Flood Plains Mark Wheaton (inspirational books for students .TXT) 📖

room. The broken microchips recovered from the loading dock trash can sat on the table in front of him, a DVD/TV cart being the only other item in the room. He couldn’t take his eyes off the chips no matter how hard he tried, and it was beginning to drive him a little crazy. He wished he could just will the chips whole again, make them vanish from the room and return to their boxes in the high-dollar cage, but it wasn’t going to happen. How could he have been this stupid?

The door swung open, and a well-built, well-dressed black man with a salt-and-pepper mustache-and-beard combo walked in. He smiled at Alan and extended a hand.

“Hey, Lester Montgomery,” the man said by way of introduction. “My sister’s boy ran for Tulane when you were a freshman at LSU. When I told them you were here in the factory, it was the first time that boy’s uncle managed to impress his nephew.”

“Tulane’s got some runners,” Alan offered, trying to bring his brain around to this line of thought.

Lester snorted.

“Not like the Tigers. Not like you. Sorry everything went the way it did after the storm. Are you running for anyone now?”

“I just transferred in to Prairie View. Getting on my feet.”

“Running for the Panthers,” Lester said, nodding. “Good man. Good school.”

Lester hesitated a moment as if needing to do some mental recalibration of his own but then saw the microchips and nodded.

“Okay, so tell me what happened here.”

“The chips were damaged,” Alan sighed, remembering what he’d rehearsed. “So I tossed ’em.”

Alan held his breath, waiting for Lester’s response. The old man hesitated but only for the briefest instant. Finally, he nodded as if willing to let that be the reason.

“You are aware you’re supposed to write up every damaged part, right?”

Alan exhaled in relief.

“Yeah, but there’s the way it’s supposed to be and the way things are. If you check the bins, you’ll see it doesn’t happen that way. It’s all go-go-go out there on the floor. Get those units out the back door. Bring up the number.”

“Too true,” Lester acknowledged. “That’s what happens when corporate can’t stop raising the quotas.”

Alan nodded. As he watched Lester write this down on what he took for official documentation, he wondered if he’d be back on the line that afternoon. He might have to take some extra training or something. That was to be expected. But rather than go through some major disciplinary action, he was giving them a good excuse to bury the matter.

“If what you’re saying is true, it sounds like Scott Shipley’s got a hand in this mix-up,” Lester said without looking up. “Those cages are his responsibility.”

“I didn’t want to say anything, but that guy’s kind of out of it,” Alan joked. “He’s a nice fellow, but those cages could be on fire and he’d be the last to know.”

Lester burst out laughing. He eyed Alan for a moment, but then his face darkened. Without a word, he rose and walked to the television. Flipping on the set, he hit “play” on the DVD player, a DVD starting up immediately, having already been set up.

“Man, I could feed you rope all day long and you’d keep finding creative ways to hang yourself, am I right?”

Alan’s heart started racing as security footage played on the screen. It alternated between three different angles clearly showing Alan stealing the chips. One of the cameras, set for night vision, appeared to have been directly in front of him, his fingers glowing bright green as they moved to within inches of the camera’s lens.

“We’ve been losing chips from all over campus the past few months,” Lester explained. “We know times are tough. We even let it slide, hoping it would stop, but it’s gotten out of hand. So, we installed cameras.”

“I never went to any of the other buildings,” Alan said, scrambling. “I swear…”

“Mr. Terrell, you’ve been lying since I walked in the door,” Lester said, sounding disappointed. “Why should I believe you now?”

“Look, I’m sorry…”

“Sorry was five minutes ago. You’ll have to talk to the police now.”

Chapter 7

A large birthday cake was carried out from the refrigerator in the break room to a table where Rolanda “Ro-Ro” Higgins was waiting. People started singing “Happy Birthday,” and one-dollar bills were pinned to her shirt. Because of all the attention, it was Muhammad, sitting a little ways away and eating a sandwich from a Tupperware container, who was the first to notice Alan. Flanked by two uniformed sheriff’s deputies, he was walked down the steps towards the break area, his eyes staring at the ground.

It didn’t take long for everyone else to look over, and the singing slowly stopped. Once the trio reached the first floor, the lead deputy pushed through a propped-open fire door and led Alan out into the now-driving rain.

It was only then that many of the day-shifters glimpsed the handcuffs.

Just outside, Big Time huddled close to the building with Scott and a couple of others as they lit up their break-time cigarettes. When the door swung open, Big Time saw it was Alan and made quick, searching eye contact.

“All right, Big Time,” the young man said, nodding.

Big Time just nodded back, though his heart wasn’t in it. He could feel the young man’s tough-guy defiance that he was planning on carrying to County. From his own youthful experiences, he knew it would be the first thing driven out of him.

As if looking to give Alan a particularly hard time, fat rain drops started splashing down as he was still a few feet from the car. Big Time leaned as far back as he could under the narrow overhang and thought about quitting smoking then and there to mark the moment.

•  •  •

In the women’s restroom, Zakiyah sat on a closed toilet seat, idly playing with her cell phone. She was looking at various photos of Mia, but occasionally one would pop up of Alan or was one she