town.
Jack looked out at the golden strands which waved gently back and forth, a metronome to his peaceful escape. He fiddled through his pockets until he fished out a silver lighter which had belonged to his grandfather or great grandfather – Jack never really knew; he never met either of them. The etched initials of his lost relative were no longer legible, scratched and worn from the generations before his birth. As he flipped the silver heirloom open, the cigarette between his teeth clicked to life. He sat, leaning against the brick wall of the factory as he continued to watch the vacant field as the sunlight lit up its dancing fibers. When his cigarette ran its course, he stamped out the bud as he stood up and rounded the corner to the front of the factory; this was how he spent his break each day. He found it extremely surreal, a simple escape from the business that chimed behind the factory’s heavy metal employee entrance door.
Yet today, Jack needed this break more than anything. The usual racket that on any other day would explode from behind the soundproof door was reduced to a mere hum. Instead, the real clamor was that which echoed across the parking lot from outside the factory fence. The employees that brought the busy Gasten hive to life were buzzing to a different tune; the strike was spreading like a epidemic.
Jack crossed the work floor which was sparsely littered with a couple dozen of Gasten’s most loyal employees. He knocked on the door of Frank’s office as he entered. Frank was leaning over his desk holding the phone to his hear, motioning with his hand and mouthing “hold on” to Jack as he entered. Jack looked around the small cluttered room. Frank may have kept his home and other affairs neat and tidy at the Gasten Ranch, but his office was quite the opposite. Manilla folders littered the desk some closed and piled up high while others sat wide open, papers overlapping so much that a stranger to the chaos wouldn’t know one set of papers from the other. Amongst all of the madness, a photo of Frank, his brother Scott who had passed some years ago from a car accident, and his father sat, seemingly being used as a paper weight. Jack who had been lost in thought as he studied the office was jarred back to consciousness when Frank slammed the phone down.
“That lawyer boy Wilson is stirring this all up,” Frank said agitatedly, “he is the son of Red Sutherland. Leave it up to that bastard to bring trouble to our door.”
“Who was on the phone?” Jack said as he took a seat across from Frank who still leaned over his desk, supporting himself now with both arms.
“One of our corporate amigos,” Frank said with a sarcastic flare in his voice, “they said if we can’t settle this before our next scheduled shipment, they are going to pay some overseas yahoos to fill their orders. And they aren’t the only ones who graced me with a phone call this morning.”
“So the factory, without our biggest customers we will –“
“This building will become another rotting piece of crap littering the town,” Frank said.
They both sat in silence for a moment. Frank finally collapsed into his chair and began rubbing his forehead.
“Wilson Sutherland is coming by around noon so he can ‘represent the working class’,” Frank said mockingly, “Nearly 20 years my family has run this place, and now we are going to lose it to some hot shot out of law school.”
The phone rang before Jack could respond. Both men looked at it, Frank’s face full of fatigue. He got up to leave the room.
“You take over for awhile, I need to rest for a few,” Frank said as he made for the door. Jack answered the phone. Before Frank could even get one foot through the door, he heard Jack calling him back to the warfront.
“Wilson is going to be early,” Jack said, “the security guard wants to know how you want to handle the situation at the gates”. Frank stared for a moment looking down at the floor. He looked up as if to accept he wasn’t going to catch much of a break that day.
Present
The morning sun that Jack had welcomed earlier in the day had been replaced by the afternoon one whose blaze was not strong enough to break the January chill in the air. He looked at his watch and noticed it was half past noon. He had spent the morning walking around the downtown sidewalks, getting a warm shave at the barber shop, and grabbing a warm coffee from a diner as he returned to the park bench where he had started that morning. He checked his watch again as if to make sure it was not playing tricks on him before he rose again from the bench and walked down the street.
Jack finally stopped near a payphone just outside of the diner he had coffee hours earlier. Reaching into the shelf under the phone, he was disappointed to discover there was no phonebook present. He peered into the crevice to assure his hands told no lie and was greeted by the emptiness within. Surrendering to his circumstances, Jack strolled into the diner and sat at the counter. Joy, the waitress who served Jack his coffee earlier, made her way down towards him, stopping once to provide syrup to a young boy who was enjoying a quite late breakfast. He smiled as the shimmering, dark liquid neatly travelled through the canyons of his waffle, pouring over the edge of the golden brown plateau onto the white plate below.
Finally making it to Jack, he exchanged quick pleasantries with her before requesting to see a phone book. She made her way near the cash register which lay on the other end of the bar. Jack studied her – more specifically the unnatural jet-black hue of her tight ponytail which Jack had concluded must be dyed. Joy returned with the big yellow phone book and plodded it on the counter. Jack peeled back its pages, quickly at first and then with diligent care as he neared the end of his search. Finally he found it. He fished out an old receipt from his coat pocket along with a pen, the end of which was worn by chew marks. He scribbled the number down and went back outside to the pay phone. It rang a couple times, and then there was an answer.
July 1977
Jack was not aware of the cold, impersonal touch of the metal table he rested upon until he was awoken by the sound of the door to the holding room. Hours of questioning with Detective Garrison had left him quite fatigued. Maintaining a truth is much more effortless than maintaining a life – especially to do it well. Jack could tell, despite the integrity of his act, Garrison was not quite satisfied; the man was clearly good at his job. The last few hours had proven to be a battle of wits, and neither seemed ready to surrender his charge; however, the Gasten’s had arrived to visit Jack providing him with the recess he so desperately needed. Garrison had gone off to get coffee though Jack half suspected he would soon return to his post behind the mirrored window; he had noted it earlier when he requested to use the bathroom during questioning.
Eve was the first to burst through the door. She rushed Jack and embraced him tightly. Jack had only been detained for less than a day, but he could tell the circumstances were wearing on his beloved wife. Despite her dismay, Jack could not help but notice a certain radiance about her. Behind Eve followed Emile and J.P., Eve’s adolescent brother, both of whom were glad to see him though it was hard to tell with J.P. who had yet to shake off his morning stupor. It had been 8 hours since Jack had turned himself in the previous night. It was unbeknownst to Jack that the Gasten’s had been waiting to since shortly after his arrest. No one had partaken in a good night’s sleep. Frank was the last to enter the room.
Jack’s suspicions of Garrison and the ominous mirrored glass were not far off. About five minutes after the Gasten’s arrived for their visit, Garrison returned to his vigil from behind its veil. Though he desired so dearly to know what was being said, the law protected the privacy of the Gasten’s during their visit; thus, Garrison strained to lip read, a task he quickly gave up. Instead he studied each family member carefully. He may not have been a good lip reader, but his proficiencies in deciphering the subtleties of body language made up for this deficiency.
Like a hound dog on a hunt, Garrison sniffed out his quarry. Of all the family members in the room, Frank Gasten was the only one who appeared unseemly. Though he had never met the man, Garrison could tell Gasten was not himself. The man appeared sickly as if a great ailment had befallen him; yet, this was something that could easily be attributed to lack of sleep or a seasonal bug. No, it was not his sickliness that Garrison was drawn to – it was something else. It was the look in his eyes, a heavy look. Garrison had seen it before. It was the composure of a man bearing a guilty conscience. Garrison had caught his scent, and he much intended to pursue it.
