YD6~15 Apprehensive Squad Raid On The Job

 

Flash Memoir, in a pre-publication introspection of “Vitrine of Consciousness.” Here’s a glimpse:

Embark on Aetheria’s conscious 10-year odyssey to birth, where within two hours, she communicated her wish to be named “Sunshine.” Over the first two years, at nine-month intervals, she faced near-fatal resuscitations, to navigate persistent Intensive Care Unit challenges..Until her mother packed up and left home with her daughter, the witches and wizards of adversity volatilized, leading to a healthier life.

Welcome, considering the writer’s invisible handicap of dyslexia, for brevity in words. Be a VIP Reader and lend your presence to this literary puzzle. Join the pre-publication journey to explore the layers of life’s tapestry? Visit I-write4u2read.com now and unlock by subscribing to comment, for access to files like an editor. Share your age group, gender, and opinions — your input is invaluable. Thank you for being a thoughtful contributor!

YD6~15 An apprehensive Squad Raid On The Job

Seated within the snug of the IBM PC’s niche at my desk, fingers typing the keyboard, focused on the luminescent screen, dormant the Lorea telephone aggressive arose - Ring, ring - to grab in the far corner the handset shutting up screeching hurting my eardrums. Stuck the receiver cup to my ear, before I voice a word, to incoherent speaking background voices, an impatient female breaks in saying. “You’re wanted at the reception.” The line dies. I rise from my chair, stretching my sticky eyesight, to ping loose from the screen’s coded data. I shake my dizzy head, trace my way, with a lingering pace, from my chair and around my desk. My eyesight deflected across the passageway from mainframes flickering behind the glazed partition around the corner. My blank mind butt the end wall flush blending doors shade an embossed double door frame. Extend a set of fingers drop on the door lever, press the hydraulic resistant door leaf, clearing a hallway’s voice blustering my name.

Out of the deserted and faded yellowish-brown reception hallway, a striking aqua figure clad in a uniform. Jumps glazed eyes from a wide-angle purveyance. Untack from the first hatch window, portrayed the woman, I’m questioning. ‘_What’s going on here_?’ The police detective breaks earlier’s background voices, I heard over the phone. The detective’s wide-eyed purview, as I’m assailed from behind the dormant door leaf, facing an identical bright peaked cap police officer. I’m overwhelmed by the policemen’s eye onslaught on both flanks, as I’m trumpeting, ‘_Are you…_’

‘_Who else do you think I am_?’ I’m saying. “Yes!”

While the police detective at hand flutter white sheets of paper to my face. Both policemen’s eyes grabbed my upper arm, blocking my way and in unison, saying. “You’re under arrest!” The Warthog in me, jumps in front of my Gemini, ‘_Let me handle this!_’ At sight of the staircase behind the policemen, ready to hurl me off to the dark sinkhole in front of the entrance door’s apron to the street. Gentle voicing. “We’re taking you to the police station.” My ego kicked in, telling myself. ‘_Ho no Jean! You will not get me locked up. I will not go to prison…_’ The slender sportive figures, exuding a bodybuilder’s force to reckon with, I ask. “May I make a phone call?”  

The police detective pauses the writ, saying. ‘_Read._’

‘_I’ll be none the wiser,_’

The detective responding. “Sure.”

I step offside, with policemen — eyes of trainer’s assault Alsatians, clasp my arm. I cross the hallway to the women’s questioning eyes portrayed in the window hatch, to pause, saying. “Can you call Hilton Rogoff for me?” 

Hilton Rogoff stormed out in a loose beige suit from behind the accounting department’s door, engulfed by a blizzard, eyes dazed by awaking from ant's sprawled trail of ink numbers, finding me between the pillars of the authorities. Troubled, his eyes swivel around, but daren’t follow through brushing me off. Nowhere to hide, with a burdened regard, puffing. “Ask Eidelstein!” He retracts from the opening to the leading narrow corridor, to an instinctive hesitation. ‘_?_’ His thoughts uncoils, feet slapping across toward the woman portrayed in the window hatch. She hands Hilton the intercom’s handset, with a fist of fingers projecting beige phone cups to his face. He uttered a few brief words in the microphone’s cup, returns the handset to the woman, spinning off to disappear behind the hydraulic closing door.

With two policemen proud in their uniform, looming over my shoulders. Squeezed for a grab at my attempt to escape, I’m brushing the corridor walls along doors closed to offices into the cul-de-sac. palpable sense of impending doom. As I crossed the end open door’s threshold, clearing Mr. Eidelstein behind his executive desk. He spares me a skeptic glance, obliging. ‘_Tell me. . . What’s going on?_’

My ego cowered back, this Thursday counting the week to the month's end pay, as Mr. Eidelstein summoned me up to stand up to his massive wooden desk, eyes questioning. ‘_What’s the matter_?’ — Only a week earlier I stood on the spot, Mr. Eidelstein saying. “You made racist remarks against a colored man in the factory?” His allegation struck me to silence. I retort, “Who — ‘_What is going on here’_?”

“Excuse me, Mr. Eidelstein?” 

I’m chilled, accused of abusing my granted freedom of movement, without recollecting days, I follow my paces through the factory, to the people I crossed. Without raising a colored person, besides exchanging a few friendly words with the dispatch manager. The fearless Warthog in me surges, lashing out. “Who — ‘_What is going on here’_?”

Off the far edge of Mr. Eidelstein’s desk, he stretches an arm, across a few scattered documents and files, reaching the intercom, presses three keys on the keypad, bringing fingers knuckles to his cheek. In three words, he hangs up. Waiting, I ruminate on factory workers I might have offended. Until over my shoulder, in the doorway's light, a stranger cowers, I exclaim. “_’Mr. Eidelstein_’ — Who is He?”

Still fresh in mind, a mere week earlier I stood by, my mind holding back, throwing punches into thin air. While Mr. Eidelstein persisted, questioning the colored man. Until, sheepish, the colored man admitted. “I was standing behind. Overhearing when he was talking to the stock-keeper.” — Although the colored man eavesdropped, unhooking doors and windows off the hooks from the vicious chain, to stack in the store hangar. Mr. Eidelstein’s silent eyes, excuse the colored man. 

The colored man’s planted seed of doubt, lingers in Mr. Eidelstein stares. ‘_New on the job. You’re quite troublesome. What else will you bring along_?’ While Mr. Eidelstein’s eyesight shifted from the detective to the police officer with a glued stance to my shoulders, after following me across the threshold. ‘_Whatever the consequences?_’ I wind out. “They’re here to take me away. May I get an advance on my pay?” 

Mr. Eidelstein choked at the thoughts, swallowed. He rose from the executive chair, turning away, hands walking the inclined to swivel armrest. He paced around, one hand following the other, he squared up, holding the black leather backrest by the shoulders. Leaning over the specter seated in the chair, asking. ‘_What would you do?_’ 

Thoughtful, Mr. Eidelstein’s hand brushes off, turning away, to release his other hand, onto inching toward cornered wall frames. Without lending an eye to him figuring in the enlarged black and white pictures, before reaching the windowless corner, turning away from the asphalt by his Piper aircraft, and the aircraft’s controls heading into the skies. The grizzly old-man rehearses in mind my fate, pacing back. Brushing the backrest from a hold coil to sit on the vacant chair. He heads onward, cornering himself by the devoid frame obstacle, to turn away and pace an off-angle pace, reach the intercom on the corner of his desk. 

Mr. Eidelstein’s hand’s short code-rhythm of an index finger’s nimble three sequence pressures on the keypad, to bring the handset to his cheek in a fist of fingers. After speaking a three-word code, he presses the hangup-button. His finger repeating the code-rhythm to speaking another code, hanging up, turns to face the door behind me.

Tobianski’s slight figure hurls coded words toward Mr. Eidelstein, from behind the detective in turquoise outfit, paces at an increasing agitation prolonging the blank wall. Until cornered by his partner, coil up wrangling. Tobianski’s dithering little steps, arguing, uncoils fleeing. wedged by the heavy desk, a Cancer’s heart in turmoil, Tobianski wrangling coils up, plant words against the recalcitrant Eidelstein’s hefty chest. Tobianski's eyes punch the sturdy figure in the face, with persistent fleeing swings, comes back, persists, wields the argument in his partner’s face.

With Hilton joining in, Tobiansky appeases to hear him out, wedged into the facing trio’s briefing. After a few words, Hilton paces to bounces retrieving, from the two founders appeased. He holds a pursuing regard, while a stern wrangle persists, vanishing into the doorway light. 

Tobianski lashes looks, refrains uttering a sound, until from his silence punches words, inching away further, sling once again a word. Looks yo-yo away from his partner for the doorway, before vanishing into the light.

Offside, Eidelstein lifts the intercom’s handset, a finger dance, a three-digit number, to a wait. Out the door crack, Hilton’s jittery figure reappears, to prolong the flank wall approaching Eidelstein at the far desk’s corner. In an exchange of a code of words. Hilton backtracks, exchanging a few words with the Detective, releasing me of their imposing presence. As the figures, vanishing in the doorway light, and I’m left in limbo —.

Aetheria’s volition breaches, In Helios’ shadow, mirrored Earth within the zodiac, puppeteering chaos among genies — my fate.

I’m lingering through the leading slender deserted corridor, emerging to the hallway. I veered away from the receptionists’ hatch windows, pulling the hydraulic restraining door leaf swing to the ante-hallway. across the pool of bare desks. police uniforms and peaked cap emerging from Hilton’s office, brushing past. Lighter on my feet, I left Hilton’s office, notwithstanding his rogue takeover, a living of secrecy between us. I can only wonder the extent and permanency of the scars amid the founders, returning to the lonely IBM PC’s niche, to sit at the desk behind the screen, with a blank mind.