THE LONELINESS OF A RESELLER

by

Brandon Doughty

          Rain drummed on the metal roof of the building. It created the hum of an open but empty phone line, like the receiver was picked up but no one was home. Anyone looking down the long row of cubicles would see Marina’s head standing like a lone lighthouse in a flat black sea. She could see dust motes floating in and out of the cone of light cast by the overhead fluorescent. Considering the hour, this single lit area enhanced that lighthouse feeling.

It was 10 p.m. and supply planner Marina Ortegas stood in her cube trying to decipher when her supply would arrive. Three spreadsheets and a dashboard stood open on her desktop and the whiteboard that made up the back wall of her cubicle was covered in calculations as well. She had been concatenating, vlookuping and angrily clicking her track pad for the past three hours trying to find one simple number. Marina was positive that you couldn’t find ‘vlookuping,’ in Webster’s, but fuck it: She was making it a verb.

Marina was sure she must be missing a key file and felt like she was going through the stages of grief. She started in denial telling herself she would be home by seven. Then consoled herself that she wasn’t keeping anyone waiting at home: No dog to feed, no cat to scratch, no plant to water. Her apartment was basically empty; a closed box.

“At least here I have you, Thrawn.” Marina looked over at her action figure of Grand Admiral Mitth’raw’nuruodo, known to well-read Star Wars fans as Thrawn. He was the greatest strategic battle planner ever known in a galaxy far, far away. She liked the correlation since she was now a strategic supply planner for one of the largest computer resellers in the country.

Marina posed him such that he would not fall when people occasionally walked up to speak with her and leaned too heavily on one of her cube walls. He was set against a small, pink moon cactus to help with balance. That’s no moon she thought and laughed out loud.

It was a little reminder of home, from her dad. A small cactus with smaller pink growths that grew like tumors out of the top of the little green knob that was the main body of the cactus. How fitting, she thought. She wasn’t sure what color they were, but little tumors had certainly been growing within the body of her father when he died.

She had moved to Seattle almost two years ago after finishing her degree at The University of Texas. On graduation day, her father, Ramon Ortegas, had taken her aside and told her quietly, with tears shining in his eyes, “It has been an honor to raise you. Thank you for giving me the opportunity.”

He shuffled away, relying heavily on his cane. He was in remission from a second bout of colon cancer. His second ten rounds with cancer, chemo and radiation had left his body emaciated. Marina’s once strong father, whom she had watched lift jet skis off trailers as a child – not the smartest move she had ever seen from her father, but proof of his strength – could now barely walk even with the help of his cane. She watched him limp away with a pain in her chest. Marina worried what would happen when she moved away.

The dramatic difference in climate from Texas to Washington state took some getting used to. Her father had sent the moon cactus and a picture of the hill country taken from near the 360 bridge to put up in her apartment, so she had a little ‘home’ with her, in her new world.

When the cancer finally took Ramon down it was a relief to Marina. She could hear how tired he was during their phone conversations. He lived in constant medicated pain. No more chemo. No more radiation. Only pain and sadness. The insult to injury was that Marina could not take the time to visit before he passed away. She was new in her role and still considered ‘ramping’ as her company liked to describe people who were in a role for less than two years.

She was a coward for not going.

A bitch.

A bad daughter.

“I love you daddy. You’ve worked hard.” Her phone-voice was strong and confident. The voice of someone giving a presentation to senior leadership. “It’s okay to take time for yourself. I’ll miss you, but it’s okay. I know you’re tired. It was an honor being raised by you. Thank you for giving me the opportunity.” Her voice started to break on the last word, and she covered it with a cough and cleared her throat. He died in his sleep the following night.

Marina continued working for two days and then risked three days of bereavement leave. This gave her five nights with her mom. It was too much. She spent no more than thirty minutes speaking with her mother and that was awkward small talk. She gave a short eulogy at the service where she saw her mother laugh and react more than at any point leading up to it. After, she left to, “see some old friends and decompress.” Her mother’s response amounted to a head nod and a, “that sounds fun, hon,” as she walked the other direction.

The truth was that she had stayed at a hotel, alone, a mile up the road from her parent’s house, without speaking to anyone the entire night and most of the following day.

Marina looked at the picture held near the top corner of her cube. It was the photo of the Texas hill-country her father had sent along with the pink moon cactus. Looking at it, she realized that she had decorated her cube more than her apartment.

“Well, that tracks,” Marina said, “I spend way more time here than in that apartment. This is where my eyes are, so this is where my pretty things are.”

Marina checked her screen. “Obviously, I have everything I need to figure out this supply situation. Right? Well, if that’s true why am I still stuck here at ten-fucking-thirty and the other planners have been gone since six?” She was almost sure a file was missing and she could not get to total landed supply with the data on-hand. So on to stage two of grief – she was pissed.

It became clear to her, the entire situation was the supplier’s fault. They obviously forced her to take this job, tricked her into skipping lunch, missing dinner and corrupted her into staying up last night to finish reading Getting to Yes. Part of Marina’s self-development plan was to read a business book each week.

“Forget ‘yes,’ I need to get to a supply number. I need to negotiate a fucking inventory picture without going crazy,” she laughed and realized she was shouting. She looked around to see if anyone heard her. Still alone.

She looked out the wall of windows and saw the rain sheeting into the well-lit landscaping near the building. Beyond the landscaping it was pitch black for about fifty feet before two standing LED light-poles shone twin pools of light at the entrance to the parking garage. It crossed her mind that this was poor planning for those leaving after dark. In physics, black is the absence of light. The area past the landscaping until you reached the parking garage was disorienting in its darkness. Not just the lack of light but of reality itself.

Anything could be out there where reality ends. Or nothing, she thought.

“Yeah well, there’s certainly been a lot of nothing since I moved here!” She said it aloud just to dispel the unease the thought gave her.

“What the hell man, I’m creeping myself out. I’ve got to get outta here. It has been a long day. This supply number can wait until morning. Maybe.”

“By then I’ll have some PODs to show what has actually delivered. Fucking asshole supplier. So high and mighty when you’ve actually been going downhill for years and everyone knows it. Your support is for shit. Why don’t you help someone out!”

She realized she was crying. And still talking out loud. This was ridiculous. Why was she crying? She loved what she did; didn’t she? It wasn’t glamorous but it made a difference, and she was good at it, dammit.

“Their tools are for shit. And I’m going to let them know.”

Marina lowered her desk and sat. She wanted to lean into this, and sitting down felt like strapping in. Her father taught her if you want to be a bear, be a grizzly. She looked up the proper email address for the CEO of her supplier and then verified. It was public so Marina also confirmed it from a number of online sources.

She wrote quickly. The words poured out of her onto the screen.

When she finished she felt calm.

Or maybe just empty. She decided both worked and looked at her watch. It was 11 p.m. Marina decided this would finish off her day better than actualizing her landed supply. She packed her stuff into her leather bag, saving her computer for last. Before she packed it, she hit Send.

# # #

          In an animated movie Marina’s email would then travel from one computer to the next. Following an imaginary path from the CPU of a computer through the data line, or power cord if you were watching a Pixar film, across the distance into the receiving computer to then splash against the back of the screen. A clean, organized process and exciting to watch the data rush from beginning to end. It leaves a warm and fuzzy feeling as a journey completed. All those little electrons flowing together in a pack, surrounded and protected by the cables they travel through.

But this is a wireless world. WIFI, cellular, 4G and 5G communications leave everything traveling through the air. Radio waves on top of data signals, a dense fog of information that no one can see. And it’s dangerous out there. A pack of electrons seems strong and protected, but a little signal floating through a crowded space with so many other signals is weak. What if the other signals aren’t nice to it? What if there is something out there that wants to capture that signal? What if it wants to keep it? What if it wants to hurt it?

Why would people be any safer than those signals they send containing their data? The human race has spent its time building barriers to keep safe. The home, the car, the office building, all of these little pools of safety, and yet everyone still has to take that step outside the protective shell and float like a lonely email to the next shelter.

There are clear defects in this system. If the electrons had to keep jumping from cable to cable, they would be slower and open to danger. You could lose your data. You’d complain about the company who made them. You’d complain to the IT department. But there is no IT department for life. Complaints about the human experience are submitted as thoughts and prayers. Ask the victims of a school shooting about the usefulness of thoughts and prayers.

# # #

Tricia Clark woke at 4:25 a.m. She used the mornings to complete her workout, meditate, eat breakfast and complete a review of her morning emails by 7 a.m. She challenged herself daily to be the best version of Tricia she could be. You had to be your best to change the world. She wanted her company to live this same belief. So, no one on the Executive team was surprised when Tricia started their morning meeting discussing an email, she had received from a partner supply planner.

          “I received this at about midnight.” She began. “This email concerned me. Mixed up in there is what appears to be a valid concern on the tools we offer to our resellers, so we need to get this over to AMR Ops team to review. But that is not the priority right now. I think we need to get someone involve–”

“Sorry Tricia, I don’t mean to cut you off.” This was Eliza Tsai, the Vice President of World Wide Operations. It was clear the email would work its way to her desk for distribution to the leaders in Americas Operation. “We get emails from customers pretty often. I get it, there’s something about this one that piqued your interest, but can we all take a look? It seems like it would be easier for us to get aligned on next steps if you could point out your specific concerns.”

“Great point Liz. Let me share my screen for a moment.” The morning meeting was always hosted virtually. Since Tricia’s team was global, it was the best way to get everyone in the same ‘room.’ She shared her screen showing the email Marina sent just eight hours before:

From: Marina Ortegas

Date: January 28, 2020

To: Tricia Clark

Subject: the loneliness of a reseller

Dear Tricia,

I work as a supply planner for the 2^nd largest reseller of your products in the country. I am writing to you today to share my experience as a suicidal reseller in this world and the need for continuous personal improvement. There should be transparency and visibility in this channel and my heart to see the darkness.

It’s outside too. I can see it. I can’t see it. I can see that I can’t see it and it is inside me.

I’m unsure if you are aware, but we rely on your Operations team to provide us with the best reason on solutions to our lives, who are in fact your customers. Our customers are in the health care field as I’m sure you can appreciate, I seem to be in heavy need these days. The darkness has a huge demand, and the frontline responders need us.

It is good to be needed. No one needs me.

That being said, there is a need for sacrifice between both our companies and the larger reseller community. Your tools are outdated, web service is virtually non-existent with too few reports available to accurately do our actualization after spending months forecasting our needs. Help me.

I never imagined saying these things about myself and the darkness but it is true. It is there. It is not there. And while I cannot provide specific solutions to ensure our needs are met, I will say it is difficult if not impossible to open my chest and present my beating heart, frankly I’m disheartened. HA!

I’m sure you won’t read this, and that I’m likely talking to a computer, but they say you cannot live without the air, so I’m starting in the darkness today and there is no air.

I hope to see light during my time. Thank you for the opportunity to warn you.

Regards,

Marina Ortegas

Supply Planner – Ones & Zeroes, LLC

The team read the email in silence and tried to internalize the meaning. The quiet continued as this team of executives, trained and experienced in speaking to powerful people about difficult issues – trained and tested to work contract deals worth billions of dollars with not just businesses but entire nations – struggled to find a way to express their thoughts.

“What the fuck?” said Jeff Podesta. He was always ready for the golf course, but now sat slack jawed looking like a man who hadn’t so much lost his ball, but rather found it stuffed uncomfortably up his ass.

“I think that about sums it up Jeff.” Tricia replied. “You all look about how I pictured myself this morning when I read through it the first few times. I went from thinking ‘oh this is trash,’ to ‘Should Liz take a look at our attainment tools,’ but like you Jeff, I’m pretty sure I kept coming back to, What the fuck?

“Okay people. Thoughts now that you’ve seen it and had some time to digest?” She watched as mute icons were disabled and voices started offering options.

“Liz, we should definitely check on the attainment tools.”

“Yes, I’ll get that over to AMR today. Obviously not the whole thing, I’ll just note the concern about the tools.” Liz responded.

“Should you call the CEO of Ones and Zeros?”

“Maybe just this Marina’s manager? Can we find that name?”

“Call the suicide hotline.”

“Call the folks in white coats.”

“Too late. The low men in yellow coats already found her.”

“That’s enough of that,” Tricia called out. “I don’t even know what that means and this is no time for jokes. Calling someone is a good idea, but I think that calling Shuli is a bit much.”

Shuli Gaspard was the CEO of Ones & Zeroes. He and Tricia had known each other for years. “No reason to jump that far up the ladder. Calling the CEO for a concerning email from one supply planner? That would be like asking me to know–”

“Tricia you realize you’re our CEO and you’ve already spent at least an hour with this.” Jeff added.

“True, but it still feels impersonal. I think I’m going to call this planner directly. And Liz, whenever you get it over to AMR Ops make sure they know that we want someone to call her about the tools. Not just an email. She was sure to put both her office and mobile number in there. Make sure they use them.”

“Will do,” Liz said. She felt on firm ground when speaking about actions and deliverables for her teams. She was more unsure on the personal steps Tricia was contemplating. “Are you also suggesting I call her? Call this,” she paused to check the mail again, “Marina, myself to make sure she’s safe?”

“No, she didn’t email you. I know it’s unorthodox, but I think I’m going to call her myself.”

“But Tricia, that’s crazy. Why don’t,” Jeff thought for a moment, “why don’t we figure out who she reports to and give them a call? Isn’t it more their wheelhouse anyway?”

“My thought is,” Tricia began, “if her leadership was paying any attention, I wouldn’t be getting these types of emails at midnight. Besides, look at that last bit, where she says no one is going to read it. Maybe what this poor person needs is for me to show that I did read it. I am no better than she is. We all have our dark times.” A shiver ran through her. Poor choice of words.

Tricia leaned back taking a sip of tea. Having made the choice, she felt better. Like Eliza, she was more comfortable after making an actionable decision.

“I’m going to call her today.”

“If you don’t mind, I can join you in your office at noon and sit in when you make the call.” Eliza knew it was better to team up for hard negotiations and tough talks, and this was likely a very tough talk.

Tricia agreed to meet at noon and the meeting moved on to the regular business of the day. None of the executive team mentioned Marina or the email but her words hung on each of them like a shadow dragging late into the day.

# # #

Just after noon in Seattle an office phone started ringing. It stopped, long enough for a voicemail and then rang again.

It rang again.

Stopped.

Rang, yet again.

Rise and repeat.

Lee Ling, the planner in the adjacent cubicle, annoyed at the repeated unwelcome noise and interruptions walked over to see why no one answered, considering it likely the person had gone to lunch. Most calls at noon ended up in a voicemail box.

He leaned on the cube wall a little heavy, knocking off some little red-eyed action figure. It landed on a dusty desk that seemed unused. He could not remember anyone sitting there recently, but there was a mess of numbers and calculations on the white-board as if someone had been really working something out. The whole thing was gibberish to Lee, but hey man this wasn’t his row, he was on the other side planning wearables. Way easier gig.

Lee reached over and set the phone to Away to stop the ringing. Let them fill up Mr. Red-eye’s mailbox.

# # #

Another phone started ringing. That infernal default ringtone that defines the 21^st century in a single round of ‘deedle do de do de do.’ It was the sound you heard in a dark movie theater. You heard it on the other side of the doctor’s office; heard it four aisles over when you were in the grocery store, and then again just two aisles away. It was in the stall next to you in the restroom.

That goddamn ringtone.

It rang again. The same phone. Someone needed to answer it. Save the world from having to hear that incessant tune just one more time. It was muffled, but there it went again. One of those people that couldn’t take the hint that the person did not want to speak to them. Maybe they were unavailable.

Maybe, they were gone.

When it started ringing again Dale McGuire finally noticed where it was coming from. This place is getting so trashy he thought. First he found red graffiti in the parking garage, sprayed on the service door like a Pollock painting. Now the very same day he found people leaving their shit laying out in the landscaping. What a mess.

The noon sun was high, it was mild but bright outside and the shadows were short. And yet, there was a leather computer bag lying in deep shade. Something like mud had dried thick and reddish on one side where it had obviously splashed down last night during the storm. Although, the patch of ground seemed very dry considering the amount of mud. Was it a little rustier in color than mud?

It was a nice bag; expensive. Someone must surely be searching for it after losing it last night. Probably running to their car in the rain, it had slipped off a shoulder, in the dark. It was in an odd location, lying between the building landscaping and the perpetually lit entrance to the parking structure.

There was something else. It was flatted like a gardener’s nightmare, a stomped green thumb. It had little pink tumors on top.

The phone started ringing again, even though it was clear no one was going to answer. Not anymore.

# # #

Subsequent testing of the substance on the bag and the parking garage proved to be blood. It was assumed to be Marina’s. However, no brush nor comb was found in the bag nor later in her apartment. No other sample large enough for testing was found to compare against Marina’s own DNA.

It surprised no one to learn that there were cameras covering almost every possible corner of the office; inside and out. When the footage was reviewed later the observers were able to track Marina’s progress through the building to the exit. After that, her movements became murky, no more than suppositions. Like the life of Schrödinger’s Cat in its box. A perpetual razor’s edge between existence and nothing. Observation, by its very nature changes that which is observed.

The external cameras were partially obscured by the heavy rain. Twenty minutes before Marina left, it captured a black octagonal shadow that moved from the parking garage toward the building’s door, but never entered. It joined the shadows beyond the landscaping but never emerged.

It was assumed to be an umbrella.

The shadows were black. Black is the absence of light. Cameras require light to capture their observations. When Marina stepped from the building the camera captured the movement into the shadow. But did it observe anything else in the absence of light?

In the first steps, in the shadows, did Marina hear a splash she first assumed was her own foot in a puddle? The camera did not capture sound. But did it record when a black gloved hand grabbed her forearm? A knife might come silently, shearing skin, then tendon, leaving a carved notch in both radius and ulna, while the first of life’s blood begins to pour down the blade and Marina’s hand. Against the cold rain the blood is lava hot, but quickly cools. Her fingers, no longer capable of tension, release her bag and cactus. Both fall to the ground. Had she brought her cactus? Why? Had she not planned on being back in the office? She couldn’t remember. Her mind was darkness.

Suppose a muddy, black clad foot stepped on the sad little cancer cactus as Marina feels her air cut off by what must be an arm. She fell back into that strangling body and was lifted, not dragged, back toward the parking structure. But not into the light, no. On the far right-hand side, in the shadows, stands a service door. It’s a double that allows workmen to bring heavy equipment and tools from the garage. The camera above this door sees the shadows. It captures the nothingness of black.

The blade might have found Marina’s neck. It was meant to carve and so it does. There might have been a sound, but the camera doesn’t capture sound, and the cut was quick, severing larynx and carotid. Arterial blood sprayed the wall here. In her final moments, what was once Marina felt the hot fire of blood pour down her opened windpipe, learning but not understanding that she’s dying of a slit throat and drowning simultaneously. The rain continued to pour, flattening mud, washing concrete paths.

The camera captured nothing as Marina faded to nothing.

The video showed Marina walking through the building and exiting into darkness twenty minutes after the octagonal shadow passed by. The camera showed nothing else. Thus, no one observed anything else. The results of the case were inconclusive and filed as a missing person whom few seem to miss. And Schrödinger’s Cat remained waiting in the closed box.

THE END