I'm not a Killer

Rain beats against my car. The wipers swish, back and forth; back and forth, as sheets of rain pour down my windshield. The wipers are rotted and the inside of the windshield is now fogged up, so I cannot see. I follow the tail lights in front of me…moving…free.

My desk is clear. Where is the folder? I left it somewhere.

“Keep moving, moving,” free, I tell myself.

The invoice. The date on it was December 8, 1985. I knew then that I had made a terrible mistake. Who will find it? Brian? Carol? Bill? How much up the management ladder will this go?

At first, I think I can fix it. I go in early—six o’clock, use Whiteout on the original and them photocopy the page on crisp white paper. Nobody will know my connection. But, when I step inside my cubicle and reach for the folder, it’s gone. Has it made it into Brian’s office already? I wonder. I move down the hallway to his office, which is locked.

I leave the building before anyone discovers I have come into work. I will go home and call in sick. That was two days ago.

The car in front of me is gone. I still can’t see, but I am moving forward. I turn on the defroster. It doesn’t help the inside glass. The rain beats harder. Turn around, my conscience insists, but I ignore it. I have been worrying myself all week. Tossed and turned every night, until after three days, I finally decide the best thing to do is just leave. Get in my car and just drive and drive. Keep moving forward until I am free.

The rain is coming down harder and I am blinded by the condensation. Turn around, a voice nudges me. This voice is trying to convince me that I can turn around and go back to the office early Monday morning. I’ll find a way to get the file, fix the invoice, and return it without anyone knowing about the order I placed, believing I was saving the company and government money. Afterall, it is just an O-ring, a simple piece of metal. How could something so small, and seemingly insignificant, harm a big chunk of metal like the space shuttle? I wonder.

There is not turning back, no retrieving the letter I slipped under Brian’s office door.

Finally, my blue AMC Gremlin turns into the airport long-term parkin lot. I am free. I wonder about my ticket. Is it in my purse or suitcase? Did I leave it on the TV? I can’t turn back for it now—it’s too late.

I have my ticket. I’ll keep moving.

Wait! my conscience presses on my mind, the folder? Where is it? The invoice?

All I know is that I cannot go back. It doesn’t matter, because I’ll only be in trouble if I return. Instead of a voluntary resignation, I’ll be fired, maybe even brought up on charges.

My only choice is to keep move toward freedom. Find someplace I can start over.

For a moment, I am frozen between my conscience and desire. I convince myself that I want to leave, I want to ensure my freedom. I sit at the gate; nervously watching the boarding time. The departure time moves later and later—from thirty minutes to thirty-five minutes to forty minutes. Finally, the incoming plane arrives. After several minutes, passengers flow out of the jetway. Soon it will be my time to board, she thinks, relieved. Then she tenses, This plane, solid, I hope, without O-rings or other mechanical defects. It will lift me up and carry me to freedom and change.

When my row number is announced, I slowly rise and board the plane.

When the pilot announces that the Fasten Seatbelt sign had been turned off, I sigh. Then I lean my head back and picture the resignation letter, not the one I left for Brian, but the one I will write to myself:

Melissa,

I knew from the start this job wasn’t for me. A Department of Defense Contractor? Really? What do I know about government contracts and purchasing? I was a musical theater major. I meant like the other 215 students in my major to head for Broadway. Or, at least get into a touring company of Cats or The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas.

When I graduated, I quickly became apparent that I would need to get a job to pay for my student loans. I will always be grateful to my best friend’s aunt for getting me the job with the Bendix Corporation. After a brief training on awarding contracts to the lowest bidder, one of my first assignments was sourcing hardware for the building of the Challenger spacecraft. I know the songs to every song in Funny Girl, but I do not know the difference between a wing nut and a lug nut. All I know about O-rings is that they are round; the ones I was asked to order were rubber.

When I heard about the explosion and later on, the cause, my complicity in the accident became a heavy burden. I still believe I am responsible for the death if seven astronauts. I never wanted this job, I never wanted to spend my days sitting in a cubicle, talking to salesmen who insisted on calling me “sweetheart.”

Like many actresses, I will be changing my name, my hairstyle and color, and my resume. Being a member of the Manhattan Players will boost my credentials. (No matter that I was in the Little Apple, Manhattan, Kansas and not the Big Apple of NYC). Hopefully, by this summer I will have landed a spot in summer stock somewhere.

I would like to say to Jennifer and her aunt, and myself, “Thank you for the opportunity,” but that would be a lie.

Sincerely yours,

Melissa (Missy) Winegarten