Pat wasn’t a humble man by any stretch but he also wasn’t self-impressed. Lately, he didn’t think about himself much at all. He rarely felt insecure about how he looked. His tired face stared out at him from one of the mirrors and he thought about how futile it was to care. This body of his was merely passing through this world and he would cease to exist once he was dead. How he looked was the least of his worries. The only striking aspect of him was just how skinny he was. It didn’t matter how much he ate, he continued to look like a white sheet pulled taught over a skeleton. His brown hair fell in messy waves all over his heart-shaped face and his eyes looked like pools of dark chocolate that rippled when he found something amusing. He wasn’t necessarily attractive to most people, but it was his family’s money and his intellect that set him apart.
He ran his thin fingers through his hair to loosen the tangles and proceeded to his walk-in closet to select an outfit for the day. After choosing a dark brown t-shirt, jeans, and blue Converse, he proceeded downstairs to his freshly brewed coffee. The old-fashioned, rustic warmth continued in the downstairs part of the house, but the open-concept kitchen was truly modern. Every room in the house was filled with light. Pat had never taken an interest in interior design but now that his wife was gone, every decoration, paint color, and light fixture was a reminder of what he had lost.
After taking a moment to try to enjoy the wind rustling through the trees and drinking his coffee, it was time to go to the office. Sherwood Servers was on the cusp of a nationwide rollout of their product the Thought Conductor so the day would be busy. He hoped that the relaxing start to his day would help him manage himself. Even on his best mental health days, he had the nagging feeling that a dam was about to break and spill out over his whole brain. If only he was able to articulate what that feeling was, he could properly deal with it in his father’s app, but how to describe what he felt evaded description.
Off the kitchen was a mudroom that led to the garage. As he poked his fluffy head out, he felt the distinct temperature shift. The smell of motor oil and dust filled his nostrils in the cool stagnant air. He quickly grabbed a black windbreaker from the hooks in the mudroom and slipped out the door with a click.
His car hummed to life and immediately connected to his phone which started playing some ethereal-sounding classical music. Usually, this was where the state of his mind was, but today he was feeling more upbeat so he changed the music to something faster-paced with singing. In a familiar motion, he pressed the reverse button and began to back up. The garage door sensed the car’s movement and began to open steadily revealing the gray light of a rainy morning. Pat had such a savage pleasure about rain especially when the leaves began to change.
His morning commute was longer than most, but his father had gifted him this home, and Pat felt it was a perfect distance from the city. He had worked hard to be a more social person, but nothing could change his deeply introverted roots. Additionally, people seemed to treat him differently than others which automatically made him more reclusive. Being able to go home and get a break from human interaction is how he survived being the CEO of Sherwood Servers. Unlike most people, Pat enjoyed the constant stimulation from devices. The more whirring of devices in his life, the less time he had to dwell on himself.
As Sherwood Servers came into view, it had the appearance of a greenhouse. Flora and fauna filled the entirety of the glass building making it look like a forest captured in a cage. Instead of a physical barrier in front of the entrance to the parking lot, there was a scanner continually scanning vehicles as they passed through. Each authorized vehicle had a QR code placed in an inconspicuous place on the bumper and if it wasn’t present the computer inside the dash would turn on the parking brakes and power down the engine.
His car drove through the invisible barrier easily and he parked in his labeled parking spot around the back entrance. The Sherwood Servers app gave him continual access to the building while his phone was on. Pat didn’t pause at all as he reached for the door and swung it open.
Coming in through the back way, there was a short hallway and a few restrooms, but you could see the rest of the first floor very clearly. It was an open space which was deceptive. This design was meant to curate the feeling of transparency and creativity. Sherwood Servers took privacy very seriously, however, and kept their most secret work in the lower levels of the company. All three of the above-ground floors were where upper management, PR, and marketing resided.
As he was carefully instructed to do, Pat made his way to the most visible part of the lobby to show he cared about his employees. It was a lie, but he had gotten good at faking consideration for people. He didn’t see a reason to care about anybody else since the accident.
When he had completed the mundane interactions with the front desk intern, the director of marketing, and a delivery driver, Theresa Clark led him to his first meeting of the day. In her normal fashion, she jiggled her way up to him and adjusted her glasses as if annoyed at his lateness even though she had advised him to speak with the lower-level employees every morning. This reaction seemed to be a leftover habit she had developed when Owen was in charge. She had loved Pat’s father and showed that love by bossing Owen around. Whether she admitted it or not, she seemed to regard Pat as her son and he did not like it.
“Your first meeting today will be with some of the medical supply salespeople. You will need to explain to them about the new features of the chips and how to properly educate the doctors, nurses, and hospital managers about them.”
“Great.”
“You must do all the talking. I’m not allowed.”
“Great.”
“They are expecting professionalism.”
“I suppose I can manage.”
“Don’t mess this up.”
“You mean, do not be crazy.”
Theresa stopped walking and looked him in the eyes. “I didn’t say that. I don’t think that word is politically correct anymore.”
“It is if I am using it to describe myself.” Pat lifted his left-hand palm side up under his chin to highlight the sarcastic smile plastered on his face.
“You’re no more ‘crazy’ than Owen.” She said signing air quotes around the word “crazy” as she continued their progress to the meeting.
“He was a bit much.” Pat muttered.
She glared at him out of the corner of her swampy green eyes and seamlessly rounded another corner. The strong smell of honeysuckle assaulted his nostrils when they reached the elevators. The rest of their journey to the meeting was in silence, but Pat could feel Theresa’s disapproval wafting over to him. The more he irritated her, the more aware he was of the screaming in the depths of his mind. It gnawed at him. Like an itch he couldn’t scratch. He rolled his left shoulder a couple of times and then laid his head on it to distract from the panic welling in his spirit.
When they reached the third floor, Theresa glided out first and Pat followed close behind. Pulling out his phone from his right pocket, he scrolled to his company’s app and clicked on an alert that had popped up stating that his anxiety levels were high. He selected the option that said “resolve” and could immediately feel a cooling sensation in his mind. The screaming was still there in the distance, but he no longer was afraid of it…instead, he was merely an observer of his own suffering.
Instead of entering the conference room and looking for the exits, he appreciated the lush plants, distressed maple conference table, and six floor-to-ceiling windows creating a “u” around the furthest end of the room. All these things pleased him and he knew he would conquer this presentation.
“Good afternoon, Theydies and Gentlethems. I am Patrick Sherwood, the late Owen Sherwood’s son.”
“I’m Theresa Clark. I’ve been the one speaking to you all by email.” Theresa interjected.
“Thank you for that clarification, Theresa, but I can manage.” Pat said pointedly.
The disapproval then became a heat wave. Pat could imagine her eyes turning red and cutting the maple table in half out of anger.
“Yes, sir.” She flounced out letting the door click behind her.
“Anyway, I suppose you have questions.” Pat continued to stand to keep himself distracted.
A nervous-looking man in his 30’s with brown hair and beard spoke up and said, “I am Clinton Briggs…”
“Nice to meet you.”
“Thanks, sir, Pat.” He ducked his head. “We have a basic understanding of what we are selling but we’d love to know more details about how it truly works.”
“Well, we’ve come a long way since my Father’s first chip.” Pat tapped his skull. “My father installed the very first chip directly on my brain. It works but there can potentially be complications if it malfunctions. Surgically operating on the area when it is on the brain is highly dangerous and there is not a very good success rate with these invasive procedures.”
“We’ve heard that the chip is placed in your arm now. How does that affect things going on in the brain from all the way down there?” A very pretty red-headed woman in a blue body-hugging dress asked this question. Pat was momentarily distracted by how similar she was to somebody he knew.
“We have fixed that by installing a barely detectable chip to the base of the skull on the outside. It communicates with the arm chip and can easily be worked on if it malfunctions.”
“Was this discovered in the human trials?” The woman followed up quickly. Her eager face was so familiar his heart ached.
“This was discovered when my father experimented on me.” Pat then placed both pointer fingers on the sides of his neck, made a zapping noise, and fluttered his eyelashes. To show it was a joke he then laughed loudly. The laugh was not enough to conceal the anxiety that was ramping up inside as the screaming began to reach normal levels again. For whatever reason, this was his fate. No amount of treatment seemed to be able to silence the screaming.
