Phil, You’re on mute

A bit of pandemic fiction that I thought would be a nice change of pace.

Coming out of turn five I see the Australians waving the tri-color in support of the only Irishman in the race. It’s great to have their support, but I need to concentrate on gearing up to take advantage of the open space in front of me before turn six. A lead in the Melbourne Grand Prix doesn’t usually last very long, though I’ve managed to keep it for the last twelve laps and we only have two more to go. There’s Sainz in his McLaren jockeying for position. I squeeze to the right, trying to force him to slow down, but our wheels touch. I spin clockwise, while Sainz bounces off of the wall….

“Phil, you’re on mute.”

“Sorry, I missed what you were asking.”

“Has the driver delivered the shipment from Australia?”

Phil quickly checks the FedEx website and confirms that the shipment has been delivered to their factory. In the pre-Covid days, he’d have signed for it himself, but he isn’t an essential worker. Only the people who actually move boxes need to be on-site. Now he just moves virtual pieces of paper from the makeshift office in his one-bedroom flat.

The meeting continued, but nothing else concerned him. In the beginning people had their cameras on, but now only two of the twenty people did. Phil bothered to put on a nice shirt in case someone insisted, but he hadn’t had the camera on in two weeks, and that was just for the one-on-one with his manager, who had been concerned about Phil’s ability to concentrate on his job.

“Is there enough space in the warehouse for the next shipment?”

Space. I don’t know why they say ‘In space, no one can hear you scream.’ The explosion ripped Callahan’s arm clean off, and his scream fills the room as surely as the air that we’re breathing. The gaping hole the explosion’s left has to be filled or the screams will be sucked out with our air. I place a nearby panel over the hole and the air pressure holds it in place while I grab the spray sealant to quickly complete the repair. Then a second explosion rocks the station…

“Phil, is there space in the warehouse for the shipment?”

Phil quickly looked at the PowerPoint on the screen.

“The warehouse is half empty. We can easily fit it.”

The meeting droned on. To pass the time he got up and made himself a cup of black tea. On his computer screen the boxes with photos of the people he hadn’t seen in a year remained motionless and he could hear the voice of the project leader talking about their customer in India…

The jungle’s hot as hell and as humid as the sea. We need to disrupt the Japanese supply route through this mountain pass or Burma will be lost! But it’s just me, a squad of Gurkhas and the supplies we can carry. We do have the high ground and time to prepare, so there’s hope. “Limbu and Thapa, you take the east side and signal when you see them approaching. The rest of you, find a spot with coverage. Don’t fire until I do. We need to conserve our ammo.” For what seems like days we wait, crouching in the mud, fighting off bugs and boredom. Then the signal comes: a bird call from Limbu that we all recognize. The muscles that were stiff from lack of motion are now primed, senses ready for the melee that is to come. The first of the foot-powered convoy quietly enter the kill zone, but patience. Once the supplies straddle the kill zone, I take my rifle and fire on the lead…

“Phil, can you get the finished goods to Bangalore on time?”

Phil had no idea when on time was or when the shipment would be ready. He only had a vague idea what the shipment even was. He could ask, but then they would know that he wasn’t paying attention, again.

“No problem.”

Sometimes in life, you need to take a little risk.

With apologies to James Thurber

Originally published at https://asilberlining.com on March 20, 2021.