NowHere

FIRST

Merridy, will you see me in my office after lunch?

Mr. Diehl doesn’t even look at her as his pudgy fingers tap her desk on his way past. His voice is gruff and monotonous as usual, giving no clue as to what he wants to discuss with her.

She sits with a mouthful of tuna salad sandwich, staring at the broad expanse of his blue dress shirt as he waddles through the door of his corner office, closing it behind him.

Why do I eat my lunch at my desk? I could be sitting out in the park feeding the birds, instead of letting him ruin my appetite. I’ll bet this is about the Main Street account. He probably wants to know why they canceled half of the brochures. Or maybe he just wants to rag on me for being late again.

She pulls out the Main Street files as she crams another bite of sandwich into her mouth and scans the headlines scrolling across the bottom of her computer screen. It seems every other one is something about Pakistan or Iran or Russia. Nothing new, there. A calendar alert pops up reminding her about the End of the World Party on 12-21. She smiles, picturing herself lounging between Jack's legs, passing a joint around and celebrating MisJudgement Day with her friends.

A click on her home e-mail account shows a message from Indymac regarding her mortgage. Probably just a reminder that she must pay by the 30th to avoid another $100.00 late fee.

Fat chance. My house is worth half what it was a year ago, but my mortgage payment just doubled. How do you explain that? They don’t pay me enough here to keep up with the rising interest rates. Good luck finding another job, though. Her lips twist in a sarcastic sneer. I better go start kissing Mr. Diehl’s fat ass.

Swallowing the last of the sandwich, she drops the Vitamin Water, chips and brownie back into the paper bag. Depositing it under her desk for later, she stands and heads for his office, files tucked under her arm.

She knocks lightly on Mr. Diehl’s door, just underneath the engraved sign reading

WARREN DIEHL

PRESIDENT

Come in.

She sucks in a breath as she opens the door, filling her lungs with one last breath of clean air before immersing herself in the stench of stale cigar smoke that is Mr. Diehl’s lair. He doesn't actually smoke in his office anymore, but the cigar is lying in the ashtray right between them on the front of his desk.

He is leaning back in his overloaded executive chair, the armrests almost obscured by the spread of his belly hanging over them. He gestures for her to take a seat in the threadbare wooden frame chair in front of his desk, and she tries not to let the disgust show on her face as he gurgles loudly and spits into a yellowed handkerchief, clearing his throat for the thousandth time today.

Merridy, you have been with Such a Diehl Printing for eight years now, and you have proven yourself to be an effective manager; your projects are usually completed on time, and the other employees seem to like you. He tilts his head down to peer over the bifocals perched on the fleshy hills of his cheeks. Perhaps a bit too much.

Does he know about Jack and me? I knew I shouldn’t have let him walk me to my car last week.

When she doesn’t respond to his goading, he continues. Your sales record, however, leaves much to be desired. Once you get a hold of an account, it seems the volume starts to head downhill. Even regular customers, like Main Street, have been reducing their orders in the past six months. We’re supposed to up sell, not downsize. Each sentence is punctuated by a slurping intake of air, making him sound like he is drowning in his own phlegm. She would be worried if that wasn’t normal for him.

She opens the file and lets out the reserved breath, suppressing a cough and preparing to explain when Mr. Diehl raises his hand, like five plump sausages attached to a pork chop, to cut her off.

Now, I understand that times are hard for everyone right now, and I wouldn’t want to send you packing without giving you a chance to redeem yourself. You take those sales leads I gave you last week and make some calls, and I’m sure you will be able to turn this thing around. You can wear that headset we got you so you don’t get a cramp in your neck. And it wouldn’t hurt to get an earlier start every day.

The hand plops back down on the desk, and Merridy understands that she has been dismissed. She rises, tucks the file back under her arm, and exits the office without a backward glance. Phoebe peers through her bangs with a pitying gaze, but quickly looks down and starts shuffling papers upon catching the laser beams from Merridy’s eyes.

The rest of the day is spent in strained silence, except for her furious typing of e-mails and printing of contact lists. Nothing can make her wear that headset, or anything else that wraps around her head, reminding her of duct tape and cigarettes…But she will call every single one of those customers tomorrow, and damned if that pompous old snotbag is going to blame the collapse of the economy on her.

Sure, her sales accounts have been slipping; all of their regular customers have cut back on their advertising budgets, and some have even gone out of business. Nobody else spends any time dealing with customers’ accounts, and the old man hasn’t even answered the phone himself since Phoebe came along three years ago. If anyone deserves to be sent packing, it’s her, with her squeaky voice and her perky little Howdy, Phoebe here! What does she think this is, Cowboy Printing?

He does have a point about being on time, though. She sees the smirks on the crew’s faces, and it makes it hard to get a good start every day, even if she is only ten minutes late.

As soon as the clock flips to 5:00, she closes the work files and starts to shut down the computer. The last window open behind everything else is her Facebook page, with a new message from her mother on her wall.

Will you go with me tomorrow to see Dr. Bleier? I’m sure he can squeeze you in to get that mammogram you’ve been putting off…get it, SQUEEZE you in? LOL ;-)

She rolls her eyes and blows her bangs up off her forehead. Oh, mom. Just because you put a funny little note on my page doesn’t mean it’s not still nagging. And don’t you think you’re a bit old for the text tags and emojis? Besides, I can’t drive you to the city tomorrow, I’ve got a big day of groveling and begging ahead of me.

Her fingers slip under the sleeve of her Such A Diehl T-shirt to slide gently over the smooth, raised circles of scars clustered there.

She’s just tryin' to help, you know.

Phoebe jumps back as Merridy sends her chair rolling off the carpet mat and spins around, ready to tell her off for reading over her shoulder, for butting in, for being so damn cute all the time. But the look on her face stops Merridy cold. She is biting her lip, clutching her hands to her chest, and her big, blue eyes look genuinely terrified. She looks like she is actually about to cry.

I’m sorry, Phoebe. Did my chair roll over your toe? It’s just been a really rough day. Are you OK?

Phoebe takes a quick breath and wipes her eyes, then runs both hands back through her blonde curls. It must be hard to be taken seriously when you look like a miniature version of Marilyn Monroe. She can’t be more than five feet tall, even with the spiked heels. The low-cut blouses and perfect makeup usually complete the picture of the self-assured Southern Belle, but right now she looks more like a china doll that is about to shatter into a million pieces.

Have y’all been payin' attention to the news today? I’m really scared. Somethin’ is goin’ on ovah in Pakistan, and I don’t think it’s just goin' to blow ovah this time. They’re mobilizin' the troops in Afghanistan and massin' along the bordah, and you know my Bo is ovah theyah. I just don’t know what I would do if somethin’ happened to him. I wish his tour hadn’t been extended again…

It takes at least fifteen minutes to listen sympathetically to Phoebe’s worries, calm her down and reassure her that the world is not about to end, finish shutting down her computer and dash into the bathroom. Catching her own eye in the mirror, Merridy drags her fingers through wavy auburn hair. She could be pretty, maybe even beautiful, if she took the time to put on makeup, style her hair just so, keep up with the latest fashions and all that, but it just doesn't seem worth getting up that much earlier. Besides, Phoebe already has that covered.

She is trotting across the street, digging the keys out of her purse to push the unlock button when she realizes she left her uneaten lunch under the desk. Shit. Well, hopefully the rats won’t find it before tomorrow. What the hell is that?

The paper tucked under her windshield wiper is a plain white, number 10 business sized envelope, and as she pulls it out she sees the Such A Diehl return address printed in the corner. She opens the door and plops into the driver’s seat, slipping her fingers under the unsealed flap with a worried look on her face. The note inside is handwritten on yellow lined tablet paper, folded rather unevenly.

Merridy,

I’m sorry to have to tell you this way, but I think we have to stop seeing each other (except at work, of course.) I know the Big Diehl doesn’t like employees fraternizing, but it’s more than that. You’re older than I am, you have your own house and everything, and I just don’t think I’m really what you’re looking for. You need a man who can be a husband and start a family, and I’m not even ready for that.

I hope you can understand. If you want to talk about it, I’ll be around this weekend.

Jack

Merridy lets the papers fall, crosses her arms on the steering wheel and bangs her forehead into them several times, punctuating each blow with a Shit! Shit! Shit! Shit! Shit!

It’s been a long time since she really let loose with a good cry, and this seems as good a time as any. Everything is falling apart, and she can’t do anything to stop it. The moan rises from deep in her chest, pouring out along with the tears, filling the car with her sobs of frustration. It feels good to let it all out, instead of listening to that sarcastic voice in her head and trying to deny how crappy it all makes her feel.

She listens to herself bawling like a ten-year-old, and thinks maybe she should take the day off tomorrow and go to the city with her mom. After all, the world is going to end, so what does she have to lose? She snatches a Kleenex from the box on the floor, wipes her eyes and blows her nose, but she’s not quite done yet. Listening to herself taking one more shuddering breath, she looks around to make sure nobody is walking anywhere nearby.

Twisting to look back over her right shoulder, she is embarrassed to see that her despair did indeed have an audience. Sitting on the tiny porch of a duplex apartment is an old woman wearing a bathrobe, fuzzy slippers, and a knitted ski cap with four points tipped with tassels.

Her face is so wrinkled that it looks like crumpled parchment, bunched up around a gap-toothed grin. She is nodding and raising one claw-like hand toward Merridy, gesturing to come closer. Though she appears to be nearly one hundred years old and probably suffering from dementia, her eyes are clear and bright, a gleaming sapphire blue that communicate an unmistakable intelligence.

Staring into those eyes, Merridy realizes that everything she is wearing is blue, though in wildly mismatched shades. She is certainly interested in Merridy, leaning forward to grab her walker and struggling to rise from the blue plastic chair crammed into a corner of the porch.

Merridy is frozen in fascination, watching the old woman over her shoulder as she pulls herself upright and shuffles toward the porch steps, never breaking eye contact. It is only when the front of the walker scoots off the edge of the porch that Merridy spins around, throws open her door and bolts around the back of her car to keep the old woman from tumbling down the stairs.

She hesitates by the bumper, one foot on the curb, when the old woman chuckles knowingly and points one gnarled finger at Merridy, as she stands poised precariously with one hand on her walker, still teetering with one leg hovering in the air.

Now the wizened face loses all traces of merriment, the wrinkles rearrange themselves into a serious combination of furrowed brows and pursed lips, and the hand raises up to point over Merridy’s head to the ridge of mountains behind her, in the direction of her home.

Still holding her gaze with those crystal blue eyes, the old woman croaks in a voice as dry and ancient as a mummy;

Go! Go!

Merridy cannot look away, even to follow the ominous skeletal gesture. Then, the spell is broken when the hand drops back down to maneuver the walker around onto the porch and the old woman shuffles off through the door of her duplex, slamming it behind her.

Merridy shakes her head and stares down into the gutter, wondering what the hell that was all about.

She plops back into the driver’s seat, searching for her keys on the cushion beside her. She finds them under Jack’s note, and snatches it up in her left hand as she jams the keys into the ignition and starts the car with a satisfying roar.

A harsh laugh escapes her now, and she rips the note into several pieces and shoves it into the trash bag hanging off of the gearshift.

"You’re right, you are too young for me, Jack. I should have been the one to cut you loose." She pulls down the sun visor and checks out her face in the mirror. At least her eyes aren’t too red. Not that it matters. Nobody cares what’s going on with her, anyway.

WHAT

Merridy wakes to the sound of her clock radio and hits the sleep button, telling herself that she will get up in ten minutes. Twenty minutes later she is throwing on her robe and heading for the bathroom, practically steaming from the warmth of the bed she has just left.

Crap! I’m gonna be late again! But there's no way I’m passing on a shower this morning.

On her way, she picks up the remote and turns the TV on without sound, preferring to filter out the bad news about the latest investigations and lawsuits, foreclosures and stock market swings. She can tell from the newscasters’ faces that nothing has improved. Behind them, a graphic pops up that she hasn’t seen before. It looks like a bumpy beach ball with antenna poking out all over it. Just before she reaches the bathroom, the President's face appears, then the newscaster speaking again, looking even more serious than usual.

I wonder what he’s done this time. What’s the fake news of the day? Whatever it is, it can’t be good. I guess I’ll find out who got fired today when I get home.

She asks Alexa to play some smooth jazz, and she frowns as she drops her robe and steps into the steamy warmth.

She brushes her teeth in the shower to save some time, and actually manages to look presentable by the time she rushes out the door with the usual peanut butter and jelly sandwich held in her teeth. No time to check her phone for texts or emails, though she could hear it buzzing away in her belly pouch while she was getting dressed.

Her job doesn't require her to deal with the public in person much, and ever since her years of art classes in college, she looks at clothes as mainly a way to keep paint and stuff from getting on her skin. Still, as she slips gingerly onto the ice-cold upholstery of her lovingly restored '68 Camaro, she catches a glimpse in the rear view mirror of bright green eyes framed by wavy auburn hair, and she likes what she sees.

Too bad for Jack. He doesn’t know what he’ll be missing.

The old car is as reluctant as she had been, and it takes five minutes of restarting and warming up before the gratifying rumble of eight cylinders grabs her and propels her out onto the road, driving fast to make up a few minutes. Traffic is full of the usual idiots who obviously have no work to be late to, but she makes it to the freeway in seven minutes, twenty seconds; ten seconds faster than yesterday. At twenty-eight, she is proud of her position as foreman at Such A Diehl Printing, but she just can't seem to set the example she should by being on time every day. Or ever.

Well, if this is the last straw for the Big Diehl, I’ll just jump back in my car and give my mom the good news that I’m on my way to pick her up and go get our boobs smashed.

Sweeping around the curve on her way into Van Nuys, her phone starts buzzing again, and a loud alarm sound interrupts the jazz playing from her bluetooth.

What the heck is that? None of my alerts sound like that. I promised Mom I wouldn’t look at my phone while driving. Damn, I liked that song.

She looks down toward her pouch momentarily and is suddenly blinded by intense light. The radio cuts off completely, leaving Merridy along with hundreds of other drivers coasting along in lifeless cars.

She blinks rapidly, trying to clear the blackness from the center of her vision and hold the wheel straight as the cars around her swerve and spin in and out of her peripheral vision. The roar of traffic is replaced by the sounds of tires squealing and metal crunching as she reflexively pumps her brakes, hoping to avoid being rear-ended as she wrestles the car toward the shoulder. Struggling for control, but thankful that she doesn't have power brakes or steering, she is relieved by the gradual return of her vision, as if her eyes were adjusting to sudden darkness.

She slams the brake pedal down to the floor as she rolls way too fast onto the gravel, wincing as car after car smash into the center divider, the guardrail, and each other in super slow motion around her. She stops with a grinding thud against the brick wall, and jerks hard against her shoulder belt when a minivan spinning out of control slams into her rear end.

Her terror is momentarily distracted by the incongruous sound of the engine roaring back to life, and the speakers, now blaring radio static at full volume, makes her clap her hands over her ears until one hand flies out to hit the power button.

She jerks her head left, staring directly into the terrified eyes of a young Asian man pointed the wrong way in his green Volkswagen beetle just inches from her window. Their eyes lock, mouths hanging open in shock, and watch each other scream as their cars are thrown upward on a wave of asphalt. Even through the window, she can feel the heat engulf them, and Merridy sits gripping the steering wheel with white knuckles, tears streaming down her cheeks as she gasps for breath, seeing everything and nothing at all.

ALWAYS

I have been silent for a very long time, drifting serenely through my existence, unable and unwilling to communicate with the others. While some of them are either cold and unforgiving or passionately hot, I have always been warm and nurturing, singing in tune with the universal music. Some of them noticed when my singing stopped, but it was so long ago, and the change was so gradual, that they failed to see how my color seemed to fade and my touch became withdrawn. So they keep their distance, rarely asking for anything, and it takes a very long time for any of them to notice that something is wrong. A very long time.

In the quiet life of the family, there is no hatred or envy, not because we like each other particularly, but because there is simply very little communication. Each of us is so different from the others, there is no way to co-exist but to accept and ignore. Thus it is that when I begin to scream out in pain and fear, the others cannot comprehend the need for comfort. They cannot help even if they were able to understand the cause of my pain. My groaning and trembling is so violent that the others, alarmed as they are, give up trying. Only the Maker understands when I withdraw completely under the black cloud wrapped like a bandage over wounds too horrific to expose. The Maker does not try to offer comfort. The Maker simply waits.

NEXT

To escape from her car, she is forced to roll down her passenger side window, squeeze out against the brick wall and climb over her roof and the Volkswagen to escape before any of the gasoline leaking from somewhere catches fire. She flinches at the sound of breaking glass, but is glad to see that the Asian man has managed to break a window and escape from his car as well. There are too many crushed and overturned cars everywhere for either of them to help, and after they each determine that the other seems uninjured, he turns abruptly and starts walking fast back the way they came.

Now that she is out of immediate danger, she thinks of her mother. Her apartment is about a mile from the freeway, just off the next exit. Merridy starts walking along the shoulder, picking through the debris and trying to ignore the screams and crying, the blaring horns and car alarms. She looks up fearfully at the mountains that separate the San Fernando Valley from L.A., following the ridge line down to the pass where the freeway eventually leads.

She stops breathing for a moment, and her heart actually skips a beat when she sees the unmistakable mushroom shape of the cloud rising beyond the flat, brown line of the hills.

Oh, God. I hope mom didn’t head into the city early this morning. As she crunches through glass and steps over puddles of oily liquid, she pulls out her iPhone and dials the number repeatedly, despite the circuit busy signal that blares at her with each attempt.

Dialing again, her foot lands on something soft, and she moves the phone aside to see her toe planted across the neck of a stuffed brown bear staring up at her with shiny black eyes. A creak draws her attention to her left, but she immediately turns away from the sight of the overturned pickup truck with the little girl hanging upside down in her car seat, her arms dangling above her head, dilated eyes staring sightlessly through bloody broken glass in the direction of her lost toy.

Clamping her hand over her mouth, Merridy gives up dialing and starts running down the exit ramp, praying that she will find her mother safe and unharmed. Well, uninjured, anyway. There is no such thing as safe anymore.

Thankful for her sensible work shoes, she keeps running through the surface streets, noticing every new crack in the pavement, chimneys lying across lawns, cars left smashed together in intersections, the smell of natural gas coming from somewhere. There are people everywhere, sitting dazed and bleeding on curbs, carrying crying children, staring out of windows, and running in every direction.

The noise of air raid sirens, ambulances, police and fire engines is constant and deafening, rising and falling in a cacophony of panic and alarm. In the intersection one block to her left, she can see one of the fire engines slowly weaving its way through the debris of crushed vehicles, evidently trying to answer a call for help. Suddenly, the engine stops and firefighters leap to the ground, pulling hoses and gear to squelch the fires and rescue those in need right there in front of them.

Merridy realizes that if she does find her mother injured or trapped, it will be up to her to rescue her as best she can. Her mother’s building is just ahead, around the next corner, and she slows a bit to catch her breath.

She jogs past the corner of the Jack in the Box and is relieved to see that the apartment building appears to be undamaged, though there are a few bricks lying on the sidewalk, and the smell of natural gas is so strong she can taste it. She puts her head down and starts running across the street, hoping that she will be able to get past the security door somehow.

The percussion feels like a linebacker tackling her full on in the chest, and she is thrown backwards onto the hood of a parked car, where she lays unmoving until the ability to breathe returns.

What the Hell was that? It can’t have been another bomb, or she would not be thinking anything right now. But it was a huge explosion. Her ears are ringing from the blast and from the impact of the back of her head on the metal hood.

Rolling off of the car, she bends down and gingerly runs her hand down her leg, determining that nothing is broken, though her entire left side feels bruised and beaten. Looking up, she stumbles and falls to her knees in the street when she sees the cloud of dust rising where her mother’s apartment building had been standing just moments before.

As she struggles back to her feet, the hair on top of her head is singed by the fireball that erupts out of the rubble, and she staggers back around behind the car to shield her from the heat. There is no hope of rescuing anyone