Homebrew - a NaNoWriMo Novel - Day Three

First things first... I had completed part of chapter one yesterday, but I went back and added some in the middle of it and then added the rest to the end. So I decided to just repost chapter one in it's entirety. You don't have to read the Day Two post if you don't want to.

Flying with Turkeys!

Our greatest glory is not in never falling, but in rising every time we fall.
-Confucius

March 27, 2011

"... and so it is incumbent upon each member of this team to ensure total quality of the project by using this empowerment to focus upon eliminating all defects in each module prior to including the module in the project." droned Benjamin Davidson, manager of QC. Ellen Connoly had a hard time staying awake during QC meetings. Even with two cups of Rashid's extra-strong coffee in her, Ellen felt her eyes slowly closing. "...Furthermore... Ms. Connoly! If you find this subject not to your liking, perhaps you'd rather come up here and take up a new one!" Ellen, eyes now wide open, bolted upright in the chair, looking around at all her co-workers. Some were even stifling laughter! By the heat on her cheeks, she knew she was clearly blushing.
"Um... No Mr. Davidson. I'm sorry." Ellen temporized, "I just didn't get a good night's sleep last night. Please, excuse me." 'I need this job, she thought, bitterly, and here I am looking like I don't care about it. What a perfect way to blow it.' She reached over to the nearest pitcher and poured the remainder of the lukewarm coffee into her mug and took a deep swallow. 'Ugh. Well, the taste alone should keep me awake through the rest of the meeting.'

* * *

“Ellen? Ellen! Wake up, Ellen! We’d appreciate it if you would be so kind as to attend the meeting mentally as well as physically. Since it’s YOUR project we are discussing, you MIGHT want to pay attention. You may even have something of value to input.”
She groaned silently, hearing the snickers from her fellow project workers as she opened her eyes and shifted in the chair to look at her boss, Benjamin Hamilton Davidson, although ‘Sir’ or ‘Mr. Davidson’ was the approved mode of address. Mr. Davidson stared back at her, eyes glaring with the red glint of an angry boar. ‘Ellen, girl, you’ve gone and put your foot right square in it, this time,’ she thought!

* * *

The QC meeting finally ended. Ellen stood, stretched and began to file out of the room along with the other workers. As she reached the door, she was brought to a halt as Davidson said, "Ellen. Could you please stay here for a minute?" Ellen let Barb Serman and Rashid Kumaj should past her, heading out the door.
"You wanted to talk about something, Mr. Hawkens," Ellen asked?
"Close the door, please, Ellen," Hawkens replied. He waited until Ellen turned back to the table before saying anything more. "Please, sit down. I'd like to discuss some issues with you that have recently come to my attention."

* * *

Ellen struggled up the staircase leading to her apartment, the box containing her personal possessions fighting to slip from her hands and the day’s mail threatening to fall from her purse. When she reached the door she chose to put both down, needing a respite to still her shakey hand before she could unlock the door.
Once inside, she abandoned the box by the door and flopped onto the couch with such force the frame groaned. ‘Stupid furniture,’ she thought. ‘I’ve had enough bad news today. I don’t need to deal with reporting a broken couch to the complex manager.’
Sighing, she leaned into the corner and pulled one leg up, not quite laying down, yet not sitting upright.
“I might as well deal with the rest of it now,” she muttered to the empty room and pulled out the mass of bills and junk mail. “I’ll need to know just how long my savings will stretch. Gawd! What if I can’t find work before it runs out! I’m NOT moving back in with Mom and Dad!” She sorted out the junk mail from the bills, making two neat piles, yet one envelope, nine by twelve inches and feeling stiff as if it contained a brochure, gave no clue as to which pile it belonged. The return address stated it came from something called “UN-OPS”, based out of Las Cruces, New Mexico; that was no help. And the way it was stated, her address made her feel they’d gained her address from the mailing list from the Association for Computing Machinery. She hadn’t been an active member for almost a year now, ever since she went to work on her current assignment, well, last assignment after today.
“Whoever sent this just wasted their money, but I never could resist a mystery,” she told the room as she opened the envelope. The expected brochure slid out, pulling a form letter out with it. She put the brochure aside and concentrated on the letter. It opened average enough.
“Dear Ms. Connoly,

It has come to our attention that you are an eager young programming professional. We’d like to invite you to consider applying for an opportunity of a lifetime!”

‘Hmmm…’ she thought, ‘it’s a head-hunting letter. Still, just who is UN-OPS and what do they mean by ‘opportunity of a lifetime’? I think I might just apply. After all, it’s not as if I’m tied to a current project.’
She scanned further down… “That’s strange,” she said, “There’s no clue just who UN-OPS is. Wait a minute. I can apply online. Thank goodness for the Internet. Who knows, I might be called for an interview; I wouldn’t mind blowing out of Minneapolis for New Mexico. Minnesota’s so dreary this time of year.”
She headed for her home office which she’d set up in the second bedroom.


May 28, 2011

J'Shawn Williams cruised down K Street, heading for work at the mall. It was a boring job, but it paid for the car and his schooling. Sometimes he wondered if he should have gone after the Master's degree; so many of the courses were bogus, taught by professors who still hadn't figured out that Socialism didn't work. Ah well, he'd finished the last exam of his last semester, it was a sunny day and the radio was tuned to a new all-Rap station. He cranked the volume and dropped the windows to let some of the Bass rhythm blast out to the street. Pounding the wheel to the beat of the music, he slipped into the turn lane, waited for the oncoming traffic to thin and darted into the vast expanse of the mall parking lot. He headed around to the back where the employees had their parking spaces.
Bwoop! Bwoop! J'Shawn's eyes darted to the rearview in dismay. Damn, he thought, It's Carruthers! He's gonna bust my ass for playing too real. This is the third time this week! He cut the radio, pulled over and waited. Sure enough, the rearview showed Gene Carruthers getting out of the mall security truck. J'Shawn watched as he stepped out, hitched up his gun belt, reached in for his nightstick and shoved it in the proper loop, placed his billed cap squarely on his head, seated it, and then tilted it slightly forward and grabbed his ticket case. Closing the door, Carruthers reached up with one hand, tilted his head and radioed in to the guard office. Only Gene Carruthers could make such a production out of exiting a car, thought J'Shawn, and watching him makes it all the more believable that Carruthers was a cop wannabe. By this time, Carruthers had reached J'Shawn's door. J'Shawn looked out and up at the security guard, pasting a bored but somewhat innocent look on his face.
"If it isn't Mr. Williams," drawled Carruthers. "Y'know, GEE-SHAWN, we have rules against noise pollution on mall property. You can't just go around spilling all that crap out the window at such a high volume, pretty as you please. Besides, no honest-to-God, hard-working real American would listen to such noise. I'm afraid I'm going to have to give you a ticket." He smirked down at J'Shawn as he said the last line.
"No, Gene, you can't," J'Shawn snapped. "You haven't shown me any evidence that my music exceeded the limits set in mall regulations and you know as well as I do that I've gone to the expense of installing a system that specifically won't reach or exceed those limits. So just stuff that ticket right back in it's case." He glared up at the guard in defiance. However, Carruthers continued to smirk down at him. Uh-Oh! J'Shawn thought, Something's changed or he'd be flipping me off and waving me on my way, by now.
"You should keep up on the mall's rules and regulations. Several regulations were changed in today's Mall Council meeting."
"That's today! It was scheduled for next week!"
"Seems that several of the council members will be going out of town next week. It's vacation time, don't you know... It is now a mall regulation that the measured sound from a vehicle's music system cannot reach higher than 80 decibels when measured from ten feet away from the vehicle. An' I just measured you at 82 db! I gotcha! Here's your ticket!”
As J'Shawn started to drive away, he heard Carruthers call after him, “Oh. Yeah. I forgot! Have a nice day, Gee-Shawn!”
“Crap,” muttered J'Shawn, “This is my third violation in less than a month. That means I’ve got to go before the mall’s Disciplinary Committee. They could take away my parking permit, which means I’d have to take a bus to work!” He pulled into an available parking slot and got out of his car, locking it, and hurried into the mall.

* * *

"Afternoon, Ms. Dennehey," he called, "Sorry I'm running a bit behind schedule, but Carruthers pulled me over on my way in." J'Shawn donned his apron and hat and began pulling chilled dough and fresh vegetables from the cooler. This was the best part of the shift, prepping the toppings for the assembly line.
"J'Shawn? Oh good. You're here," Alison Dennehey replied. "Before you get deep into work, there's some things we need to go over. That can wait."
"Okay." he said, and stepped into the tiny office behind her. She waved him to the small chair as she sat in her own behind the desk.
"J'Shawn. This is hard for me, so I'll just come right out with it." Ms. Dennehey glanced down, shuffled some papers and looked back up. "I'm afraid Sunrise Pie by the Slice has hit a rough spot and I'm forced to make some cuts in staffing. I had thought to reduce some hours but upon review there's just no way I can make it work, save cutting personnel. As Assistant Manager, your wages are the highest of all employees; by cutting you, I can meet my goals with just one elimination."
"Hunh?" his stomach hollowed. "You're firing me? You can't be firing me; I'm the hardest worker you have. Besides, none of the others can work the early shifts. This just doesn't make sense," J'Shawn pleaded.
She hung her head. "Look, I realize times are tight…"
J'Shawn interrupted her, "No. Don't lie to me. I also do your books and make the daily deposits. And at the last mall meeting, they said that this place, Sunrise Pie by the Slice, was one of the most profitable eateries in the food court. There's got to be another reason." He saw her flush. "I'm right, aren't I?"
"Yes," she admitted, "I knew I couldn't hide it from you. It's the other store owners. I've had complaints. No, nothing in writing, but if I don't let you go, things will get worse. The association is already talking about raising my fees… perhaps even force me to take all deliveries only during a narrow window of time. J'Shawn, I can't afford to keep you."
"So what about me? I've put in five years here and I've always been a hard worker. I need this job, Ms. Dennehey! I've got bills that must be paid!"
Alison dropped her eyes and shuffled the papers once again. "I can help there, somewhat. Yes, they're forcing me into a corner, but it's still my business, all mine." She met his eyes again. "It's not much, but I can pay you for the rest of this month, all your accrued vacation and sick pay and I've even managed to scrape together one month's severance. I've got the check right here."
"So that's it? I'm supposed to just walk away from the job I've worked for over the last five years? Man! Ms. Dennehey, this isn't right! And what am I supposed to tell other employers? They're gonna ask, you know they will!" he stormed.
"I've written you an excellent reference letter. It's in the envelope with your check. And I seem to recall you've just wrapped up your Master's program." she said. "It's not as if you were planning to stay here forever."
"Yeah. You're right. But I was planning on working the summer while sending out resumes and applications."
"J'Shawn, I like you. You know I do. And it's with that in mind, I feel I must point this out. You're clearly a hard worker, intelligent, dedicated and competent. And you're a nice guy. However," and here she paused, "you make people uncomfortable. I've seen it in the eyes of customers and other store owners. It's the way you dress, the appearance you put forward; you look like a gang member, what with your tats, your doo-rag, your piercings and your off-shift clothes scream Blood."
"I'm not..."
"Yes, I know you're not a member." Alison interrupted. "But you look like a member. And we've been having gang-related problems these last few months. Which means that many people are going to be suspicious of anyone who dresses a certain way or who displays what could be mistaken for gang colors. I remember hearing you talk about just this reaction in one of your classes."
J'Shawn felt the anger rising within him as the memory of the events of that day flashed through his mind. His mouth tightened, his chest constricted and his hands balled without conscious intent. He inhaled sharply and released his tension on the exhale. "Okay, you're right. And when I'm honest with myself, I agree that I've been seeing the same thing. It just makes me mad, is all."
"You should remember that much of this is local to our city. If you look for work elsewhere, you should have less of a problem. Most other cities haven't had quite the spike of gang violence over the last year that we've experienced. Besides, wouldn't you need to move just to find work in your field? There isn't much demand around here for people who hold degrees in Anthropology and Sociology. Look, you've got a decent amount of money, nearly three month's worth of pay; why not focus on finding the career you've dreamed of?"
He nodded. It was a plan, he thought. Maybe he'd gotten too complacent having a job. Maybe he'd lost sight of his dream, his career plans, his desire to live his life, not the life everyone back in the neighborhood presumed he should settle for.
"You're right," he said. "I'm not saying I'm happy to lose this job, and I'll miss the income. Still, I do have goals and aspirations, goals I won't achieve working here. No offense, but I don't see myself ever buying a Sunrise Pie by the Slice franchise and if I don't, I've gone as high up the ladder as I can."

* * *

J'Shawn had finished up turning in his employee ID card, parking permit and keys for the store. Still somewhat upset, he strolled down the mall, taking one last turn around the strip that had been the out-of-school focus of his life for the past five years, stopping at a few locations to say goodbye to those other clerks and store owners with whom he'd made friends. Then he headed for the parking garage. Time to clear out and head home, he thought, and put into action the words he'd spoken.
As he reached his car, he heard a vehicle slow behind him. He turned just as "Bwoop! Bwoop!" shattered the air, causing him to jerk to the side. Yes, he thought, as his heart rate spiked, Carruthers strikes again.
"Well. Well. Well." Carruthers said as he pulled himself from out behind the wheel. "Look who we have here. If it isn't Mr. Gee-Shawn! Thought you might be crawling out here with your tail between your legs."
"What could you possibly want now, Gene?"
"I heard a rumor that you've been shit-canned. Could that rumor be true?" Gene's face split wide with the snide grin he used when delivering tickets. "So Ms. Dennehey finally caught you messing up. Musta been quite a shock to be discovered, eh?"
"Shove it, Gene! I was let go because of pressure from mall management." J'Shawn retorted. "Why do I get the feeling you're part of the problem, spreading lies and twisting everything each time you open your mouth."
"Watch your tongue, boy! I'm a duly appointed authority of the mall. I don't have to take any backtalk from the likes of you when I'm doin' my duty." Carruthers sneered, "And that's just what I'm doin', making sure 'disgruntled' ex-employees don't hang around causing trouble and breaking the law. I got the duty to see you off!" With that he pointed at J'Shawn's car.
"That there heap o'junk is in violation of mall rules. No vehicle not owned by a registered employee shall park in this here garage. I'm gonna have to give you a ticket."
"What the... You can't give me a ticket! I was an employee when I parked it. I had the right to park there!" J'Shawn shouted.
"Not n'more." Carruthers ripped off the ticket he'd written and stuffed it, with clear contempt, in J'Shawn's shirt pocket. "Now you're just a waste of flesh what don't have any reason to be in this here garage. You better get in that heap and pull out of here before I call the tow company. I hear that it takes thirty or more days to get a car released from impound and it costs around $1,500 bucks. You that flush? Oh wait. I forgot. You've got tons of that there drug money don'cha! Mebbe I better just call the cops and have you arrested on suspicion of dealing."
His fist moved of it's own accord, slamming into Carruthers' jaw and sending the security guard crashing into the security truck. The security guard slid to the pavement, fear beginning to show in his stunned face. J'Shawn stepped forward.
"You ever try to spread lies like that again and you will regret it," he growled. "I've taken the bullshit and bigoted crap from you for five years. No longer! You're an ignorant cracker who's bullied his victim for the last time. Do you hear me?" He stared down, holding the other man's eyes. For a long instant, Carruthers stared back, then, hesitantly, he nodded.
"Good. And you can take this ticket back. I've had it up to here," J'Shawn said, cutting the edge of his hand across his neck, "with your pushing and bullying. I'm not paying this. Don't bother filing it."
With that, he got into his car and drove off.

* * *

Taking care of his bills had been depressing. J'Shawn decided to relax a bit by browsing through his favorite online forums. There had been days the past six years when the only thing keeping him sane had been talking with the other participants about cheesemaking, brewing beer and baking artisnal breads. It had started simply enough with a class assignment to experience the life of an 1800's colonist in California. He'd seen the blacksmith hammering away and watched the other re-enactors plying their trades, but none of it had resonated with him, his experiences growing up in the Oak Park neighborhood of Sacramento did not run to long, hard labor for small rewards. And much of his time had been spent mashing buttons on his game system controllers.
Then he'd stumbled, quite literally, over a bag of wheat flour inside the dim room where the docent was holding a class on baking and bread-making. The scent of flour, yeast, sugar and dough brought back memories of the days when the wind would shift, early in the morning, and he'd smell the Wonder bread factory producing it's daily output. He'd stopped, watched, and finally he'd allowed himself to be cajoled into plunging his hands into the dough. The process of kneading the dough had given him a sense of place, of grounding. He'd taken the baguette he had made home at the end of the day. And he had nibbled on it for the rest of the week. By the end of the month he had bought a set of new baking pans, a stand mixer capable of handling large quantities of dough - he'd had to buy that one used online - and five books on the art of baking and bread-making. One of the books contained the URL for a bread-making forum.
It was there he heard about making cheese and brewing beer. Learning about these crafts had introduced him to a life outside study. As he got better, he had even gone to several local Renaissance fairs, where he had peddled the results of his hobbies. He'd never quite gotten into the hang of wearing all the costumes or staying in character, but he had learned from some of the best bakers, brewers and cheese-makers.
Before he started reading the new posts, he scanned his service provider's news page. One headline caught his eyes, 'New launch site nears completion'. Space, and the thought of being able to go there, was one of his most cherished dreams.
"I wonder what this is about," he spoke out loud, clicking on the link for the rest of the story. "Guess I have the time to waste checking it out, this of all days."
The story was interesting enough, although he didn't agree with the UN getting involved, he was all for building orbital power stations. Still, amortized over the life of the project, all the figures showed the per-kilowatt cost would be about half that of even the most efficient coal, oil or bio-mass power plant. The article went on to claim that the new system would not produce any of the ozone-damaging discharges found in most current generating plants. Always a good thing as far as he was concerned. He'd opted to buy one of the newer 'hybrid fuel' vehicles half-way through his Bachelor's degree, partially because of the saved fuel expenses and partly because he wanted to be as environment-friendly as he could. Not that he would give up his electronic toys and gadgets, nor his fine clothes, he thought.
At the end of the article he noticed a link, UN-OPS was taking applications. According to the personnel application page, they were looking for people who had degrees in Anthropology or Sociology as well as the more expected engineering backgrounds. It was a matter of minutes to complete the online application and attach his most current resume.

* * *
Later that evening, he found a response from the UN-OPS project. It contained an acknowledgment of receipt for his application. It also had a link to another page, where he found instructions for a skills and knowledge test. Some of the questions surprised him, like why did he favor red? He'd expected to be asked if he favored a specific color, but not to answer why. He persevered, feeling at first as if he were on a lark; eventually he grew weary of page after page of questions educational and questions experiential.
Finishing the last page of questions, he glanced up at the ornate nerligig clock hanging on the wall above his computer. It read two fifteen in the morning! He had spent nearly four hours answering the test! After such an intensive grilling they'd better damn well pay well!