Continued from the previous chapter, here.

Asa Pemewan shook his head to clear it. Jennifer dropped her hand and seemed to take the head-shake as a no, asking “What’s wrong? Is there anything I can do to help?”

Asa shook his head more definitively. “No,” he said, “nothing’s wrong. I was just taken a bit aback by how suddenly you made the offer. That’s all. And, to answer you, I can indeed come in on Monday. Is there anything in particular I’ll need to bring with me? Is there anything in particular I’ll need to wear?”

Jennifer resumed her seat. “Well, we ask that our drivers wear either khaki or black slacks. We’ll give you a couple of uniform shirts to wear. If you want more, you can buy them. They’re polo shirts, so you’ll probably want an undershirt for under them. I’ll get yours ordered for the next truck. What size do you take?”

“Usually a large.”

“Okay, then.” She made a note on Asa’s paperwork. “You’ll be on your feet a lot, so comfortable shoes will be good. They have to be closed-toe, though. Non-slip’s a good idea, too. Steel-toe is optional, but if you drop the mixing bowl or a box of cheese, you’ll find you want it.”

“Duly noted.” I suppose I have to go buy shoes, now. Probably slacks, too, Asa thought. “Is the cheese really so heavy?”

“Twenty-pound boxes, so more than most bowling balls.”

“I never knew.”

“Most people don’t. There’s really a lot more to getting this stuff put together than people think. You’ll learn it, though.” Jennifer pushed back her chair a bit. “Any other questions for me?”

“None at this time. I’m sure I’ll have more come up, though.”

Jennifer stood. “I’ll be ready to answer them.” She stood and extended her hand again. “Welcome to the crew!”

This time, Asa stood and shook the offered hand. “Thanks, Jennifer. I appreciate the opportunity.” And I do, although I’m hardly glad this is the only thing that’s come through.

Jennifer walked him out of the store and waved as Asa went to his teal hatchback and got in. He sat in the car for a bit after she went back inside. So I’m going to be a delivery driver. That should be interesting enough. And what happens if another job comes open while I’m doing this?

He sighed heavily and said aloud to himself “If it does, then I’ll worry about it then. But I’m not exactly swimming in job offers, and even if another comes in, I’ll see what’s going to treat me better. Nobody else is going to take my part, not really; Mom and Dad might, but they’re not hiring, and who knows what all my sister’s up to–but I’d be surprised if it was anything I could sign onto. So, yeah, I’ll be running deliveries for a while, at least. And who knows? It might be a good enough job to do.”

Asa started his car and turned back onto 411, heading west towards Pronghorn. The work of cleaning up the town continued, of course, as it needed to do; yards needed clearing of detritus and debris, vehicles needed restoration and replacement, and homes needed repair and rebuilding–and the people of Pronghorn were about each such task, plying diligently the skills that they had, even if those skills ran only to lifting and carrying. Asa drove past them all, heading through town as could not be avoided. But I suppose I’ll be relearning these roads. I learned to drive on them, true, but it’s been a while, and there are stop signs and traffic lights I do not remember being here when I was young. And I guess I’ll learn to get around quicker, too.

Asa found himself driving by the church where Anna Kerr preached, passing by it more slowly than the road allowed or that the drivers behind him enjoyed. He thought he caught a glimpse of her just as he passed it, a flash of red and green plaid, but the passing wind of a jacked-up pickup ripping by him and the blare of its horn pulled his eyes back to the road, and the receding image of the pickup driver’s upraised finger reminded him where he ought to focus. And he did focus thereupon for a while, but his mind began to wander yet again.

I probably ought to apologize to Mom, he thought. I really was an ass to her this morning, lashing out the way I did. She really was trying to help, and she did help, and I, well, I yelled at her like I was a stupid teenager again. I’m supposed to know better, to be better, to do better, and I wasn’t, and I didn’t. Why she and Dad still put up with me, I don’t know. So I suppose I’ll be working to move out as soon as I can; having the job will help, I think.

And I guess that’ll mean I’ll need to start looking at rental listings. There’s no way in hell I can afford to buy, not for a good long while, yet. But I’d guess that rental’s about to become dear, what with the Tuesday Storm ruining the homes it did; folks’ll be looking for places to live, and there aren’t as many as there were before. So maybe I’ll have to stay with Mom and Dad for a little longer, but I’ll be able to put some money back if I do, so that’ll be decent, at least.

He sighed again and shook his head as he turned onto his home street. I need to find a way to make it good. And I need to find it pretty fairly soon.

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Continued from the previous chapter, here.

Asa Pemewan drove east on Texas State Highway 411 from its junction with Texas State Highway 701, soon passing by the Caída de Roca and the end of what got called East Park Street to where big-box stores and fast-food franchises clustered as near to San Antonio as they could be and still be in Pronghorn. Most of the national chains’ local branches had cleared the local tree branches out of their parking lots, and many were open and operating again–although to look at them, business still seemed to be down, as people in the county were more interested in setting things to rights than going out and having hamburgers or shopping for cheaply made imported goods. So there was plenty of parking at the pizza delivery place–there was only one in Pronghorn; one restaurant downtown made pizza, but it did not deliver, and the Tuesday Storm might well have closed it forever–when Asa reached it, and he pulled smoothly into a spot. And, on the door, was a sign that read “Hiring drivers.”

Asa went in and was greeted with a “Welcome to the Pizza Place! What can we get you today?” from a youngish woman he thought he recognized. And he replied, “I’m here to see about getting a job. I saw the sign up; are you still hiring?”

“We are, indeed!” The young woman came around the counter. “Hi, I’m Jennifer. I’m the manager here.” She extended her hand; Asa took it and replied “Asa Pemewan. It’s a pleasure.”

Jennifer gestured towards the back of the restaurant. “If you’d like to fill out an application, you can come on back with me; we’ve got a couple of tables back here, and my office. Have you got a resume with you?”

Asa nodded as he followed Jennifer back and she called out “Dave, keep an eye on the counter for a minute, would ya?” Something sounding like an assenting grunt came back, and Jennifer preceded Asa into a largish breakroom, one wall of which was hidden by stacks of pizza boxes, both folded and yet to be folded. Another wall had tables and chairs leaning against it; Jennifer pointed at one and said “Have a seat. I’ll be right back with an application form.” She exited through a door opposite that through which she and Asa had entered, and Asa thought It’s a better reception than I expected. But I haven’t filled out any paperwork yet, so we’ll see how long that lasts.

Jennifer returned a few moments later, a thin sheaf of papers in hand. “So I’ll need you to fill out some basic information, a work history, and a background check authorization. I’ll also need a copy of your driver’s license, Social Security card, and insurance card.” She smiled. “If you’re going to be a driver, you’ll be going lots of places. We’ve got to make sure you can go anywhere, and we’ve got to check to make sure you’re a safe driver.”

Asa nodded. “Makes sense,” he replied as he pulled a pen out of his pocket. “Oh, yeah, I know you’ll want the resume to fill out the work history bit, but I’ll need you to leave me a copy, too.” Asa nodded again and bent to the paperwork. For the address, he wrote his parents’. Hardly a point of pride, but it’s what’s true at the moment. Phone number, date of birth, email address were all his own, and on his work history, teaching job after teaching job. Adjunct work, visiting professorships, assistantships, fellowships, but all teaching, all the time, going back more than the four jobs for which the application form left room, more than the seven years common for job applications on the resume he had in hand. And all of it for nothing. All of that work, and the work that went into doing that work, all for nothing; I could’ve gotten a job delivering pizza straight out of high school.

He smirked a bit and snorted a laugh. Maybe it would’ve been a step up from working at the donut shop that first year of undergrad.

Jennifer returned from where she had been running copies of documents and checking on Asa’s background. “So that’s good. You’re clean. No tickets, no accidents, no criminal charges we need to worry about. One old charge of public intoxication, but that’s, what, ten years back? I think it’s okay. Clean driving record, good insurance record. So, yeah, that all looks good.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Asa replied. “And I think I’ve got everything filled out that you need.” He pushed his application forms and resume across the table to Jennifer. If you need anything else, I can, at least, try to get it to you.”

“Let me see.” Jennifer scanned over the forms and the resume. “You have reliable transportation, right?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She looked at him with an eyebrow arched. “Kind of weird to have you call me ‘ma’am,’ you know.”

Asa shrugged. “You’re the manager.”

“Well, yeah, but you’re still, what,” and she looked at the application form again, “a little older than me.”

“Probably more than a little.”

“Yeah. So. Weird.”

“‘Jennifer,’ then?”

“Only if you don’t want me to ‘Dr. Pemewan’ you all day.”

Asa cocked his head. “You know, I’ve not thought about that and dealing with it.”

“It’d be weird for a driver to go around getting ‘Doctor, Doctor’ all the time, right?”

Asa did a double-take. “Excuse me? I’m not sure I caught that right.”

“Oh, yeah. Pay starts at eight, plus a dollar per delivery. Claim your mileage, claim your tips. Can you start Monday, come in around 2 in the afternoon?”

“Full-time or part-time?”

“Part-time for now. After six months, if you’re doing well, and if you want it, and the store can use it–and it probably will–then, yeah, full-time. Paid vacation after a year either way. Medical and 401(k) if you’re full-time, partial matching contributions starting at two years, fully matching up to seven percent after five years. But all that’ll be in your packet on Monday, if you want the job.”

She stood and looked at Asa, her hand extended to shake his. After a moment or two of him not moving, she asked “Are you okay?”

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Continued from the last chapter, here.

A voice came from behind Asa Pemewan as he hunched over his laptop, reviewing job applications he had sent in and marking off updates to them. It was his mother’s, and it asked “What all are you up to, Asa?”

Asa turned in his seat to answer. “I’m looking over job stuff, Mom.”

“Any luck?”

“Only because bad luck counts as luck.”

“Oh, come on,” said Asa’s mother as she sat down across from him. “It can’t be that bad.”

“It can, indeed. Dozens of applications out, not one positive result. If I batted like I apply for jobs, I’d be cut from tee ball teams.”

Asa’s mother looked at him quizzically. “That’s a strange thing to hear from you.”

“What, that I haven’t been able to get a job?”

“Yes. That and a baseball simile. You’ve never really been into sports.”

“I know. But you have, so I figured I’d use it.”

“It doesn’t suit you. And something will come up for you.”

“Evidence would seem to deny that assertion. Hell, the only firm job offer I’ve gotten since I started applying came from the one person killed in the Tuesday Storm. It’s enough to make me think the universe is against me.”

“You know it’s not.” The tone was somewhat exasperated.

“You’re right. I’m not nearly important enough to attract that kind of attention.”

“You can stop that self-pity crap any time, Asa.”

“Am I supposed to be so arrogant as to think the universe cares, then?”

“No, but you’re also not supposed to wallow in feeling like you can’t do anything.”

“I fail to see why not, since all appearances are that I can’t do a damned thing. Hell, I can’t get hired to answer phones or to work a candle-shop counter.”

“Well, you just have to start at the bottom and pay your dues.”

“Retail counter-work isn’t exactly high-level employment, Mom. And you’d think that more than a decade working would count as ‘paying my dues.’ Especially since I actually paid dues for a lot of it.”

“Well, have you tried calling places?”

“Yes. The answer’s been ‘no’ every time there’s been an answer.”

“Did you call back again?”

“Why would I?”

“Persistence matters.”

Asa snorted. “Mom, nagging at you never did me any good, and you love me. Why would it work on people who don’t?”

“Maybe they’d give it to you to get you off of their phone.”

“Yeah, and starting off with a pissed-off boss is such a good idea.” Asa’s sarcasm dripped from his tongue.

“Asa, I’m just trying to help you.”

“I get that, Mom, but think about it. When was the last time you applied for a job? How many times in your life have you looked for work? How many applications have you put in? It’s been years since you’ve been on the market, Mom, and even when you were, you only had to put in, what, three before you got a call back and a job offer. I’ve put in dozens since the beginning of the year alone; I put in well over a hundred last year, and at least that many the year before. Not one has worked out. Not. One.”

“Well, then, have you looked at unemployment?”

“Yes. But since I was on a term contract, I’m not eligible for it where I was, and since I didn’t work here, I’m not eligible for it here, either. So that’s right out.”

“What about a job agency?”

“The only one in town’s at city hall. A tree fell through it, or close enough. Now’s not a good time for it.”

“I think I saw that the pizza place east on 411’s hiring.”

Asa opened his mouth to reply, paused, and said “I hadn’t seen that. When did you see it last?”

“Maybe last week or the week before?”

“Okay, then. That, I’ll go look at.”

“Good. And maybe you’ll think that your mother still has some idea what’s going on in the world, even if it has been a while since she’s had to look for work.”

Asa paused again. Then he offered “You know, you’re right. Of course, you’re right. And you always have been.” He began to speak more quickly, more forcefully, angrily. “I should never have headed to graduate school, should have taken the job that was waiting for me when I finished my bachelor’s. Or I should have majored in business or something actually useful, because it’s not like it matters that a poem can be read in such and such a way, or that a novel is borrowing from one source or another. No, you’re right again. And so I’ll apply at the pizza joint, and I’ll go in with the smile on my face that you’re going to suggest even though I already know to do it and you know I know it or would if you paid attention, and I’ll hand them my resume. They’ll see the cluster of letters at the end of my name, and the application will go in the garbage like damned near every other one I’ve put in in since the year started, and I won’t hear from them for weeks. And when I do call them to follow up, I’ll get the same kind of answer that I’ve been getting all day today and that I’ve been getting for months. They’ll have hired somebody else entirely, and I’ll be worse off than I am now, because I still won’t have a job, and I’ll have expended the effort in trying to no good end once again!”

By the end of the rant, Asa was nearly spitting his words. His mother stood and said “I really hope you get to feeling better, Asa.” And she left the room.

Asa sat in sullen silence.

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Continued from the previous chapter, here.

After Asa’s father left the house, Asa looked back over the list of job applications he had put in recently. The ones in Pronghorn are a bit too new to worry about yet, and the Tuesday Storm’s thrown everything off, anyway, he thought. Still, there’re a few I probably ought to check on. So he began pulling up websites, fingers flying over the keyboard, entering his username and password on each–always “AsaPemewan” and a variation of “8Chars!,” respectively, with the character after the exclamation point cycling from one through nine to zero and back again.

The results were disappointing. An inventory position that would have had him driving around to small towns and highway gas stations, counting candy bars and quarts of 10W-30 motor oil showed “Does not meet minimum hiring requirements.” It had advertised only needing a high school diploma or GED, no experience required. And with a doctorate, I don’t meet minimum requirements. Great.

A marketing position, the kind that has people standing in big-box stores and hocking cell phone plans or satellite television service, had asked for much the same: high school diploma and a willingness to learn. “Position  filled,” it read, and Asa knew he had not been made the offer.

A test-development position, one that had asked applicants to have terminal degrees in “English, history, philosophy, mathematics, political science, and other fields,” as well as teaching experience–And I’ve only worked in the classroom for years, Asa thought–showed an in-browser message. “Thank you for applying. After careful consideration, we have determined that you do not meet our needs at this time. Please keep looking at our job postings for positions that might be a better fit for you. Good luck in your continued search.”

An administrative assistant job in Kerr County was also on the list. It had asked for someone who could type 25 words per minute, run standard office equipment, handle word processing and spreadsheets, and offer a pleasant demeanor in customer service.. It also showed “Position cancelled” on the company website. At least they didn’t hire somebody else, thought Asa as he navigated to the next hiring site.

Another administrative assistantship that Asa had applied for, one looking for someone with the same general qualifications–with the addition of “go-getter” the only difference–showed “Application under review” and a last update of a month gone. Asa checked the location and the time, noting that it was in business hours. The call went to voice mail, and Asa left his name and number. He also said “I’m calling to follow up on an application for an administrative assistant position I put in a while back. The website still lists it as under review, but any update would be welcome.”

The next position on his list was one that had taken a resume through email. It was for another administrative assistant position, and Asa dialed the number. A human voice greeted him, and Asa said “Yes, hi, this is Asa Pemewan. I applied for an administrative assistant job with you a couple of weeks ago, and I was calling to follow up.”

“Oh, yeah, we hired somebody else.”

“I see. Is there something I should have done differently when I put in for the job?”

“Nah. We had a lot of really good candidates. You just didn’t read as being a good fit.”

“I see. Well, thanks for your time.”

“No problem.” The line went dead, and Asa shook his head. He also dialed the next number on his list. It was for a position as a library clerk, and when the call was answered, Asa gave his introduction again: “Hi, I’m Asa Pemewan. I applied for a library clerk position with you a couple of weeks back, and I was calling to follow up on it.”

“Well, sir, the person who handles hiring is out today. But if you’ll give me your number, I’ll leave a message for her, and I’m sure she’ll call you back tomorrow or the next day.”

“Thank you, ma’am; that’d be fine,” said Asa, and he gave her the number. The voice on the other end of the line confirmed it, and after a brief politeness, the line went dead again.

As Asa went along, he continued to make notes on his list. I don’t know why I keep doing this, he thought. I suppose it’s so I remember what I said to whom and when, but looking back over dozens of failed attempts is less a record of progress and more a litany of failures. And I don’t need to have another one of those; I’ve enough for a catechism and a half already.

Asa sighed heavily and muttered to himself “Why do I have to keep doing this? It’s not doing any good, so far as I can see.” But he bent back to the work, checking up on applications he had filled out and sent off in the hopes of finding some job, any job, that would offer him full-time work.

One phone number had been disconnected.

Another was answered brusquely. “We hired somebody else. You’ve got how many degrees? We need an entry-level worker.”

Yet another was more polite. “You’re entirely too qualified for the job. We’d never be able to offer you what you’re worth.” Asa replied to it “I’m happy to work my way up from an entry-level spot and learn how the company works.” “But we’ve already filled the position, sir, so there’s nothing we can do.”

Still another was somewhat incredulous. “I can’t imagine why someone with your credentials would want to work here instead of teaching.” “As to that, I’d been thinking that a switch might be good” replied Asa. “Okay, but then how long would it be before you decided another switch would be good?” “That’d depend on how I was treated, of course.” Wouldn’t it be for anyone? “Well, we were looking for someone who was looking for a long-term position, and we found one.” “Ah. Thanks, then.”

Another position was struck from the list of those still outstanding. And there aren’t as many of those as I’d like, anymore.

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Continued from the previous chapter, here.

The ringing of his cell phone woke Asa Pemewan in the bed he was using at his parents’ house. Tossing sheet and blanket aside, he groggily reached over to it, fumbled to answer, and hoarsely said “Hello?” into it. “Who’s calling?”

A voice sounding like it belonged to a middle-aged woman replied “I’m sorry to call so early, but I’m trying to reach Asa Pemewan. My name’s Olivia Smitherson, and I run Smitherson Chandlery.”

Asa sat up. “Yes, ma’am. I’m Asa.”

“Hi, Asa. Again, I’m sorry to wake you, but I wanted to return your call and to get hold of you before you tried to come in to work.” A choked sob reached Asa’s ears. “Papa didn’t let any of us know what he was going to have you do for him, and the office is in a shambles, anyway, because of the Tuesday Storm.”

“I understand, Ms. Smitherson. Thanks for letting me know. And please accept my condolences.”

“Thank you.” The line went dead, leaving Asa sitting in the dark. The air conditioner whirred to life, and Asa looked at his phone. I can get another hour of sleep, or I can go ahead and get up and try for other jobs. Maybe something in San Antonio’s hiring.

With that thought, Asa realized he would not be getting back to sleep anytime soon. So he staggered towards the kitchen to turn on the morning’s coffee, and while it began to brew, he used the one bathroom in the house ahead of his father’s waking. That done, he took a look at want-ads in and around the Alamo City. Education jobs on Craigslist spoke of the need for daycare teachers to work with the very young, as well as tutors for various agencies to offer supplemental instruction at all grade levels; Asa clicked on one of the latter, finding that it promised high pay and flexible hours. Clicking through, however, demanded a lengthy application process.

Seeing it, Asa shrugged before he went to get his coffee. Cup in hand, he sat back down and put himself to filling out the application. Questions about his programs of study, his grades, his teaching experience, and his test scores leapt at him from the screen. Hell, I haven’t taken the ACT or SAT since high school, and that was twenty years ago. Even the GRE’s a way back for me; I don’t know if I’d be any good helping with it, he thought. Still, I can do lit–all of it, really. And I can teach writing, so that should help. He typed furiously, clicked repeatedly, and, at length, the application was completed.

Form behind him, his father, dressed for work, asked “What was all that?”

“Job application. Tutoring, so irregular as all hell–if it works. It’s summer, now, so tutoring won’t be in much demand. But I’ve got to keep looking, right?”

His father nodded and moved to get his own coffee. “Y’ do. And somethin’ll come up. Y’re bright and a hard worker with y’r head and y’r words. Somethin’s coming.”

Asa took a pull from his cup. “I hope you’re right.”

“Y’ ain’t been here long, either, Asa. Tuesday Storm screwed things around, sure, but y’d need to be patient even without it.”

“If I’d only started looking when I came back, I’d believe you. But I was putting stuff out middle of last year, and I haven’t heard back on hardly anything that wasn’t a ‘no,’ here or otherwise. Hell, even my friend could only get me a ‘maybe.'”

“Y’ve still got to keep going.”

“Who’s talking about not? I’m just frustrated with the thing, is all. And so I’m looking for whatever I can slap together to get some money in in the meantime.” He took another pull from his mug. “Not that it’s helping at the moment. But I’m trying.”

Asa’s father drank from his own mug. “I know y’ are, son. I know y’are. And I know looking for work and not finding it sucks. And even when y’ do find work, and y’ work y’r ass off, and the bills don’t get paid the way they need to, that sucks, too. But y’re at least in a decent spot. Y’ve got food and a place to sleep, and that’s better than it could be.”

Asa nodded. “I know, Dad. I know. And I appreciate that you and Mom’re letting me stay here; I know you don’t have to.”

“Y’re our son. We weren’t going to turn y’ away.”

“But some folks would’ve. You didn’t, and I appreciate it. And I know I’ve been kind of a pain in the ass.”

“We’re used to that from y’.”

Asa shook his head. “I’m being serious. I really do appreciate you putting up with me–and continuing to do so. Because it doesn’t look like I’m going to be able to move back out anytime soon.” He smiled. “You and Mom’ll have to keep your clothes on around the house a little longer.”

Asa’s father smiled back. “Y’ stay in y’r room like y’ used to, and we’ll do like we did then, too.”

Asa pantomimed vomiting, and his father chuckled. “How’d y’ think we got y’ and y’r sister?” He finished his cup of coffee. “But I’ve got to head in soon, so I’ll leave y’ to it. Should be a nice day out; see if y’ can get some of it on y’, okay? Staying in all the time’s not good for y’, and y’ need every bit of help y’ can get.”

“I will, Dad. But I’m going to see about putting in some more applications first.”

“Sounds good, son. Sounds good.”

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Continued from the previous chapter, here.

The next few days in Pronghorn saw much of the same as had Wednesday and Thursday. The people of the town gathered together to clean up the damage that had been left by the Tuesday Storm–and people were beginning to call it that, capital letters and all. Roads were cleared relatively quickly, with all that needed to be done being dragging wood from the streets and, for the larger pieces, cutting it with chainsaws that were kept in some numbers in local homes. Many houses and yards were similarly quickly restored, and roofing and window companies began to filter in to handle the damage that had been inflicted from on high. Many homes suddenly began to carry metal roofs where they had had shingles in need of repair, and many homes began to have well-fitted double-pane windows where they had had old single-pane panels to keep out the air and let in the light. Garbage service resumed, and while several families had to get rid of more than they would have liked to have done, they were able to do so, and other food, offered freely from neighbor to neighbor, took its place.

This is not to say, of course, that there were not people excluded from the general amity. Every town has people in it who do not fit in, and some of those do not do so because they do not want to do so. Pronghorn remembered such people after the Tuesday Storm, and they found themselves working alone to clear out their yards and driveways, or their freezers that had been opened while the power was out. Rufus Hochstedler was one of them; Asa Pemewan was far from the only one who had had him wave his gun about, and many had been more brusquely treated than he. “Deux” Lee LeBeaux–really Lee LeBeaux, Jr.–also found himself on the outs; his business largely catered to tourists, but his custom was stingy with the people in the town, and his treatment of workers, usually the youth of Pronghorn, was far from ideal. He should not have been surprised when the teenagers all quit after the storm, although he seemed to be.

It is also not to say that the only help that came to Pronghorn came from Pronghorn. The Red Cross sent trucks in with food–mostly military surplus rations, but easy and abundant–and cleaning supplies. The few big-box stores the town had–mostly on the outskirts, on Highway 411 towards San Antonio–sent in relief, as well, in building materials and furniture. (At least one of the managers marked some lumber as “destroyed by water” or “destroyed by hail” that was not; his only request was that he not be thanked aloud, but he did not buy his own drinks for a while afterwards.) Franchise restaurants–again, clustered on 411 towards San Antonio, with a few on 701 as it headed north out of town–ran deep discounts, supplemented by corporate offerings. And state and federal aid was available to be had, despite people’s complaints about the taxes that make them possible and conspiracy theorists’ rants about FEMA death camps.

Local government had a harder time of it than the populace, though. More damage had been done to city offices than had initially been thought–although a tree falling through the building is not insignificant, to be sure. Water had infiltrated quite a bit of the building, including records storage that had been retained on site rather than deposited at the college library. Some of the electronic records had also been affected by the loss of power and the intrusion of water; not all of them had been backed up to remote storage, so some contracts that had been under negotiation were lost. (It is certain that some city officials were not displeased at the results, whether because they had opposed the contracts or because they had been doing as those in office often do. And it is rumored that one person managed to win free of blackmail, although whether that was an accident or not is questionable.)

Anna Kerr had a spot of work of her own. Alone in town, one of her congregants had died in the Tuesday Storm, and so she alone of all the clergy had the solemn duty of preaching a funeral. Bartholomew Smitherson had been a figure of no mean influence and power in the town, and the church was filled to bursting by the throng of mourners. By all accounts, the ceremony was a calm and dignified affair, much in line with the public persona presented by the decedent. His wife had predeceased him (breast cancer), as had two children (one in combat, another as a drunk driver); three other children–the Chandlery manager, the honey plant manager, and an executive for Frost Bank in San Antonio–were in attendance, as were the children of the latter two, and the young granddaughter of the last. So were various collateral relatives, as well as the ostensible heads of the Zapata and Hochstedler families, Guillermo and Wilhelm, respectively. And tears were shed, of course, some sincerely and others clearly for show–for small towns make much of what is “supposed” to happen–both during the ceremony at the church and at the internment afterwards that followed the mile-long funeral procession.

At the graveside, the Chandlery manager received a folded flag; Bartholomew, as had many men of his generation, had been in the armed forces in his youth, though he spoke of it little. And the man himself was lowered into the ground beside his late wife and children, rejoining in the grave what had been parted in the world above. So the deed was done, and the people of Pronghorn worked each to return to some normalcy in the days that followed.

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Continued from the previous chapter, here.

Asa Pemewan drew a deep breath as he made to answer the questions the Reverend Anna Kerr had put to him. “The work yells at me, really,” he said. “Even now, I can’t help but see what’s on your bookshelves, and I keep thinking how to read what you read to get some idea about who you are and what you are. I keep looking for things we’ve both read, thinking about what the fact of our shared readership shows about the communities in which we participate entirely independently of where we are in the physical world. What your choice of words says about you and your history, and the history of the people who taught you to talk and to read, all of it and more floods on me at any given moment, and I can’t shut it off. It won’t be shut off; it is the lens through which I look at the world, bending all the light that reaches me and throwing some things into relief even as it hides other things from me entirely.”

He paused. “If the work you do is like that for you, then I understand, and I’ll not keep you from it. I couldn’t, in any event, and I’d be a kind of ass I try very much not to be if I made the attempt at doing so.” He stood to leave.

Anna stood, as well, and she came around her desk once again. Looking up at him, for he was slightly taller than her, she said “It is, and I’m glad you understand.” She reached up and kissed him on the cheek. “I’ll call you when things settle down a bit, and we’ll get that lunch. Or dinner. And we’ll split the check.”

Asa reached up to touch his cheek where she had kissed it. His eyes were wide, as if looking somewhere else. “Yeah.” His hand dropped, and his attention returned to where he was, where Anna stood. He nodded. “Yeah. That’ll be good. I’d like that a lot. A whole lot.” He made a short bow with his head and left, tripping over his feet a little as he did so, and making his way back to his teal hatchback in something of a daze.

Starting the car but sitting in it only, not yet driving, he thought That went…oddly. I’m not sure what to make of it. She seems interested, but I could be reading too much into that. I’ve done so more than once before. His mind flashed back to his undergraduate days. There was Allison; she gave me her phone number, and I thought she wanted to go out on a date. Turns out, she only wanted to set up a study session; she had a boyfriend. I wonder what happened with her.

He shook his head again, breaking his reverie. “Best not to think about it” he said aloud, and he put the car in gear. His stomach rumbled a bit as he did so, and as he left the church’s parking lot, turning back onto the street to head towards downtown, he said to himself “I do need to eat. I wonder if anything in town is open, or if I ought just to go back to the house and get something there.”

Driving on, Asa found more repair work in progress, and he saw that the Red Cross trucks that had passed him before were out distributing food and cleaning supplies to the people at work. Best head home, then. Here, I’d be in the way more than anything else, and that’s not what folks need at the moment.

When he reached his parents’ house, Asa took a look at his phone. Several texts had come in while he was out; he’d silenced his phone for the date that did not happen. One of them was from Art Martinez: “Checking to see if you weathered the storm. Let me know if you’re well.”

Asa smiled a bit. Of course an English professor punctuates texts he thought as he replied. “I’m well. Town’s messed up, though. Check on campus.”

A reply came quickly. “Main ofc. noted closure, no injuries. Have a paper to write anyway. Good to know you’re fine.”

Asa headed into the house. His mother noted his entrance. “You’re back quickly. What happened?”

“Anna had to work, as you might expect. We’re taking a raincheck; she says she would like to get together, but with the storm and the cleanup…”

“Well, that makes sense.”

“Red Cross is in town, too. They’re passing out food and such downtown. City hall’s trashed; a tree fell through it. Lots of businesses are going to be hurting, too. Windows are out in many, and Rufus Hochstedler’s store’s roof fell in.”

“I hadn’t heard that.”

“Yeah. I saw it when I drove by. Got a text from Art, too; he says the college is closed, but nobody got hurt there, so that much is good.”

“That is good.”

Asa’s father popped in at that point. “What’s good?”

“The college didn’t have anyone hurt by the storm. Campus is closed for cleanup.”

“Right.” Asa’s father paused. “Wait, what’re y’ doing home? Thought y’ had a date with Rev’nd Kerr.”

“She’s got to work. The storm, you know.”

He nodded. “Makes sense. Anything we can do to help?”

Asa shrugged. “Red Cross is in town. Might donate to them. Otherwise, staying out of the way’d probably be good.”

His father nodded again. “Also makes sense. And we’ll want to head to the city for groceries in the next few days. Power outage played hell with the coffin coolers in the stores here.”

“Did we lose any food?”

“Nope. Kept everything closed; it stayed cool. Not everyone did, though; neighbors found out their freezer doesn’t seal. Had most of a deer in there, too.”

Asa winced at the image that formed in his mind. Glad it wasn’t us.

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Continued from the previous chapter, here.

Asa Pemewan pulled into the parking lot of the church. As he did, he noticed that there was minimal damage to it; a few panels in the stained glass windows were cracked, and one seemed to have been punched out, and it was clear that the roof would need some work, but little else seemed to be wrong. The trees on the property had kept their greater branches and limbs; the shrubbery seemed disheveled but intact. The sound of a working air conditioner betrayed that the power remained on, as did the obvious flickering of a fluorescent light bulb that would soon need to be replaced.

Asa parked, exited his teal hatchback, and made his way up to the church building. The door was unlocked; he walked inside, and the prevailing quiet of the church on a day when no services were in session surprised him. I don’t know why it should be a shock, though, he thought. Churches are supposed to be places of reflection, places to hear Elijah’s “still small voice.” And Asa did hear voices, muted through walls and doors but still plain to his ears; he moved toward them, navigating halls he vaguely recalled from long-ago abortive attempts to join vacation Bible schools and youth groups. I never did fit in here, did I? And at this point, I doubt I ever will; I’ve been gone too long and changed too  much.

Soon enough, he came to a door marked “Pastor’s Office.” It was shut; he knocked, and Anna Kerr’s voice rang out “Come in,” so Asa did. “Oh, hi, Asa!” She stood and came around her desk, past messy bookshelves whose boards bent under the weight of volumes of commentary, translations of Scripture into and out of several languages, copies of holy texts from many other religions–Risky move, keeping a Qur’an in this part of the world, Asa thought–histories of Scotland, and knickknacks and tchotchkes of many different kinds and qualities. She stuck her hand out, Asa shook it, and she continued. “I’m glad you made it through the storm. Al and Matilda are okay?”

It took Asa a moment to recognize his parents’ names. He nodded. “They are. But I was sorry to hear about Bartholomew Smitherson.”

He sat as Anna gestured, and she resumed her seat behind her desk. “I was, too,” she said. “We didn’t always agree–which was good; I don’t want my congregants not to think–but he was a solid member of the church. I’m working on the services we’ll have; I’ve heard a bit from the family. Not much, as you might expect, but a little. The funeral’ll be here; he’ll be buried on the family land north of town, so far’s I know.”

Asa nodded again. “Makes sense. I’m waiting to hear from them, myself; Bartholomew’d hired me Tuesday before the storm. Now I don’t know if I have a job or not.”

“I suppose I’d better buy lunch, then.”

Asa shook his head. “That’s not why I said that, and I’ve got some other leads at the moment; I can buy. I asked you out, remember?”

“Yeah, about that…”

Asa sighed. “I figured we’d need to reschedule. Not much is open in town right now–or it wasn’t when I drove through.”

“I haven’t had a chance to look.”

“There’s a lot of cleanup that needs doing. A lot of it’s in progress, but downtown got hammered pretty badly. City offices have a tree through the wall. Rufus Hochstedler’s store’s roof fell in. Other places have windows out, and I imagine the power going out will have hurt a lot of the local eateries and such.”

Anna winced. “I thought as much. The church sent what it could with the Red Cross.”

“I saw the trucks roll by, coming from this way. I’m glad you could help them.”

“I’ve actually been emailing back and forth with the bishop’s office. There’s a bit of an aid fund that the local conference maintains; I’m trying to get some of it sent this way to help with recovery. We’re not the only town that got hit, though, and there’re other concerns in the area, so it’s not going as well as might be hoped.”

“I hope the bishop sees clear to help.”

“Me, too. And I hope we’ll be able to get together sometime when the skies haven’t been falling.”

“But that won’t be today, I know. And I’ll not keep you, Reverend. But I really would like to get together sometime. I mean it when I say I’d like to get to know you better.”

She looked at him levelly. Oh, hell. “I mean,” he found himself stammering, “I’d guess you get that quite a bit, people saying they want to get to know you better. Maybe they mean it. Maybe I protest so much.” His pace quickened as he spoke on; Kerr continued to look at him levelly, and Asa lapsed into silence.

After a moment, just before the urge to flee became irresistible for Asa, the reverend said “Actually, Asa, I don’t. Most of the people I meet are either already committed or are somehow intimidated by the fact of my collar–when I wear it. And I can tell you’re nervous, too. But I’m glad that you’re asking; it’s nice to know someone sees me as being at least a little more than the job, even if it’s not necessarily the way I’d most like to be seen.”

Asa felt himself blushing mightily as Kerr continued. “And, truth be told, I’d like to get to know you better, too. I really would. But from what I hear, what I know about people who’ve been in academic life, you’re called to do the work you do–just as I’m called to this. And today, at least, I need to work on this. People need help, and I’m called to help them. Just like you’re called to the work you do.

“You are called to it, aren’t you? Even knowing that you are where you are, the work you’ve trained to do, studied to do, it calls to you, asking to be done, doesn’t it?”

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Continued from the previous chapter, here.

The next day saw Asa Pemewan rise early and take care dressing once again. He skipped a tie, for he was not going to look for work that day, but he did have an appointment he wanted to keep. Provided it is still going to happen, he thought. I imagine Anna has a fair bit to do right now.

After dressing , Asa checked his emails, noting that a few more job applications he had put in before had been rejected. No surprises there. The doctorate seems to be working against me every way I turn, anyway.

That done, Asa made to place a phone call. A quick online search revealed the number he would need to call: that of the Smitherson Chandlery. He dialed, and the phone rang once…twice…thrice…a fourth time…and voicemail picked up. The recorded voice was cheerful, with a lilting cadence.

“Thank you for calling the Smitherson Chandlery. We can’t currently make it to the phone, but if you’ll leave your name, your number, and a brief message, we’ll return your call as soon as we can.”

The expected beep followed, and Asa cleared his throat before saying “This is Asa Pemewan calling. I heard about Bartholomew’s passing, and I wanted to extend my sympathies to the family for the loss. Please do let me know what, if anything, I can do to help.” He left his phone number and hung up. Puts it in their court. And if I don’t hear back, I’ll head to the one office on Monday, and the Chandlery if it’s not open.

Several hours remained for Asa before his appointment–lunch date–with Reverend Anna Kerr. Asa took the opportunity to drive around the town, looking at what the Tuesday storm had done and how the people were recovering from it. Pronghorn Creek was still swollen, of course, with several of the local bridges–low-water crossings, really–still closed off. It was clear that at least one person had sought unsuccessfully to get around the black-and-orange barricades that had been placed to stop people from driving into the running water; a waterlogged truck stood with its doors open, clearly having been dragged up onto the bank of the northern branch of the creek. I hope the people who were in it’re okay, even if they’re idiots, thought Asa as he turned his teal hatchback around and continued.

Some of the roads in town still had tree branches fallen across them. Others had been cleared of larger debris, although twigs and leaves and fragments of bark and splintered wood still festooned the pavement across much of the town. The city offices themselves were being frantically repaired; a tree had fallen into the building, curving one wall inward, and many of the panes of glass that had let civil servants look out over Pronghorn had been shattered. Many of the storefronts Asa had gone into over the past days were similarly broken, sheets of plywood going up to keep out the weather now that the storm had passed. He could not help but smile a bit as he drove past Rufus Hochstedler’s antiques store, the roof of which had clearly collapsed into the showroom. The Browning didn’t do you much good, did it, you asshole?

Asa caught himself thinking thus uncharitably and shook his head as he drove on. I really shouldn’t be happy about it. Rufus might be an ass, but maybe his family isn’t, and they suffer if his business does badly. Driving further, he found crews at work clearing debris from roads and yards, and the schools–he was able to drive past both–seemed to be clearing. Fortunately, the public schools were out of session, and the college was only lightly attended at this time of year. I hope Sergeant Gonzales is okay, he thought as he drove by Pronghorn Community College. I figure Art is, off in San Antone.

Asa found himself thinking back to graduate school, where he had met Arturo and the two had been fast friends. He smiled thinking of one conference they had attended together, each wearing a shirt that had the other’s face emblazoned on it–each advertising for the other. There was another that had seen them get extravagantly drunk at lunch in San Angelo–and while a high-school language competition was going on at Angelo State University. Art painted two or three of them an interesting series of colors, then. And there were others when the two of them…

Another head-shake dispelled the thought. Not the kind of thing to have in mind with what I’m about to do, I think. And those days are long behind me, too. He glanced at the clock in his instrument panel. And it’s getting to be time for me to go to church and see if Anna is still up for lunch with me. And if anything’s open today; I haven’t seen a lot of places ready for customers.

A red light called Asa to stop. Trucks from the Red Cross drove past him as he waited for the light to change. It’s good to see them now thought Asa, and when the light changed again, he pulled out, turning left, whence they had come. I hope they do some good for the folks here.

And I’m glad that I’m not in a position to need them. Much as I do need, that kind of thing’s not part of it. Asa cleared his throat again as he proceeded towards the church his parents attended, ready to pick up the preacher, his heart beginning to race as he went on. I don’t know why I’m so nervous. It’s just lunch, after all. Even if it is with a good-looking woman.

Asa shook his head yet again, driving on.

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Continued from the previous chapter, here.

Asa Pemewan looked up from where he was helping his father clear branches from the back yard. “I’m still not sure what all I need to do. It’s not exactly a normal situation, you know.”

“Well,” his father replied, “there’re still branches for y’ to pick up. If y’ can’t get that one,” and he gestured towards a particularly large tree limb that had fallen into the yard, “then I’ll help y’. But it’s really just lift-and-carry work.”

“Not that. The job thing.”

“Oh. Right. It isn’t a usual thing, no. And I’ve never run into it, really. Never have had a boss die on me before I went to work. Hell,” and he puled on a tree limb of his own, “never had one die on me yet. Quit, sure, or get transferred or fired. One got arrested; tried to hire a high school girl as a hooker, I think. But never died on me.”

“I didn’t think so.” Asa had moved over to the indicated limb and begun to tug on it. In between the efforts, he added. “I don’t think a lot of people have, actually. So I’m not sure where to look for insight. Not that I can do a lot of looking at the moment.”

Asa’s father said nothing in reply, only nodding as he continued his clean-up work. Asa pressed on. “It’s the kind of thing that I run into a fair bit, actually. Folks have this idea that you can Google any damned thing, just punch in a few keystrokes and reveal all the information in the world. But it doesn’t work that way. Some stuff is online but doesn’t show up on Google. And while some of that’s the kind of thing you hear about in the news–child porn, drug trafficking, how to buy your politicians, and the like–a lot of it’s not. Like what the etiquette is for job offers made by somebody who dies before the offer can be taken up.”

Asa struggled a bit more with his limb, dragging it across the yard to the pile of brush and other assorted debris that was growing in one corner of the Pemewan backyard. “Or what the etiquette is for a date that was scheduled before a storm rolls through and wrecks a lot of the town.”

His father grunted out among his own exertions “Yeah, I’d wondered about that, too. I’ven’t heard that the church was damaged at all, and I think Rev’nd Kerr lives on site; I know there’s a parsonage, and I think she uses it. But, yeah, y’ll prob’ly still need to drop by and see if y’re still on–and offer to help if y’re not.” He heaved on the fallen branches and other assorted detritus. “I imagine a preacher’d appreciate having the help.”

Asa nodded. “Who wouldn’t? But it is strange that I’d be on a date, let alone a date with a minister. It’s been a long time since I was possessed of any great religious feeling.”

“I know, but I don’t know why. Y’ used to be eager for church, y’ know, more so than y’r mother and me. Not because we doubted, mind, but because working makes folk tired–and, well, son, y’ were a little shit as a kid. I loved y’, and I still do, but y’ were a pain the in ass when y’ were growing up.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

“Y’re welcome. Thought y’ deserved honesty at this point in y’r life.”

“Like I said, thanks.”

The two men worked without words for a time, but not silently; both grunted and groaned frequently as they bent their backs to clearing the yard of debris. They continued in the same way as they moved to the front yard, grimacing at the sucking mud that much of the yards had become. But they continued, and they saw many others at the houses nearby doing much the same thing. A few encouraging words were exchanged among them, fathers and sons and daughters–but few mothers, if any–working to clean up what the storm had disturbed.

At one point, a man from down the street whom Asa did not recognize but his father did came down and asked to borrow a chainsaw; a tree had fallen through his roof, and he was working to remove it. Asa and his father followed the man back to his home, where his young daughter, perhaps two and a half years old, was crying and his wife, her mother, tried to comfort and quiet her; the three men worked to cut the tree into manageable pieces and remove them from the house, and others who lived on the street found tarps and pieces of plywood that had been held in garages and shed for projects that would be done “someday.” They did not make a perfect seal, to be sure, but they made enough of a barrier to keep out the sun and the rain. “And it’ll be like camping in the forests, like in the fairy tales,” Asa told the girl, and she nodded, although tears still streamed down her plump and reddened cheeks.

Amid the work, Asa had little enough time to think about his own problems. Taking care of others’ often has such an effect. It also often puts a person’s own problems into relief. Asa knew that things could be better for him–they can be better for everyone, really–but he was also being reminded a bit of the perspective into which to place his problems. And when, at around half past five, the power came back on–the sudden lurching into life of a street’s worth of air conditioners sang in polyphonic tenors of electricity’s return–his voice joined the general cheering. After all, cool air–both in the home and in the refrigerator around beers chilling down–is a welcome thing after a long working day.

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