The Light of Day

The Light of Day

I couldn’t help but notice the unusually large number of other employees as I entered the break room to have my typical, homemade miserable lunch. Several of the office ladies were huddled in the corner whispering, a few of the warehouse guys were mulling around the near empty coffee pot, and there I was with my brown bag lunch just looking for a brief moment of intimacy with a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

Clinching a wad of Kleenex and sniffling, Maggie scurried over and said, “How can you eat at a time like this?” and then ran out of the room.

“What is up with her?” I said, as I looked around the room hoping someone would explain to me what I did that upset Maggie.

Mike walked over, place his foot on the seat of the chair next to mine, rested his elbow on his knee, and leaned over and let out a slow mournful sounding sigh, and asked, “Well, I guess we should all start looking for a new job?”

My brown paper bag was neatly squished flat on the table directly in front of me. I was poised, elbows resting on the well worn familiar table, my sandwich held in both hands, and I was just a New York second from taking that long awaited first nutritious bite as the serious nature of Mike’s question finally made its way to my cerebral cortex.

Paralyzed by sudden visions of mailing stacks of resumes, standing for hours in unemployment lines, and becoming another one of the city’s many starving homeless, I screamed, “What is going on?”

“Man, where have you been all day.”? Jack, another one of the warehouse men quipped.

“I have been processing orders. You know, WORKING. What have all of you been doing?” I said quite sarcastically.

Then the rest of the ladies filed out of the room. Jim took a seat at the table directly across from me, and started explaining, “Two men in suits showed up this morning with a warrant, and took Bobby into custody. They said something about aiding the enemy. They handcuffed him and took him away.”

“Well, this is going to be one fine mess. Did anybody think to ask where they were taking him?” I could tell by the expression on their faces that they must have run for their lives like cockroaches do when someone walks into a dark room and turns on a light.

“Has anybody called his wife? Of course not, sorry I asked.” I said as I got up from my seat, walked to the trash and threw my sandwich away, and poured myself the last cup of coffee. “And will anyone of you please make a fresh pot of coffee, please…I am going to need it.” I added as I stomped to my office to call his wife.

I dialed his home number, and put the speakerphone on and let it ring for the next fifteen minutes. No answer. I thought for a moment, and then started down the hall to Bobby’s office only to find Susan standing at his office door crying and men in suits boxing up everything in sight.

“Excuse me, I was wondering if I could have a look at his Rolodex?” Seemed like a reasonable request to me.

“And you are?” One of the well-attired men that were boxing up all of Bobby’s stuff asked.

“I am Mark Dubois.” As soon as my name passed my lips I noticed another one of the men in the far corner of Bobby’s office on his cell phone repeating my name.



“Who is Bobby Al Uyneed to you?” A big burly man pushed by Susan and asked.

“My employer, who are you?” I answered feeling a little annoyed.

“And what do you do here for your employer, Mr. Mark Dubois? If that is your real name…” The big burly man asked, and then added that little nasty statement making the small little hairs on the back of my neck stand up which made me take notice of each and every one of them individually.

“I process the international shipping invoices.” And the big burly man waved his hand; I was immediately handcuffed, escorted outside to a waiting white van, and placed in a windowless holding cell somewhere downtown.

I was repeatedly questioned over the next six weeks. Seems the Miranda Act did not apply to me as I was never officially under arrest. I was labeled an enemy combatant. When I was finally released, I discovered that I had been evicted, my dog had been turned over to the pound and was euphemized, and my place of employment was unceremoniously gone.

Maybe Bobby Al Uyneed had been a fugitive. It is not likely that me or anyone else will ever know anything more about it. The Patriot Act, a knee jerk reaction to terrorism, has allowed some very powerful people to trample freedoms in this country that so many of us have come to take for granted.

What a shame that no one will be able to come to your defense without putting themselves in harms way, and this Patriot Act is beginning to seem to have the same effects as the Gestapo did in World War II Germany.

I have found that the light of day, and the heat from a very public frying pan usually are the only elements that will destroy the deadly bacteria of secrecy and profitable private agendas that can infest a modern, civilian government.

Only those that study the mistakes of the past aren’t likely to make the same mistake twice.

I really miss my dog.



Written for

FORUM

The Writer's Cramp  (13+) Write the best story or poem in 24 hours or less and win 10K GPs! #333655 by Sophy

The New Prompt is:
It's a typical day at the office until you discover your boss is a fugitive from the law.... tell the story of what happens next. (Prompt submitted by Diane Freese )