Mr. Gibson Goes to Work

By Timons Esaias
Illustrated by Elizabeth Leggett

On the way downtown, riding in the 61B, Mr. Gibson noticed that another bus, the 67, was being driven by an alpaca. Mr. Gibson knew that this was inexplicable, but the inexplicable held little interest for him.

Mr. Gibson was good at focusing on his own priorities. He had to be, because other people were always bringing their priorities to his attention.

Failure, he knew, falls to those who are distracted— by, for instance, alpacas in the transport industry. Or extinct creatures climbing the corner of the Fifth Avenue Athletic Club. A lot of good that was likely to do them.

What he wanted, more than anything, was to pay his debts to those who had once helped him. Things had been rough...well, brutal, growing up, and people had supported him, with meals, with money, through that time. He had kept careful records. He could enumerate his debts, and the interest that would have accumulated since then.

As soon as he'd gotten a decent job, he had created a trust fund, into which 40% of his earnings had been going since the age of twenty-five. The fund would start paying out to those he owed, proportioned to each debt, later this summer.

But he would never, ever see that day, or the better day when the debt was paid, if he didn't hit his deadlines, exceed his boss's expectations, keep his job.

That diplodocus crossing the street halfway between Smithfield and Wood, and holding up the bus, was not helping. Mr. Gibson assumed Hollywood was shooting another movie —he remembered having to dodge the Batmobile that time— but movies were somebody else's job, not his. He checked the time on his watch, he always wore a watch, and pulled the cord. He'd have to walk.

The dinosaur defecated all over the street, just as he was approaching the corner of Fifth and Wood. The bus wasn't going to be making any progress until they brought in a bulldozer.

The odor was unspeakable. No wonder the dinosaurs had been crushed by that planetoid, or comet, or whatever.

He knew the odor would cling to his clothes all day, but there was nothing to be done for that now. Other people seemed fascinated by the dinosaur, and the foot traffic flowed against him, but he turned into the Keenan Towers building with two minutes to spare.

Today he would work in shirtsleeves, his jacket sealed in a garment bag, to spare the office some of the lingering odor. He opened his office email page, but first he hit three macro prompts on his virtual desktop.

The first one kept the VP in marketing from snooping on the emails, phone calls and surveillance cameras of that young secretary in Legal. Now, if the VP tried to use the hacks he'd attempted before, the software would accidentally phone his wife, instead.

The second macro shadowed Georg Krenshaw, in Accounts, and checked his math. Georg had cataracts —and couldn't afford surgery— and couldn't see numbers too well, anymore.

The third initiated a tracking program, which told everybody in the office what room Mandy Kelterson was in, at any time. One did not, ever, want to be alone in a room with Mandy Kelterson. Mandy lived for opportunities that lacked witnesses. But Mr. Gibson knew Mandy's mother was dependent on Mandy's paycheck, so getting her fired wasn't ideal.

Getting himself fired wasn't ideal either, and each day he engaged the macros the risk nagged at him. Each day he did it anyway.

Half an hour into this workday, an "Ahem" from the door alerted him to his supervisor's nervous presence. And the presence was wearing that ridiculous tie. Oh dear.

"Yes, Mr. Cheltenham?" he said. He wondered where that last name would have come from, then chided himself for losing focus.

"You've probably noticed that things are a little chaotic around here," Cheltenham said. There was a huge eye staring from outside into the office window across the hall. Its pupil had to be twenty feet across, and there seemed to be some hexagonal sections in the middle. And no face, from what he could see, just that huge searching eye.

"I hope it's nothing I did..." he said, because that's how his mind always worked.

But Cheltenham waved him off. "The mayor has suggested that it would be wise to evacuate the area, given certain, um, challenges." Cheltenham clearly didn't want to name, or acknowledge those challenges. "Corporate agrees that it would reduce potential issues. So, sorry to do this, but we need you to work from home, for the foreseeable."

Mr. Gibson agreed.

"Which kinda means being on duty into the evening." The man checked his cell. "And, well, being on call 24/7. Maybe 25 or 26." He wandered off.

Like that will be any different, Mr. Gibson nearly thought, but packed up instead. He left the building on the side away from the Eye.

Gibson wasn't thinking about the Eye, though, or the Abominable Snowmen that were walking up Grant as he was walking down on the other side, or the poisonous, perilous flying popcorn monster. He was worried about his job. The branch numbers hadn't been looking good, lately, and this local disruption might convince Corporate to cut their losses, and close this unit. They'd been skimpy with training money for the last three years, and Gibson worried that he wouldn't be very desirable on the job market.

And that brought his debts to mind —not personal debt, of course, because he never had any— and he knew he could just cash out the trust, give everybody their share. They'd get something. But he'd been depending on compound interest to make the difference. Partial payback didn't seem like real payback.

At Oliver Avenue there were four armored knights trying to pull a sword out from under a semi-truck tire. The truck was wrecked, so driving it off the sword didn't seem like a solution. Hmmm.

A sound like a gas furnace turning on echoed up the street, and made him understand the urgency of their situation. Very large dragon, putting on an aggression display. The knights all looked partly singed, and there were others lying motionless near the dragon. Ah, and the weapons the knights had were damaged or broken. All four had scabbards, but they were empty, and the one with the blue cross on his surcoat held a handle that had only about seven inches of twisted metal extending past the crossguard.

They had been pulling at the sword grip in twos and threes. Clearly exhausted, all four had now stepped back, and were looking around for help. There was not much help to be had, considering the effects dragons have on pedestrian traffic.

Mr. Gibson didn't have time for this, but the people he most admired had taught him to lend a hand. Damn, he thought. Conscience.

He took out a handkerchief and stepped into the street. Stooping to the sword, handkerchief on grip and pommel, two hands tightly applied, he leaned back, expecting strong resistance. Instead, the sword slid out easily and his butt landed on the curb, rather painfully.

The knight with the shard in his hand reached out with the other and gripped Mr. Gibson's wrist. It pinched, but he was pulled to his feet. The sword had an interesting pattern etched into it, into which some of the tire had rubbed off. Mr. Gibson rested it on his arm, hilt forward, removing the handkerchief as he did so. Four heads consulted, and the youngest knight, if one can judge by faces, took it, and made a gracious half bow.

Mr. Gibson saw no more, because it was time to get back to business. Crossing the downtown area looked hopeless —buffalo, dyspeptic elves— so he headed up Liberty toward Polish Hill, and some bus options. He tried to gather his thoughts, while scrupulously ignoring the circling vultures. The whole security package for the customer interface needed to be updated, and this afternoon was about right for timing. The flowchart began building in his imagination.

The hand that roughly grabbed his already-sore wrist came from behind, and turned him 90 degrees.

"These ladies," said the woman in the hard hat, "require some assistance." The hat bore the insignia of the County Sewer, Water & Holisticity Authority, and her accent was unfamiliar.

The ladies in question were not really dressed for the late morning in an urban setting, especially not here, across from the Amtrak trainyard. He assumed they were models in a fashion shoot, being quite dazzling, each of them, in their low-cut goddess gowns. And such hair! But they all looked just a tad peevish, and one held out a golden delicious apple, very heavily waxed, and said, "We have one apple here. Which of us deserves it most?"

This was not the sort of question that was put to Mr. Gibson, normally. He had dealt with Management, however, for most of his adult life; and he had dealt with clients. He could handle this.

In his briefcase, easily extracted, was a Parnassus Brand tube sectionizer. He took the apple, placed it in the lower chamber, closed the tube, worked the slide, opened the upper chamber, extracted the apple in six uniform slices, and gave each of the models two slices. It was his turn to bow slightly —good for avoiding eye contact— and he was on his way. With luck, he might catch that most vital link in all of civilization: the 54C.

Shadow on the street ahead and sound from above made him look to the sky. A colossal hot air balloon was emerging over the top of the ridge, right above Polish Hill. He had never seen anything like it. More of a hot air island, than a mere balloon. There were numerous baskets, or whatever you call them, with burner apparatuses belching flame into openings. Thirty or forty of them. Gondolas dangled at different heights. There seemed to be koalas climbing the rigging, and pagodas above the gasbags, at the eight corners, if it was, in fact, an octagon.

And seeing this unnamable contraption drifting his way, he came to a decision. He would authorize the first disbursements from his trust fund tomorrow. Sooner might be better than later, even if that meant a lesser total. Tomorrow.

Mr. Gibson was a risk-management specialist, after all, and risk seemed to be on the rise.

He was quickly lost in thought, and so the gryphon had to spread its wings to get his full attention. He had never seen a gryphon at Liberty Avenue and 25th Street, but he rarely got to the Strip District these days, and even then he was usually on Penn Avenue, or Smallman. He realized he'd walked farther than he needed to, for the 54C.

He made to step around, but the gryphon hissed. Then it said, "Moððe word fræt. Mē þæt þuhte wrǣtlicu wyrd—"

"Well, it's a wyrd, er, weird eventful day," Mr. Gibson interrupted, seeing that his bus was only a block away. "Bookworm. Exeter riddle 47. I've always loved that one." He slipped across Liberty Avenue, waving his ConnectCard and thanking whatever forces had made traffic so light, right at that moment. He knew he was being rude, but the gryphon had been a bit pushy. And he slurred his Old English in a suspiciously alcoholic way.

Based on a single data point, Mr. Gibson decided that he did not care for drunken gryphons. He was open to experiencing sober gryphons, if the future brought that about. Perhaps there was a gryphon enthusiasts group he could check out. He made a note to call the Aviary.

Still, he briefly reflected, how often does one hear Old English being recited on the sidewalk? Other than individual swear words, that is.

The ride into Oakland was reasonably uneventful, except for the line of sedan chairs, in azure livery, and little FUNERAL emblems on their roofs —he assumed the palanquin held the coffin— along Fifth. And here came the 67 again, inbound this time, with, yes, an alpaca at the wheel.

Mr. Gibson checked his work email, which was piling up.

By the time he got to his own apartment building, out on the fringes, he had learned that the day's schedule had been trashed, and he'd been put on the midnight-to-noon Customer Support shift. Joy.

The mail, which he collected from his lockbox, was skimpy. Bills. Two of them looked like they'd been chewed a little by that dragon from earlier. He slipped them into his jacket pocket, so he'd have a hand free for the railing.

Something was going on in 2-B, door open, a few of his neighbors milling around inside, two young men on the landing. He exchanged nods, everybody made space, he started up the next flight.

"You look a bit, um," said a female voice. He turned, as she added, "neighbor."

He had seen her before, of course. She always seemed a little lost, out of place. Sometimes forgot to take the garbage bin to the treelawn, but 2-B's was never all that heavy, so he did it himself.

He looked down at his clothes, and took her point. There was blood on his sleeve, the cuff on the other side was torn, and spots of soot and ash mottled both pants and jacket. Not to mention the gryphon drool. Until that moment, he hadn't realized.

"Yes," he said. "It has been a challenging day."

All three of the young people made faces of shared trauma. And she said, "Do you have plans for dinner? We're, um," she gestured into the apartment, "having a thing."

Mr. Gibson felt everything in him let go. His clothes were a mess, his day a catastrophe, and he'd soon have to be on the screen for twelve hours, no breaks, into the middle of tomorrow.

"Yes," he said. "I'd like that."

"I'm Roxie," she said, but it sounded more like Rox-sue, or Rot-sue. "Zong," she said, pointing to the fellow to the left. "Lee," the one on the right, "but everybody calls him Boy."

Greetings were exchanged, they went into the apartment, putting his belongings in a nook near the door, and he saw a long table arrangement made of a folding office table, two card tables, and something round. Paper plates, Solo cups, and three large, covered dishes.

"It's just a curry, if you don't mind," said the student from 1-A, who seemed to be managing the kitchen. "We don't have any chutney, but there's nan. And beer."

Mr. Gibson hadn't had anybody else's homemade curry in a decade. "I have chutney," he said. "Let me run upstairs and get it. And," he gestured to his jacket.

It took him four minutes to haul his briefcase and pack upstairs, to put five jars of chutney in a basket, to change into something less horrible, and head back down. He grabbed two bottles of claret on the way out.

Mr. Gibson did not know what was happening behind the scenes, how karma was playing out, how Things were being Done by those who judge, and move, and punish. He could not see that his bank accounts were growing, that certain stocks in his trust portfolio were about to take a turn— that Attention was suddenly being Paid.

What he knew was that it was a fine thing to dine with the neighbors, and to share the stories of what had been an oddly chaotic day.