Wading in the Mirage

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Chapter 8 from Wading in the Mirage

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Jordan halts the radio by slapping on the snooze button and rolls onto his back. He clasps his hands over his face for a moment, before sliding them down to his chin and then off. His legs swiftly swing over and feet drop down to ground themselves before pausing. A deep breath enables Jordan to stand and make his way to the bathroom for the routine. 

No smell of coffee on the way to his office forces his face to scrunch in frustration. Must be busted, he thinks. 

Indeed, his office reveals no fresh hot coffee.

Jordan heads straight over to his workstation instead and fumbles underneath one monitor for the button and a stationary “IBM” flickers to life. He slides underneath to power on the second screen and yanks back. “Ouch.”

Pulling back his hand from the screen and turning it over reveals a very thin sliver of blood across the face of his right index finger. What the hell?he thinks before placing it in his mouth to soothe the small injury. With the other hand, he tries again, but can’t get the button to fire up his vertical screen.

Withdrawing his finger, he finds a very small line of blood resurfacing and opts for a Band-Aid over leaving red spots on the silver keyboard.

Jordan takes deliberate, frustrated steps away from his station, heading for their small first-aid kit in the master bathroom. He walks through the office doorway and down the hall toward the front door when he halts suddenly and snaps a deep breath in surprise.

“Dad?” he says with shock as the figure comes into focus. “What are you doing here?”

Gerrie is sitting calmly on the couch, reading a roughed-up paperback novel. “Jordan. Hi. Good morning.” 

Jordan steps into the parlor, closer to his dad. Perhaps the pre-dawn lack of natural light and shadowy shade-covered lamp illumination is obfuscating his view, but Dad looks different, he thinks. The strange angle of the light emphasizes the wrinkles on his face, aging him a decade.

“What’s wrong with your finger?” his dad asks.

Jordan’s eyes drop down, noticing his index finger pressed between his lips, and pulls it out to recheck. He swirls his thumb over the slice a few times to see only a faint amount of blood smearing.

“I…I just cut my finger is all,” not caring about the insignificant injury anymore as his mind works to clarify the situation. I guess he finally used the key, he thinks. But it’s pretty darn early.

“Well, just be careful,” Dad says and licks a finger to swipe to the next page in his novel.

Jordan slowly retreats, turns, and walks back to his office, wiping his finger across his jeans a few times. 

In his office, Jordan steps around the desk and focuses back on the big screen, with “IBM” still fixed and frozen in the center. He tilts his head, closes his eyes, and tries to shake off the morning fog. 

He reaches for the headset to dial up to Emma, who should be waking soon anyway, but no dial tone greets his ear. Jordan replaces the headset and bends down to investigate the wires beneath the desk when Dad’s voice comes over the top. “Jordy? Are you feeling alright this morning?”

Jordan pops back up as Dad takes a step into the office. “Yes,” he answers. “I mean… I don’t know. I feel fine, yes. But maybe a little cloudy. It’s just early is all. And some of my stuff isn’t working right. I’ll… I’ll deal with it. It’s fine.”

“Jordy,” Dad says again, this time more slowly. “I think maybe we should talk.”

Growing increasingly anxious, Jordan walks around the workstation, passing his dad while agreeing dismissively, “Yes. Okay. No problem. Just give me a minute. I’ll be right back.”

Jordan boosts to a slow jog toward the front door and swings around to head up the stairs when he slams on his brakes and drops his jaw. “What the fuck is going on? Where are the stairs?” He gawks at the four-foot-wide blank faded white wall right in front of his face. He turns and looks left to find a small dining room with an oversized card table and two folding chairs. He looks right and finds a dingy den with a well-worn burgundy three-seat couch and a lamp covered by a stained-glass pattern fabric shade. He spots a paperback novel lying open on the couch cushion.

He runs back down the hall to his office, past his dad and around his workstation. “Dad, I’m not really having a great morning. I don’t know if this is the best time right now.”

“I understand,” his dad responds. “But I think maybe that’s why we should talk for a few minutes.”

Gerrie notices Jordan’s eyes are distracted. Jordan focuses on the bottom corner of his monitor at a piece of electrical tape. He reaches for it and pulls slightly, but the whole monitor starts to wobble. He releases the tape but holds firm with his eyes, which slowly trace the black tape upward along the side of the monitor, turn left, across at the top, and back down the far side.

He blinks, refocuses, and takes a half-step back to see the frozen IBM logo printed in black on the brown background of the monitor. He steps back another half and eases his glare to capture the broader picture, an oversized flattened IBM cardboard box bordered by black tape propped up against an unused old lamp base. Next to that is the bottom of an open rectangular cardboard box standing tall on its end. Immediately to the left of that, an empty tissue box holds a girl’s black plastic headband. He slowly reaches over and pulls it out of the box, lifts it up, and places it on his head. He thinks, My phone? 

Jordan stands in place, collecting himself, avoiding or perhaps ignorant of his father’s presence. His eyes slowly sweep back and forth around the desk, catching on a spot at the bottom of one IBM box. On closer examination, he finds a very small blotch of red leached into the fibers right where the monitorsliced his finger minutes earlier.

He lifts his head from the faux workstation to catch Dad’s eyes, which look right back with tight focus and lips hinting at astonishment. 

Jordan breaks the engagement and slowly turns his body to assess further around the room. The mesh chair is missing, replaced with a disheveled twin bed on a simple metal frame with no headboard under a narrow window with chipping faded yellow paint. He leans down to reach his hand toward the pillow and feels faint warmth.

He swings his head back around to Dad and asks, “Where’s Emma?

Gerrie looks down at his shoes, adjusts his weight, and regrips his rubber-handled cane. He picks his head back up, takes a deep breath, then slowly and faintly shakes his head side to side.

Jordan’s eyes widen fully, and, the next moment, he collapses backward onto the bed.