Norris Winterclock

Norris Winterclock

'Not made in the U.S.A'

Boards covered glassless windows of a building under construction across from where Norris Winterclock had parked her car.  The site was managed by Corman Construction and the fences were provided by Taking Co.  The large claw of one truck arched frozen in the early morning. They bore a silhouette of the face of a cat set in deep black on top of the yellow vehicle.  It’s good to see an American name still in Checkerton, Indiana, Norris though to herself. So many products now are made overseas.  Each day she saw something say ‘Made in China’ or ‘Made in Jamaica’ all she read was ‘Not made in the U.S.A.’

The short walk from her beige Ford Focus to her beige brick office building, The Cohort, was the first time she tasted the bite of fresh morning air.  A milky clouded dawn seeped over the building revealing little contrast with it and the top floors of the Cohort.  The first set of large glass doors that led to the Cohort lobby took all her strength to open.  In leaning in she saw hand prints silhouetted by the grease marks someone else left behind. The second set of doors had another set of hand prints with the sweat or grease smeared.  When she pushed in the second set The Cohort seemed to take a deep breath sucking in air from the outside. 

It was not until she smoothed her thinning brown hair that she realized the eerie implications of the hand print sweat stains smeared on the door.  Was the cleaning crew here yesterday, she speedily checked her memory. Yes.  Someone else must be here.  The idea excited her in a way that made her feel sick at the same time.  She was not used to strange or dangerous things. 

Norris was short, about 5’3’’ and just under 120 lbs.  Defending herself from an attacker would prove futile.  But if they are worse than a thief they’ll find no jollies from a forty five year old woman with a face sunken by stroke, Norris assumed.  The thought made her bolder as she thought about the struggles from recovery and towards rehabilitation.  The right side of her face never really recovered but the rest of her body began moving properly after intense acute rehabilitation at Attrition Medical Conglomerate.  She felt the slow but accurate freedom of movement as she walked briskly down the hall to the empty secretary’s desk.  The black touch tone phone sat in place and Norris picked it up.  She pressed for the third line which gave her a dial tone.  She dialed and waited.

And waited. And waited.

A groggy female voice answered, “Yes?”

“We’ve had a possible break in,” Norris reported.

“Building number?”

“4325”

“Thank you.” Said the female voice.  Then there was silence.

“And,” Norris said abruptly realizing the phone call was about to end. “And we’ve had training.  We’re told to call this number in case of a break in or possible break in.”  The voice said nothing. “So I called,” Norris concluded.

“Thank you.” And then the phone clicked.

Norris waited a minute. And waited. She wiggled her fingers as they hung down by her waist. It was a gesture she did when she was thinking. She waited only a moment more and then picked up the phone again. This time she dialed ‘7’ which was the P.A. system.  She heard the click crackled across the dozen cubicles in front of her from the large white speakers.  She knew they sounded from every ceiling on every floor.  She took and a breath and began to speak.