The Glitch in Sleep (3 page)
“Now?”
asked #1, ready to deliver the goods.
“Stand by.”
“Standing by.”
If there was one thing Becker admired about Casey, it was her patience. She never seemed in a hurry to get anywhere, which is probably why she always got there right on time.
“Annnnnnnnddddddddd . . . HIT IT!”
A thick drop of water landed on the arid ground, just missing the foot of Alvarro Gutierrez. And so did another. Maria and Sancho held out their hands, unable to believe their eyes, but it was true. Rain began to fall in buckets, showering every inch of the thirsty land.
As the water dripped from their faces, the family burst into tears, hugging each other as one.
Amid the torrential downpour, Becker and Casey looked down upon the farm below. The dog had joined the family, jumping around and barking, and it was hard not to share in the joy.
“Nice work, boys.”
“She says nice work!”
A tumult of cheers piped through the Receiver.
“Now low pressure for at least a week and then it’s up to you.”
“My pleasure!”
shouted #1 with satisfaction. For him and his crew, this was what Weather was all about.
“Lake, out.”
Casey hung up and sat down beside her Briefer. All around the hillside, there were other farms and other celebrations.
“Do you think there’ll be a Rainbow?” asked Becker.
“I don’t know. That’s up to the Department of Public Works.”
Becker nodded, pretending to act like he already knew that. There were so many departments and sub-departments in The Seems, it was hard to remember who did what sometimes.
“Slim Jim?”
He offered Casey his traditional post-Mission treat, and she looked at it curiously before taking a bite.
“Nice maneuver down there by the cork.”
“You saw that?” Becker tried to conceal his pleasure. (You have to understand, Casey Lake was like “the man.” Except she was a girl.) “It was just L.U.C.K.
3
”
“The residue of Design.” She laughed, and he couldn’t argue with that.
Below them, the screen door to the Gutierrez home swung shut and the jubilation had begun. Their farm had been saved . . . and their future along with it.
“Let me ask you something, Briefer Drane.”
“Yeah?”
“How many Fixers are there in The World?”
Becker thought it might be a trick question, but he couldn’t figure out the trick, so he gave the answer that everybody knew.
“Exactly thirty-six, if you include Tom Jackal.”
Casey waited just long enough before smiling again and delivering the news that every Briefer dreams to hear . . .
“I think I’m looking at #37.”
1
. All Tools copyright the Toolshed, the Institute for Fixing & Repair (IFR), The Seems, XVUIVV (All Rights Reserved).
2
. For more on “The Great Flood,” please see:
Classic Blunders of The Seems (Or Were
They Intentional?)
by Sitriol B. Flook (copyright XVIUJNN, Seemsbury Press).
3
. See Appendix A: “Glossary of Terms.”
The Best Job in The World
Becker Drane’s life wasn’t always this exciting. Before he got his position in The Seems, he was just a regular kid in a regular town with a pretty regular life. Every day he attended school at Irving Elementary, rode his bike to practice for the second-to-last place Deli King Soccer team, and spent the rest of his time as the (mostly) dutiful son of Dr. and Mrs. Dr. F. B. Drane, who lived at 12 Grant Avenue, Highland Park, New Jersey.
It really wasn’t a bad existence. He had lots of friends and a good skateboard, and all the video games / comic books / baseball cards that anyone could ever want. Yet even though everything was fine and he wasn’t an orphan or anything like that, Becker couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something . . . missing.
Until that day in Chapter 1.
Chapter 1 Books & Café, Highland Park, New Jersey—Three Years Ago
“BD—your hot choco’s up!”
Becker looked up from his homework to see his mug of piping hot cocoa sitting on the counter.
“Be right there, Rick.”
Rick was working the counter today, which was always a good sign. “You want some whipped cream on that?”
“Yeah, make it a double.”
As the barista put the finishing touches on the towering mound, Becker was thankful for the break from biology. While the inner workings of a paramecium were fascinating to some, he didn’t have plans to be a scientist or a microorganism anytime soon, and the spring weather outside beckoned for kickball or a further exploration of the Cleveland Avenue woods.
“Can you put it on my tab? I think I’m a little bit short.”
“You got it, man. Just get me back next time.”
That was the great thing about Chapter 1. There was a Starbucks just a few blocks away, but Chapter 1 just had a special kind of vibe. It was located practically in the living room of someone’s house and was generally frequented by grad students, writers, artists, and local personalities, all of whom Becker considered his friends.
The third grader grabbed his hot chocolate and reclaimed his favorite window perch, which gave views of both outside and inside the shop. Big Mike and Kenny were sitting at their usual table, locked in another epic battle on the chessboard, while on the plush velvet couch, Eve and Efrem were still in their ongoing two-year debate about the films of some guy named Tarkovsky. This was par for the course, but over on the announcements table, something caught Becker’s eye that he had never seen before.
Wedged between the self-published poetry chapbooks and the schedule for open-mic night was a small, nondescript white box, with a piece of paper taped to the front. It said:
APPLY HERE FOR THE BEST JOB IN THE WORLD
“Hey, Rick! What’s that box all about?”
“Who knows? People put all kinds of stuff on that table.”
Becker finished the last dollop of whipped cream and headed for a closer look. Next to the box was a Dixie cup filled with miniature No. 2 pencils, along with a stack of applications. Though he was only nine years old at the time and not in dire need of employment, Becker couldn’t resist picking up the form.
SEEMSIAN APTITUDE TEST
This questionnaire will test, in shape, size, and dimension, your aptitude for a position in The Seems.
Becker had no idea what The Seems was nor what this job entailed, but unlike most tests, this one seemed kind of fun. So he began to fill it out.
Name: F. Becker Drane
Address: 12 Grant Ave., Highland Park, NJ, 08904
Telephone (optional): (Becker never gave out his cell)
Other than that, there were only three questions on the exam:
Question 1: Are you a little bored with life? Not that you’re unhappy, but have you always had this nagging feeling in the back of your mind that maybe you were meant to do something more?
That was weird. This is exactly what Becker had been feeling lately, but he had never really put it into words. The answer was either:
_______ YES or ______ NO
Question 2: If there was a Tear in the Fabric of Reality and you were called in to handle the job, which Tool would you employ?
A. _______ A Rounded Scopeman 4000™
B. _______ A Boa Constrictor XL™
C. _______ A needle and thread
D. _______ I have no idea
Next to each of the tool suggestions were diagrams, as if they had been reprinted from a technical manual. And last but not least:
Question 3: Pretend The World was being remade from Scratch and you were in charge. What kind of world would you create?
Any normal person would have put this test down right away, assuming it was a lark or an experiment for somebody’s psychology dissertation, but Becker had always been the kind of person who thought about such things. He scribbled his answer to Question #3 and by the time he was finished, the entire thing was a mélange of pictures, arrows, and charts. But as he folded it up into a square and dropped it in the slot, he never imagined it would amount to anything at all.
Eight months later, Highland Park was hit with what came to be known as “the Blizzard to end all Blizzards.” Unbeknownst to the locals, this was actually an offensive by the Department of Weather, which had been under a great deal of criticism for having “gone soft.” So to prove they still had the moxie, the giant red button on the Snow Blower had been pressed for the first time in a long time, and their pride and reputation were promptly restored.
Meanwhile, Grant Avenue had been transformed into a winter wonderland, the perfect setting for the age-old blood feud between the Drane/Crozier clan and the loathsome Hutkin boys. Snowballs had been hurled. Trees shaken to cause avalanche. And many precious lives lost in a cause worth fighting for. (Not really.)
“See ya later, Con-Man.”
“Later, Drane-O.”
As the survivors straggled home to drink hot chocolate and lick their wounds, Becker lingered for a few extra clicks. There was no telling if hostilities would break out tomorrow, so he wanted to be sure the D/C arsenal was replenished, should battle once again ensue.
“Hey, Becks—heads up!”
Becker turned just in time to see a blob of white smash him in the face.
“Ow! You are so dead!”
Becker picked up a snowball of his own and hurled it (inaccurately) at Amy Lannin, who was laughing hysterically across the street. Amy was the only kid from Lawrence Avenue who was allowed to play on Grant, mostly because she was an incredibly accurate snowball chucker, but also because she was Becker’s best friend.
“Where were you when I needed you? I almost got turned into a Popsicle today!”
“Sorry. Ballet class. I have to be a girl sometimes, y’know . . .”
“Well, not tomorrow, I hope. We need to get revenge.”
“Revenge? I love revenge. It’s a dish best eaten cold.” She chucked another one, purposely missing him by the slimmest of margins. “I’ll meet you at the weapons depot, 11:00 a.m. sharp.”
“Deal.”
As Amy skipped home, Becker staggered back to his own house at #12 Grant. He hoped his mom hadn’t started dinner yet, because after all this hard work, he had developed a craving for a baked ziti from Highland Pizza.
“Mr. Drane?”
Becker turned to see a man in a suit and paisley tie, carrying a briefcase and walking toward him.
“Mr. F. Becker Drane?”
The guy was rather underdressed for winter, with no jacket, hat, or gloves to speak of. Becker had nothing against talking to strangers—how else were you going to meet new people?—but enough admonitions from his mom, dad, local law enforcement, and school assemblies had made him somewhat wary.
“Who wants to know?”
“Allow me to introduce myself.” The man handed him a business card. “Nick Dejanus, Associate Director of Human Resources.”
According to the card, Dejanus worked for a company called The Seems. The Seems? Where had he heard that name before? But before he could ask, the man started to shiver.
“Is winter always this cold?”
“Not always,” replied Becker. “Global warming’s kind of taken the bite out of things.”
“Global Warming! Don’t even get me started. If Nature doesn’t get their act together, I assure you heads will roll!”
“Ever think about wearing a coat?” asked the boy.
“My wife thought I should ‘fully’ experience The World this time.” The man rolled his eyes, clearly regretting the decision. “But at least the nearest Door is right around the corner.”
“Door to where?”
“I’m sorry. You’d think after four years on the job I would know how to do this already.” He reached into his briefcase and pulled out a laminated piece of eight-and-a-half-by-eleven-inch paper, covered in scribbles, arrows, and charts. “Is this your handwriting?”
Becker looked at the sloppy mess.
“Yep. That’s me.”
And that’s when it all came back to him. The box at Chapter 1. The Seemsian Aptitude Test and “The Best Job in The World.” But that had been months ago and he hadn’t heard a thing.
“Then on behalf of the Powers That Be, I would like to extend you an invitation to become a Candidate at the Institute for Fixing & Repair.” Before Becker could ask what that was, the man handed him an oversized envelope with the same four-color logo that was printed on his card.
