Red String of Fate

Ethan awoke late in the evening. Rolling over to cuddle with Michelle, he felt a cold touch on his bare back. Scooting backward, he saw his spare key lying beside him, along with a long red silk thread that seemed to have come from the red silk panties he had torn off her body. The key's placement had but one meaning: Michelle had left his life — somehow, he knew she wouldn't return. He amusedly studied the red silk thread, rolled it up between his fingers into a ball, and stuffed it into his fancy Italian suit pocket lying on the floor.

Why? He had no idea — perhaps as a stubborn reminder.

In America's heartland, the city streets of wind-swept Indianapolis stretched out before Ethan Reynolds like a maze of unknown possibilities. After six months of fruitless West Coast job searching, the journey east had been a long, lonely drive. Michelle had cold-heartedly dropped him like he had the plague when she discovered what the split from his conniving, devious partner had cost him. She took it personally as if it were Ethan's fault. Her parting words echoed in his mind during the long drive east: 'You're a loser — just — a frickn' loser, Ethan.'

Getting to know Indianapolis and finding a new residence three days before starting his new employment proved daunting. Relocated to the Heartland of the Midwest, he found himself adrift in a sea of unfamiliar faces, a solitary figure in a city he had never imagined calling home. The towering skyscrapers and bustling sidewalks starkly contrasted the life he once knew in San Francisco with its harbors, hills, and Californian vibes.

Amanda had ripped his brainchild from his grasp along with all its intellectual property rights. Once a noted, independent thinker in the thriving AI-tech business, Reynolds had his name prominently splashed across the Bay Area in tech publications. Until widespread media coverage over software rights shattered his world. Now considered an outlier in the tech trade, he felt like a stranger in his own skin in this new chapter of his life.

Finally, reaching his new residence, Ethan sighed as he exited his remaining material possession, his new Volvo. He had sold all the rest of the things, paid off his debts, left California, shook the dust off his shoes, and moved on with his life. He surveyed the bland-looking three-story brick apartment building on East 21st Street in Indianapolis. He knew from experience not to trust online advertisements for places to live. They all painted rosy pictures of the community and amenities. But for Ethan, it all came down to three things: location, location, and location. That's what they say in the real estate business. For Ethan, affordability was a crucial fourth factor. His new job was in downtown Indianapolis, and apartment pricing there ran a thousand more per month than he could afford for a downtown apartment until he reestablished himself.

Previously, money flowed like fine wine; he drank deeply, in a manner of speaking, and saved very little of it. Michelle made sure they had a grand time. However, what little he had stashed in his cask was nearly empty. The months of court battles over software rights and lost time in that process drained his reserves. The senior partner ultimately won and Ethan had to pay his and her court costs. The judge's decision felt like salt rubbed in his wounds - Amanda had better lawyers.

The analogy of going into litigation was like the question he asked his attorney going into the last session. Allen's answer haunted him, 'Ambrose Bierce wrote that.' Ethan felt precisely like the pig turned into sausages; he ruminated on that for six months before landing in Indianapolis."

"Mr. Reynolds?" asked a smartly dressed lady standing on the sidewalk holding out her hand. Her grip was a firm, practiced handshake, signaling, he felt, she was a take-charge all-business Realtor.

"Yes, Ethan Reynolds. You are Mrs. Washington - obviously," he smiled, noting her Realtor name tag, the firm he had contacted about finding a suitable habitat. She grinned. It was the first smile he found upon arriving in Indiana after that long drive.

"I recognized the California plates, Ethan; welcome to Indianapolis. Shall we go in?"

The tour was quick. Ethan walked down the worn second-floor carpeted hallway, noting several apartment doors distinctively painted in bright primary colors. Each one stood out.

Apartment two-twenty-six had a bland, stained, oak-colored door, unlike the apartment directly across, with the bright canary-yellow doorway. Mrs. Washington inserted the key and swung it open, motioning for Ethan to enter. It looked like the advertisement pictures, though with worn paint, faded carpet, and recently patched holes in the walls. Serviceable. He ticked off the conditions in his mind as he checked the shower and kitchen sink, the refrigerator, stove, and garbage disposal.

"799 dollars a month, one covered parking space — second row back in the lot, laundry in the basement," she said. "Trash is picked up in your hallway on Fridays — not to be set out before six o'clock that day."

"The Internet?" he asked.

"Standard Internet cable rate is included, but high speed is available. You can check with the management and arrange for that. It will be an extra cost," Mrs. Washington answered with a small, discreet smile.

"Of course, nothing comes without strings attached, Mrs. Washington," Ethan shot back, matching her grin.

On the way out, Ethan asked, "What's with the bright-colored doors?"

"Long-term tenants get to choose those colors," she replied. You could ask any of those tenants questions about the complex or other rules you might have once your furniture is moved in. You looking at the possibility of long-term tenancy, Mr. Reynolds?" Mrs. Washington asked, hopefully.

He shook his head. This was just a pause in time and a temporary parachute drop into the middle of nowhere as far as Ethan was concerned--a way-station stopover to a much higher destination.

'Won't have any questions, either,' Ethan mused, as he descended the stairs beside Mrs. Washington.

"Furniture, however ..." registered as he was on the first landing, "... is something I don't have."

Mrs. Washington smiled, "I can help with that, Mr. Reynolds. I stage homes for sale. Fancy or ..."

Grinning, Ethan answered, "Batchelor on a budget and a bit Bohemian when it comes to staging."

"Got you covered, Hun," she nodded, handing him the rental contract. "I'll set that up for you this afternoon, okay?"

Ethan nodded, glanced over the pages, and signed the papers. Smiling, she handed him the key. Reynolds hoped Mrs. Washington's idea of a 'bachelor's budget' matched his.

Ethan's next stop was his workplace. He drove downtown, scouting his new firm's headquarters location and traffic routes. Dressed in a suit matching the cover of 'The Rake,' he met with the human resources processing team and checked for resignation terms, then signed the legal documents about confidentiality and sexual harassment notifications — the usual. It wasn't an impressive place. It reeked of economy concrete and uniform glass — drab and colorless — almost like a bomb shelter.

He wouldn't be developing software here — his job was to process data from eight to five. It had come down to that. His workspace was at the end of a blind hallway: four walls and the ever-present drop ceiling tiles with a drinking fountain nearby. It was the closest thing to a waterfront he would see — nothing like the previous picturesque glass window view of the San Francisco Bay.

"See you at eight o'clock, Monday, Mr. Reynolds," the HR representative chirped, as she handed him his entry badge and picture ID" — To be always worn on your lanyard," she remarked.

"I'll introduce you to your boss then, James Mitchell, and — welcome to Indianapolis. It gets cold here, not like sunny San Francisco," she said, as she breezed off on other matters.

'An F'ng lanyard,' Ethan smoldered, looking at it as it dangled from his hand.

Ethan Reynolds had given her a fake smile, holding back his flash of anger, 'You've no idea what San Francisco is like.'

He fumed for a moment, then let it go. Her remark was a gesture, an attempt at humor, he finally realized — calming down. 'No sense in boiling over,' he stewed over how far he had fallen in his climb up to the stratosphere in his field. Given his lawsuit, few companies would even consider his applications as a killer software developer. Here, no one even recognized his name, much less his talents.

Having made the drive downtown, Ethan rewound his way to the apartments. With a bag of groceries in hand, he climbed the stairs, noting the room numbers until he remembered he only had to locate the canary-yellow doorway, then he would be — home. Inserting the key, he found that Mrs. Washington had been efficient and resourceful. Indeed, she 'staged' the apartment for a bachelor on a budget, including matching towels, sheets, and blankets.

The bill was on the counter — two months' rent. Ethan surveyed the bedrooms and was surprised; Washington had put in a double bed, sized for the smallish bedroom, with two lamps, and had set up the smaller, cramped second bedroom as a compact office space — at least it had a window view of the park across from the apartments. It actually fit his 'wish list' — bachelor with a hint Bohemian.

"Mrs. Washington," he mused, looking over the furniture and layout, "you certainly are good at staging — even with a Bohemian vibe."

Carting in a few boxes he'd crammed into his Volvo, he set out to prepare a hobo's dinner. "Where's the can opener?" he grumbled, after an exasperating search of the box marked kitchen.

Mrs. Washington's voice echoed in his ear, "You ask those bright-colored door residents if you have questions."

He smiled. 'Perhaps it couldn't hurt,' he thought. 'Maybe I'll find another smiling face.'

Ethan, a can of beef stew in hand, knocked on the yellow door across the hallway and waited. When it opened to the safety chain link, his brow raised. He had landed in the Heart Land of America and never expected to see a lithe Asian beauty peering out.

"Can I help you?" Those vocals rang out as silky as any purr of a feline he could have imagined. Enough of a surprise that he stammered.

"I was wondering if I ... could borrow a can opener?" he asked, holding up the can and his apartment keys for good measure as if that meant something. "I seem to have lost mine. Just moved in across the hall," he added, hopefully.

She smiled. Her answer was playful. "Men ... never can find anything even when it's right in front of them. Be right back, neighbor." She disappeared momentarily, returned with an opener, and studied him between the chained opening as he had turned to survey the rest of the hallway.

'Handsome man in a custom-tailored suit,' she observed. 'Not many around here with that kind of deep tan — out of state for sure.'

"It's Friday," she politely announced when he turned back, "the community room has potluck dinner night. It starts in twenty minutes. Why don't you come and introduce yourself? No need for a can opener."

Ethan smiled and replied, " Potluck usually means I bring a dish to the dinner. I have a can of stew, think that would work?" As she spoke in English, something in her charm and vocal intonations had him lingering at her door for a moment longer than he usually would have.

"Sorry, no stew on tonight's menu," her melodic voice chimed. "But, why don't you come as my guest? I'm taking rice, miso soup, and vegetables. Plenty for one more. So ..."

Ethan was tempted to say yes based upon the limited, intriguing view through the narrow opening, but replied, "Thank you for asking, but I'll have to take a rain check. I have a lot of preparation for a new job on Monday, and on top of that, I just made a thirty-four-hour road trip from California. I'm beat. But does that can opener offer still stand?"

"Minami," she said, handing him the can opener through the space in the door and the chain-link.

"Pardon?"

"My name is Minami," she repeated.

"Ethan," he responded as she smiled, nodded, and closed the door.

Ethan's lips curled in a smile as well amidst an empty hallway. "Perhaps Indianapolis wasn't all bad. I've met two smiling people today," he figured, as he reentered his apartment and opened the Dinty-Moore Stew.

Minami pushed her food-laden cart into the hallway, heading for the community room. Turning to lock the canary-yellow door, she spotted a small red dot. Conscientiously, she stooped to pick it up. "Men, can't find anything," she whispered, "Handsome neighbor, you seem to lose everything; it's no wonder you lost your can ..." She left the sentence unfinished as she stared at what had become a long red string unwinding in her hand.

"What is it about you, tiny red silk thread? You seem so familiar that I should know something about you — perhaps my past or future?" Her mind had so many thoughts about her present troubles and those of the past that she wasn't sure what her future held — only that it would be troubled.

Preoccupied, she didn't tarry, but stuffed it into her apron and rolled the cart down the long hallway.

Monday morning, Ethan examined his briefcase and gazed at his reflection in the mirror. A serious-looking man in a pin-striped business suit, freshly shaven with a new haircut, stared back. The reflection was of a thirty-three-year-old with a fit physique and a typical mesomorph American appearance. Adorned with gold cufflinks, he believed they added to his professional image. Despite his new position being less senior than his previous one, Reynolds refused to let go of his executive style.

He bounded down the stairs and swung the exterior door open. In time, to see a girl with her hair done up sliding into her Malibu. He hurried, catching her before she pulled out. The sharp rap on her window startled her; she had been looking over her shoulder as she started to reverse her car. It was a momentary look of panic.

"Your coffee!" he called out.

Ethan snatched Minami's coffee mug off the top of the car and held it for her to see. She smiled, quickly realizing she had deposited it on the rooftop to open her door and toss in her usual satchel of graded papers, leaving it up there.

"Thanks," she said with a grin, "can't lose my coffee. Everyone would pay for that in class!" With that, she drove away.

Ethan had caught a better glimpse of her perfect complexion and her hair done up in some Japanese style that must take hours to maintain. Today's view through the window was undoubtedly more pleasing than yesterday's through the narrow opening in her chained doorway.

'Hot,' he thought, watching until she drove out of sight.

At work, it took Ethan less than five minutes to assess his new boss, James Mitchell — a brash, condescending asshole. It took another five minutes to determine that he had better start looking for new employment, perhaps trying Cognizant Technology Solutions instead.

"If you want to fit in Reynolds, you gotta lose the suit and tie. Your work level is different from that cut of cloth you're wearing. Make sure you wear your lanyard on display. If not, you get a warning and then a write-up. My secretary says you know data management. What we do here is manage data, routine stuff for actuarial companies. You understand actuarial tables, Reynolds?"

"Yes ... sir. Cut my programming teeth on those before I left Caltech — ten years ago," Ethan managed to get that out evenly.

The reply went over his boss' head. Mitchell had no management skills, never asked about his past roles, or noted his ten years of experience. Mitchell's claim to management was probably an 'ass-kissing' skill to have gotten his job, Ethan thought.

"Well, I hope you remember most of it then. Kelly, my assistant, can get you started. She knows the ropes and the reports you need to run. I've got a meeting, so I'll be back in a few hours to see how you're doing."

With that, he stood up. Ethan, in like manner, just as Mitchell strolled out of his office without so much as a — 'welcome to the company' greeting. Watching his backside swagger down the hallway, Ethan noted his instant dislike for his new boss, Mitchell. It might have been tainted by his name being close to gold-digger Michelle's. Damn, how ironic that was.

Kelly was a scatterbrained twenty-one-year-old. Ethan listened as he studied the charts she handed him and perused the software. It was ancient — he recognized it and smiled. He'd redesigned that version for its database developer over ten years ago when he got through undergrad studies. His new employer had yet to bother to purchase the upgrade. Ethan shook his head and set to work.

Work was an auto-pilot process, leaving plenty of time for his mind to wander into thoughts about hiring a headhunter and some stray transient thoughts of the girl living behind the bright-yellow door. She was cute with an Asiatic lilting voice — mesmerizing.

Arriving at the apartment, he automatically looked for the mailroom, then realized most of his forwarding was on hold since he needed a new location. Much of it didn't matter; he conducted most business electronically. The few items that came via mail were hobby-related — photography journals — those he kept coming in paper form. There was something about photos in an hands-on presence that transcended electronics. Some would argue that point, but it was not negotiable for Ethan. He put a reminder on his phone to have his magazine addresses updated.

Paper was best — far easier on the eyes. Besides, those photos helped ground him, and he needed that in the middle-earth environment of Indianapolis. At that recollection point, he phoned his storage unit in San Francisco, asking them to ship his photograph collection to his new location. The rest could wait, but not the photos. 'Can't wait to hang those up and put some life into that bland apartment,' he thought.

Abruptly, Minami came out of the mailroom, armed with her mug and a satchel in one arm, a box under the other, and on a collision course.

"Heads up!" he called out.

She abruptly braked in response, and the precariously held box under her arm dropped.

"Hope that wasn't glass," he chuckled, as he watched her try to retrieve it.

"My new chandelier," she smirked, as she struggled to grasp the fallen box with papers to grade.

"Here, let me, I've got an extra arm," he replied, as a gesture of goodwill, enjoying her sense of humor.

"I'll bet, a third arm, an alien, yes?" she joked, looking down as he picked up the box. "I appreciate that, Nathan, right?"

"Ethan," he corrected, standing up. He noted her steady gaze, caught up in his steel-blue eyes.

"Ethan, I'll try and remember," she stammered, "So many names in my classes. It's hard to keep track."

"You are a student at the University?" he asked politely, to hear that wonderful voice speak again.

"No. I teach at Kokomo High — eleventh and twelfth-grade writing and literature courses."

Ethan carried the box up the stairs, listening to her prattle about winding down the end of her first year of teaching as they went. He deposited the box of student papers by her door as she searched for her key.