They handed Dixon a box. He wouldn’t take it. So they placed the box on Dixon’s lap. But he wouldn’t fill it. So they filled the box on Dixon’s lap with his personal affects: his three-panel digital photo-frame of his wife and their kids, his iPod clock radio, his glass container of Red Hots, and his Red Wings mini-flag with small plastic Stanley Cup. They filled the box with other assorted collectible junk: by-gone conversation pieces, some of which were not his, enough to fill the box and not allow the flaps to close. Yet Dixon wouldn’t budge. “You can’t go on like this,” the personnel director said. “You can’t stay holed-up here forever.” She placed a severance packet on top, where he could see it. Dixon looked down at the box, its weight pressing against his thighs. The phone on his desk rang. It rang once, then twice, then a third time. It rang and rang and rang. A floor-sweeper leaned against a mop, his own box conveniently tucked under one arm. “Someone going to field that?” He felt as if he had done more than his fair share; everyone standing near Dixon’s cubicle felt they had done more than their fair share.
Nancy, Dixon’s wife, had thumbed the numbers on her cell phone. She expected to at least get the standard recorded message: “Peterson’s Tool & Die, Office of Dixon Mellinger. Please leave a message at the sound of the beep.” Instead, a stranger’s voice filled the flat-lined space. “Tata,” he said. “Satyajit Babur speaking. How may I help you?” Nancy didn’t know how he might help her. She stood on her tiled, kitchen floor, her socks soaking wet. She felt no movement and wondered whether she had inadvertently called the hospital.
James R. Tomlinson resides in the innermost, outer ring of Detroit, teaches in a Michigan prison, and volunteers his time at Motor City Burning Press (which is preparing its first literary journal). His concerns are mainly with the plight of the American autoworkers and the healthcare system. A flash memoir is forthcoming in Sleet Magazine. This is his second appearance in Staccato.
Love this — gets at things quickly and sparingly. And I love the title — fits perfectly.
“Let your sypathies and your compassion be always with the underdog in the fight–this is magnanimity; but bet on the other one–this is business” Mark Twain. Enjoyed the read JR and the marking of fathoms. MW
Good story. I love how it is without melodrama (the guy doesn’t go psycho and nobody shoots anybody), but the author allows me as a reader to feel the emotion through well chosen details. It is real life. Great pacing. Most importantly, it’s a story that needs to be told over and over. It hits home with me big time. Thanks for posting it.