Checking
Out
By the time my second week of work had run its course, I had become secure in my knowledge that the job would never interest me. Every morning, I arrived at 7:30, knocked twice, waited for someone to let me into the office, and sat at the front desk. After one cheery "Good morning!" for each of my co-workers and an especially cheery one for the Lieutenant, I resigned myself to waiting until I could open the office for customer service at 9:00.
It was a July morning, so naturally the temperature inside the office hovered slightly above freezing. I took to brisk pacing to relieve the shivering of my bare arms, now passing to the back of the office and around a corner to the Lieutenant, now turning and striding back toward the customer service desk. It was with an audible sigh of relief – audible even through the chattering of my teeth – that I watched the clock click to nine o'clock, the long and short hands at warring right angles. A junior enlisted member unlocked the door, and my first customer of the day entered.
"Hello," he said with an uncertain grin. "Am I in the right place?"
I brought up the professional mask I wore for all my customers and smiled. "That depends on what you need."
The man – LEBAND – I read on his name badge, relaxed slightly. "I need to check out of the base so I can get a ticket home."
"Then yes," I said. "Could I see your paperwork, please, along with some sort of identification?"
Nothing in particular about the man struck me as odd, but as he rummaged through his bag I couldn't take my eyes from him. He had light brown hair, and wore a pair of glasses with elliptical lenses that tended to slip down his nose. Underneath, his eyes were brown, warm, intelligent. As the other enlisted men of the base, he wore a blue coverall with his name over the left breast pocket. He did not seem especially tall or short, heavy or thin, muscular or frail. Had I been required, at that moment, to pick a word to suit him, I certainly would have chosen average.
When he had retrieved the paperwork, ragged and dog-eared, from his bag, he smiled again, the expression lighting his eyes from the inside. I decided I could like him without very much trouble at all.
"I think that's everything," he said. "You wouldn't believe all the places they've sent—"
"Alyssa, listen to this," one of the office workers called to me before turning up the volume on her portable radio. "There's been an accident."
"I paused in my work to cock an ear. "—confirmed three military workmen dead in a wall collapse in a base construction zone. According to our sources, they were inside the building surveying the structural support when one of the walls weakened and buckled inward. Names of the workers killed are being withheld pending the notification of the next of kin."
Sighing, I returned to my work, carefully typing the man's name, Adam Leband, followed by his rank and command, into our database. "It's too bad, isn't it?" I said without looking up. When Adam didn't respond, I glanced at him.
A peculiar expression had spread across his features, an expression of something like confusion. He blinked twice, dragged a hand through his short hair.
"You all right?" I asked him. "You look a little pale – would you like something to drink?"
"No," he said. "No, I'm fine, thank you."
I finished his check-out and stamped his paperwork, passing it over the counter to him. "Here you are. I hope you enjoy wherever you're going."
"Oh I think I will," said Adam. "I've heard it's wonderful."
The door chimed and opened before I could ask him where he was headed. I settled for a tiny smile as he walked out the door.
"Ma'am, I have a few questions concerning my visa," said the woman who had just entered.
Turning to her, I forced myself back into my routine. "Certainly, ma'am. What do you need to know?"
A glint of sunlight off a small rectangle lying on the floor caught my eye. I stooped to pick up the card, saw it identified one Adam Leband, born 17 January, 1981. Waving a hand at my chattering customer, I made a dash for the door, then glanced around the parking lot outside. Adam, despite the fact that he had left only seconds earlier, was nowhere to be seen. Frowning, I returned to the office and held up the ID card. "Does anyone know where an Adam Leband works?"
"I do," said a female customer. "Why do you need to know?"
"He was just in here," I said, "and he dropped his ID."
"I didn't see him," the woman said, crinkling her forehead in confusion. "He must've come earlier."
"No," I insisted. "He was walking out as you came in."
Watching me warily, as if I might erupt into violence, the woman concluded her business. I sighed, shoved my perplexity into a corner of my mind, and went on with my work.
When the power went off and on at midnight, the surge of returning electricity turned my radio on.
"—been identified," said the announcer. "It was at nine o'clock yesterday when James Richardson, Tyler Pyznic, and Adam Laband died…."