Frames Of Reference- Chapter 2

Gerard Kessel. 32. Unattractive. 

I type that into my profile before hesitating and removing the last bit. Too risky, these types out here don’t have a sense of humor. They don’t know how to relax, too uptight, every armrest gripped by pale white knuckles, all the neckties in a stranglehold. No, no place for humor in this industry. Humor left my cold dead shell a long time ago. 

I’m sitting in the middle of the room and it’s a balmy 98 degrees. This is, ironically, passable in Pueblo, although to me it feels like a slow and unrelenting dip in the lava dungeon. Even the papers in the stack are reacting- crinkling, slightly, their inherent properties unable to withstand the horrible onslaught. No air conditioning, I didn’t ask for any because I didn’t know I’d need it. Too late to opt in now. 

I stand up abruptly, go over to the window and shove it open with a visible effort, heavy frame with an old-fashioned design but it works OK. Probably dates back decades, it hasn’t been cleaned and there’s a thick coat of dust on top. Draw the shades back. There we go. Sun isn’t really blaring in my face per se, only halfway because it’s around 3 P.M. and my new office faces westward. But soon I’ll need to turn my desk around. 

Pace back and forth, wring my hands out like laundry, stretch with my arms curved up behind my head. Deep breath. Rinse and repeat. I feel as if I’m 5 years old, sitting in the waiting room at the dentist and looking at all the posters with the friendly anthropomorphized teeth.

This is a pretty good spot, I remind myself. Decent commute, barely any traffic- but then there never is around here- quick jaunt along Interstate 50, straight shot like a pointed arrow along all the rows and rows of strip malls, obsolete fast food chains, bankrupt small businesses, and the wind farm. And then I dip under the overpass, past the median, the slanted granite walls which open wide as if to welcome visitors into this forgotten world, and I’m all set. 

I don’t really like it here, I remind myself. No matter how thick into the weeds I get, professionally, I need to remember that I’ll be moving back to Denver someday, come Hell or high water, I’ll reach a breaking point here and I’ll need out. 

Pueblo is a forgotten city, a relic of the past, one of those places that never seems to change either because it doesn’t want to or is physically incapable of doing so. Truckers chatting via CB radios at the Carl’s Jr., regional radio blasting over the loudspeaker. Stopped there for a quick bite to eat on the way in, coffee and hashbrowns, a welcome sight. I was reminded of how low the ceiling was, how the eyes were glaring at me from every booth. They wanted to know who I was, and I stoically refused to tell them and kept right on chewing. 

And you think about how it could have been, if we gave a damn, how Pueblo could set an example for other places, build something for itself, something to be proud of, you could come from Pueblo and leave a legacy. No. Pueblo languishes in the dust, unspoken of by all except the haggard wanderers who line its barren avenues, broken brown cottages built in the ‘70s with artificial naugahyde, stone-lined pathways and rectangular basements lined with shelves of board games and cathode tube TVs. That’s Pueblo. 

Comforting, I think, eyeing the tree-lined boulevard which runs beside the lab. There’s something noble in it. One of the trees is of a species I can’t begin to describe, its weird branches clawing at the heavens, a variety of desert holdout with a mean streak. It looks resentful that I even bothered to notice it, beckoning at the pale blue clouds beyond its leafy shroud as if to tell me that I should leave well enough alone. 

I open the little bottle I’ve been prescribed, pour out two little white tabs, down them with the last of the horrible coffee, which somehow has lasted all this time. I ate breakfast at 10, but the coffee has stayed with me, two foul swigs from the dregs and then I crumple the withered plastic and throw it with disgust into the trash can. Lousy taste. I’ve never even preferred caffeine, but I felt it was a special occasion. 

When I got here, the receptionist- aging brunette with eyeliner and manicured nails, smelled vaguely of some cleaning solution, bouffant hairdo- pointed down the hall, told me to start processing forms. That it would be necessary to prove my worth to the Bureau, show them I’ve got the chops and the willpower. She didn’t have much fortitude herself. 

I don’t think I look bad, but I really have no idea. Probably should have shaved more, I’ve got a patchy complexion and I’ve noticed people making remarks about it. Bags under the eyes, too. Result of naturally supple skin, gravity causes everything to drop down. Lips, cheeks, the whole 9 yards, and you’re left with someone who’s a sack of marbles. 

I’m just about at my breaking point, almost to the extent of leaving and calling in tomorrow, wondering if he’s out on some important meeting or cruising in the Bahamas or sipping cranberry daiquiris atop some celestial palace overlooking Glenwood Springs, but sure enough, like clockwork, at 3:45, the agreed-upon time, the latch opens and he’s all smiles. 

Bradford is too energetic for his age, walks with the gait of a circus animal, and the corresponding stature- he’s been trained, sharpened, by years of service to a very specific cause, a particular station in life has reduced him to the most basic element of a man, a portly 5’8” well-dressed walrus at 75, slacks and a polo, ankles exposed and covered in a rug of gray hair. 

“Jerry! How’d you find the ride over here?” He has a prominent brow and two of the teeth on his left side are skewed forward at an angle. He knows I don’t prefer being called Jerry. 

“It was OK,” I respond dryly over my shoulder, my face hidden behind the branch of a potted fern. “About twenty minutes, give or take. Nice vistas.” He strides forward, notices I’ve opened the window, shuts it promptly. 

“Can’t do that,” he says. “Lets the bugs in.”

“There’s a screen,” I point out. 

“Not good enough, they get in through the holes regardless.” I reflect on the irony of an office which hasn’t been updated in years, one where the filing cabinets display a sheet of assembled mildew atop them, and the illusion of cleanliness Bradford attempts to project. He’s grime down there, churning in a vat of condescension and smug privilege. He’s the worst type of man, a parasite, a leech who takes without giving anything substantive in return. 

I see something of myself in him. 

Two weeks prior, I’d taken a video call with the codger. I figured I had Bradford down pat considering how he appeared on my monitor- he looked sort of like Ted Knight, I could envision him out all day putting on the wide-open greens. Here, now, in person, it dawns on me that he has more than a few tricks up his sleeve, he’s seen fresh meat like me before and can smell fear. 

“So you’re from Denver, eh?” he puts his hand on my back, caressing me, if his fingers were any warmer they’d be ironing my shirt. We’re walking out around the rear of the building, it looks as if it were built during the height of the Carter administration, has that clean cut EPA texture with the sheer tan walls and the jutting prominences. 

“Yes, Sir,” I reply. “Denver, but New York originally. Moved to Denver about ten years ago.”

“Ah,” he smirks. “New York. Why’d you move to this shithole?” 

“Novelty,” I respond. “You get claustrophobic in the larger areas like that. I needed- well, I guess that’s why I decided to take up this position. I’m attracted to smaller areas. Peace. Quiet.” I’m perspiring heavily. There’s a soda machine in the lobby but it only takes quarters and I have none on me. 

“Makes sense,” he responds nonchalantly. “Makes sense.”

“You’ll see how I processed those forms,” I beam. “Well-versed in Excel and Word, got a Master’s in Neuroscience from CU Denver, five years back- I’m a little rusty with it but I’ve kept up through a paramedic role at Swedish. Everything you asked for.” 

“Yes, of course,” he swallows a lump down his aged throat. “Wouldn’t accept anything less. You’re a fine worker, your record speaks for itself. You have any questions on pay?”

“No, none at the moment. $12,000 a month, correct?” 

“Yeah, as stated in the ad,” he goes on, his loafers descending at an angle toward the cracked pavement as we sojourn arduously forth. “That’s twice the average. Damn good offer I’m making you here, plus paid leave in the winter and summer. And a 401k if you ask. Our benefactors here are more than willing to play ball.” 

“Who are they?”

“Nobody you need to worry about, Son.”

“I mean- what is we do here? Process forms?”

“Something like that. I’ll show you the real meat and potatoes in a couple weeks. Until then, you stay in, just mind your time, fill out what’s on the line and you’ll be more than satisfied. And, of course, we pay for your house in Pueblo West. The one you chose from the brochure.” 

“Where do we get our funding from? The Coloradan government?”

“What?” he says, looking genuinely confused. “No, it’s a private industry. Look, I’m sorry for not telling you this beforehand, I should have been more upfront. We have virtually no ties to any federal or state-level bureau. We get our funds from a corporate office. That’s all you need to know. If you don’t like it, I can serve as a reference for you, somewhere else-”

“No, that’s fine, really. I’m not going to get as good an offer anywhere but here. I like it. Suits my needs just fine.” 

“Peachy, huh? Shake.” He puts out his right arm, expensive watch at the wrist, platinum dials spinning around multiple orbs. I grasp it and he encircles every digit with a weird fervor- jolting my muscles up and down, as if a current passed through us. I’m not used to such enthusiasm, it has no place in a transaction like this. It appears entirely genuine. 

“Hey, you have a wife, huh?” he glances at me with a raised eyebrow. 

“Yes. Sheila. She’s great. You haven’t met her yet but I’ll bring her around one of these days.”

“No need to,” he says, grinning ear to ear. “You can come over to the estate sometime! Hey, you know. We’ll make it a cookout- I can get prime rib and champagne sent in from Omaha- like you wouldn’t believe, I tell you what- how about next Tuesday?” I consider the logistics. It’s Wednesday.

“You mean this upcoming Tuesday, or the Tuesday after that?”

“Whichever you’d prefer.”

“Tuesday after that,” I reply. “I would have to give her a little advance notice. She has to call in specifically if there’s anything to keep her from the emergency room, they’re short staffed as it is from how she describes it and she’s adjusting as much as I am.” 

“Sure!” he belts. “No, I get where you’re coming from. After next sounds fine!”

“Thank you,” I say. ‘Seriously. This is a great position and I’m going to love it here, and pretty soon I’ll prove my worth. Once I get adjusted to it.” If I get adjusted, more like. If. There’s a vast chasm between being in an environment and comprehending it. 

“You’re going to have a wonderful time here, Jerry,” Bradford chuckles, pulling a ring of keys from his pocket and jingling them around before settling on the correct one. He approaches a supply entrance in the back, weaving his way around an old white van with tinted windows, deftly scales the two sun-bleached steps and slides home. 

“After you,” he says, his arm gesturing into a darkened hallway within. I can hear the air-conditioner going off in this section. I make a note to ask for it. He can do it, he must not have many other options at his disposal, and I’ll bleed him dry for everything he’s got. 

The instant I step inside, I feel a cold, nervous twinge, as if something is vaguely off. Could just be the fans blowing overhead, circulating coolant in tubes, turning this particular section of the facility into a refrigerator. But there’s something about how he’s walking forward, how he hides his face next to the wall, as if he’s embarrassed to be seen here, in this particular nook. Up ahead the light of the row of offices beckons, and I don’t want to stay back in this unsettling alcove. I race to join him. 

“I’m heading home now,” he says. “Nothing left on the docket today. You’ll want to get here around eleven, leave around five, so long as you process those forms correctly you’ll be in good company. If you have any questions, ask Carla-Jean out there, she’ll let you know anything.” He goes over to the rack, retrieves his checkered cap, which barely covers the silky pattern of threads combed into something approximating a pancake on his benign scalp. 

“Will do.”

“Welcome to the family.” And like that, he climbs into his slick Mercedes and takes off along the Puebloan avenue towards his property on the outskirts. I sigh. It’s going to be a long couple of years up ahead. 

Upon returning to my office I immediately open the window, let a cool breeze grace my forehead, and make note that the sun has indeed lowered to that point where it becomes impossible to look ahead, the point at which all drivers on any highway will curse the fact that their rearview mirror doesn’t fold out a few inches further. Under considerable strain, my blue long-sleeved shirt soaked in perspiration, my feet aching from the tour, I lift the legs of my desk up and swivel it around 180 degrees. 

Now I’m staring straight ahead, right at the door, and I’ll know whenever he steps inside the confines of this sanctum. Hope I’ll have enough time to close the window so he doesn’t catch it. If he asks, I’ll tell him it increases productivity, and he’ll laugh in that inimitable way of his and I’ll continue down the golden path. 

I fear the onset of night.