Buttons
JESSICA RICHARDSON
The birds sang their songs, the wind whistled its tune, and Ruth pressed a button that unshuttered the industrial blinds of the converted aluminum trailer, letting in the morning light of a new summer’s day.
There was no light as such; more like a muted glow. No birds either, aside from the simulated chirp of her alarm. And the wind, well, it wasn’t helping.
Ruth stepped out and around to the customer-facing side of the trailer and swept the counter of pine needles that had fallen overnight. On it she arranged a box of N95s, maps of the area, and pamphlets with tips and emergency phone numbers. Finally, her own offering: a homemade menthol salve that she’d used to spread over her son’s chest and under his nose to help him breathe during allergy season. “No double dipping!” it said on the jar.
Inside, the trailer barely resembled its standard-issue form. With the necessities provided by the company, Ruth used her weight allowance for items rich in sentimental value. Mostly homemade things: a blanket she’d knit, a rug she’d hooked, candles she’d poured (not that she’d be using them). A collage of school photos of her son, one for every grade crowned by a graduation portrait at the center, was fastened to the wall beneath her crucifix. So handsome. Her son called her a maximalist, but it’s not that she had so many things; she just liked to have them around.
Ruth preened herself in the mirror on the back of the door, undoing, finger-combing, and redoing her long silver braid over and over again until it felt right. It took longer than usual. The pain in her neck was radiating—she should really give up the French part and start low over her shoulder. But it was hard to change. Routine was one of the simplest pleasures in life, and keeping it one of the greatest challenges. This job was indeed the greatest challenge to Ruth’s sense of routine, but still, she liked it. She was good at it. Good at not betraying her feelings, at staying cool. The more she practiced, the easier it became, and the happier she was—or at least less sad. She arranged her face in the mirror, imagining what she would want to see if she were on the other side of the booth. Ruth could easily put herself in others’ shoes. It’s what made her so good at her job, combined with strong boundaries and smiling eyes, which looked the same no matter how dark the day or hot her flashes.
Ruth reached stiffly under the counter and felt around for another box of N95s. Normally she would wear the fabric mask she’d made herself; a swirling, shimmery design of red and gold. But the air today was thick, and even though the booth was sealed and purified, Ruth wanted to set a good example. She pinched the metal strip across her nose and gave her neck one last crick, then pressed another button that sent skyward a spotlight powerful enough to pierce the atmosphere. She stood facing the open slats, hands clasped behind her back, and waited.
He emerged as a burst from the brambles half-surrounding the booth. Ruth wished they would just follow the paths.
“Ah-ha!” the man exclaimed with triumph, panting heavily. His skin glistened with sweat and dirt, and when he pulled his goggles down, Ruth recognized him from previous visits—once in a kayak during a flash flood (the booth was also a submersible) and then during Snowmageddon (the booth was also a snowblower). He had lost weight, but his energy remained. Ruth smized. She liked this man. If he were a little older, and were she not married to the Booths, she might have let herself be asked out by him. She could do with a little more adventure. But those were old thoughts, from the old days.
Ruth pressed the tiny red button. “Good morning, sir,” her voice crackled through the intercom. “I hope we weren’t too out of the way for you this time.”
Ruth released the button and winced. She’d been warned to mind her boundaries, and had even been given some extra training. One rule was to not acknowledge when you recognized someone.
“Hey there, good lady! I was just out mushroom-picking, and I saw the light!” he said, reaching to the sky with exaggerated holiness. “Great timing too, as I am in need of another mask. Mine got snagged. By a person, not a branch. But they didn’t want the mushrooms, if you can believe it! I guess stealers can be choosers. Must be nice, ha-ha!”
Ruth suppressed a furrow. Mass foraging was prohibited. “How can I help you today?” she asked, forgetting if she already did.
“Oh, uh—two questions, if that’s okay.”
It was okay, as long as there was no one else in line. “Yes, go ahead.”
“First, how screwed are we?” He let out another “Ha-ha,” though he was not really laughing.
Ruth had the situation report memorized. “West of Cape Spear, the fire spans approximately 195 hectares. Winds gusting northeast at 60 km/h. The Air Quality Health Index is rated at 8+. You are strongly advised to wear a mask!” She widened her eyes and gestured to the display.
“Oop, right.” He grabbed one from the box, stretching the bands over the brim of his hat. They snapped immediately. “Double oop! I’ll just keep this one for backup.” He stuffed it into a cargo pocket and reached for another.
This happened a lot.
“I’m very sorry, but supplies are limited.”
He hovered his hand above the box, eyes flicking to hers. “Ah . . . fair enough.” He pulled his hand back slowly and took the other mask out of his pocket and fingered the part where the band snapped. “Oh yeah, this is fixable. Don’t worry about it.” He turned it around in his hands. “Made in China, I bet,” he mumbled. “Oop, Canada! Go figure.”
“Did you have another question, sir?”
“Yes!” As he crouched over his bucket of mushrooms with his back turned, Ruth instinctively stepped back to look through the one-way mirror under her desk, to give her a moment’s notice, just in case. This exact situation was used in an OHS training video. When he stopped rummaging, Ruth stepped forward and felt around for the button under her desk with the sandy texture.
The man whipped around and pressed a shriveled mushroom cap up to the plexiglass. “Can you let me know if this guy is edible? I’m pretty sure it’s an oyster mushroom, but it looks a bit off.”
“Please place the specimen in the receptacle.”
A compartment in the ledge slid open. He hesitated for a moment before placing it in. “Don’t gobble it up now! That’s my breakfast, lunch, and dinner, if I’m lucky! Ha . . .”
Ruth pressed another button. There was a beep and a ding and she rotated the monitor to show the man the good news, to which he exclaimed and dangled his fingers over the receptacle in anticipation. He laughed so as not to appear too desperate, but in truth he was so hungry that the only thing separating himself from an animal was the edibility of this mushroom. Ruth did not know what was supposed to be funny, but smized anyway, her mouth tight under her mask.
“A delicacy in the best of times,” he said, chewing messily, bits falling from his parched lips.
Ruth asked if she had answered his questions to his satisfaction, and the man bobbed his head up and down in time with his jaw, staring past her into the booth. He swallowed with effort and emitted a sound between a chuckle and a groan. “Hey, I should man one of these things, eh? Any plans to retire?” He laughed, but the question made Ruth uncomfortable, particularly his choice of verb.
He leaned in closer, the tip of his nose pressing up against the plexiglass next to the mushroom residue. She’d have to leave the booth to clean it. A smudge bloomed where his breath hit and for a moment she could only see his eyes darting around. “Cozy,” he murmured. Ruth’s hand moved toward the big button, the one she’d need to twist first.
She gestured to the counter. “Have you tried the salve? It’s new.”
“Nope. No need. I shall be on my merry way.”
But he lingered. His eyes again moved to the inside door and paused, just for a moment, on the deadbolt. Maybe the mirror. Then back to Ruth.
“You have a great day now, and, uh, thanks for your service.” He gave a mock salute and turned abruptly down the path.
“Glad to help,” Ruth said after him. She waited until he was out of sight before coming out to clean the plexiglass.
Mornings were easier since people were usually at work. Jobs were plentiful, mostly relating to disaster management. Ruth knew she was lucky to have landed a position with the Infobooths® at all, especially at her age. She had her son to thank. After her apartment was evacuated during the floods, he got her the job through his government connection. She would have liked to live with him and his lovely wife and her new granddaughter, but this was his alternative. It made her sad to think about. She didn’t, really.
The pace picked up late afternoon when the sun started to set and the spotlight became more visible. Whole families came then for a chance at extra supplies. Ruth wished they’d send another worker at this time (perhaps a man) but it was doable. They had the questions, she had the answers (and the buttons). It would take as long as it takes. That’s life. You get what you get, and you don’t get upset.
The flow was steady and the questions straightforward, mostly to do with the situation, the nearest medical tent, what is safe to do or not, and occasionally about the booth itself. As long as there was no one next in line, she would answer another. When it became too much, Ruth turned on the scrolling marquee that said One question per querent. People huddled together to make sure their questions didn’t overlap and a small group formed to the side to pool their knowledge. The gathering made Ruth uneasy and she switched the marquee to say No Loitering. A man in the back shouted, “Does that mean we can ask more than one question?” and Ruth changed it to No Shouting.
A man in line distributed questions on Post-its among his three children, whom he assembled behind him as independent entities. Ruth didn’t like that he thought he was getting away with something. It reminded her of when her son would steal out of her wallet, not realizing she could see him in the hallway mirror. Her confrontation skills have improved since. The barrier helped.
A small woman with a buzzcut was next. She eyed the masks, but the faint imprint around her mouth told Ruth she probably had one squirreled away. If she asks for another, Ruth would have her open her bag to check. But then the woman spoke, and the rasp of a smoke-ravaged throat made Ruth reconsider. The woman’s lips were cracked and dry. The imprint wasn’t fresh—it lingered because the poor thing was dehydrated. She also appeared on the verge of tears. Ruth tried to use her most soothing voice.
“How can I help you, dear?”
“My Nutripack® didn’t arrive yesterday. Could you check?”
“Of course, dear. Can I see your ID?”
The woman rifled through her fanny pack and pressed her ID against the window, her fingers leaving dirty streaks on the glass. Her name was Chantal Huber and the photo didn’t look much like her. Ruth wouldn’t go as far as to say the ID was stolen. People change. The climate transforms them; suffering too. The problem was that it was from Alberta.
“Do you have anything current?”
“I moved here in the winter and they still haven’t mailed my new one.” Her chin was quivering, like her son’s used to do when he’d pretend to cry.
“I’m sorry. I’m sure it’s you, but I need something that shows your current address.”
“It’s 48 Frecker Drive. Please. I just want to know if it’s on the way.”
Ruth typed the address into the console. Shipments were indeed held up due to drone shortage; people had started shooting them out of the sky.
“Yes, I’m so sorry about that. There has been a delivery delay in that area. I assure you we’re doing our very best to catch up, but you may have to rely on your stockpile for a day or two.”
The woman’s shoulders slumped. “I don’t have a stockpile.”
“It shouldn’t be longer than that. But here.” Ruth reached below and put a protein bar into the receptacle. The woman held up the bar in front of her, surely not holding up the line just to read the nutritional information. Ruth craned her neck to the next customer, nodding them forward.
The woman didn’t take the hint. She was now staring at the masks. “May I take another for my husband?”
“Of course, of course. Unfortunately, due to a limited supply, we can only offer one per querent.” Give an inch, take an inch. It’s always like this. Why can’t people just be grateful for what they get? Why can’t they think about all the others who haven’t gotten anything?
The next woman was already in hysterics. Fresh tears cut through old mascara tracks, and Ruth wondered why one would bother with makeup in times like these. Still, she silently commended the woman’s patience. Others in her state would have felt entitled to cut the line.
“I d-d-don’t know what else to do. She’s not answering . . . h-hasn’t been home in . . . in . . .”
She kept going like this, unraveling, increasingly incomprehensible. It seemed impolite to ask her to speak more clearly, but even worse to give the impression that she might be able to help her with a missing person. Ruth was reminded of the time she lost her boy in the park when he was five—how inconsolable she was. When she found next to the bushes the spare button for his jacket that he liked to keep in his pocket, she was sure that was all that was left of him. But it turned out he was picking strawberries, and he didn’t want the button mixed in. He didn’t even want it back.
When the police eventually showed up, Ruth was still in hysterics, blaming them for what could have happened while they were taking their time. There was nothing they could say, so the policeman had pressed an Ativan into her hand, and that’s how that started. Nothing much gets her going anymore.
Now Ruth could pay it forward. It would be the only way to end this interaction. She dropped two Ativan from her own supply into the receptacle along with a bottle of water, wishing she could give it to the woman herself, hand over hand.
“Take one of these now. Go home and take another. Rest. It’ll be all right.”
The woman looked up with swollen eyes. “You know it won’t.”
Ruth took her imaginary hands off the woman’s. What ever happened to a simple “Thank you”?
It was rush hour and the line had become a cacophony of coughing and crying. You would think the children would have acclimatized better, but if their parents couldn’t even follow a sign that read Single file, then they were probably not developing discipline at home.
As the line grew and curled around the trailer out of sight, so did the questions begin to slip beyond her scope. Some were asked out of desperation, knowing she didn’t have the answer, but some Ruth felt that she ought to know, and could only sincerely apologize.
Feeling faint, Ruth switched the marquee to Back in 20 minutes and shuttered the blinds. Just a bit of peace. She sat in the dark on her cot and took a steadying breath before picking up the phone to call for an update.
Her phone showed five missed calls, all from HQ, followed by a text: Urgent: call immediately.
Oh no. Had she given out too many supplies? Had someone complained? Or maybe they were sending relief. That would be good. She braced herself and called back.
“Ruth in Booth 256?”
“Yes. Sorry, it’s quite busy.”
“You need to get moving two hours ago. There’s a rager in the northwest that’s gonna sweep through where you’re to. There’s no more crew. Close up and start moving. And turn on your ringer.”
A rager? He hung up before Ruth could ask more. She supposed there wasn’t time. She popped an Ativan and stood up, then moved unsteadily to the driver’s cabin, where instead of a windshield, a big screen divided into four quadrants showed what was happening from each direction outside the booth. About thirty people were there, out of formation, all squinting out into the horizon. It looked eerie, like they were not sure what to think or how to move. Someone pulled down their sunglasses, and Ruth could see the glow in its reflection.
She registered heat radiating through the walls of the booth, and her eyes were starting to sting. She looked at the time. Five minutes before people would be expecting some information.
She turned off the cameras. Nothing to see, except for the glowing button that would turn on the engine. At that point, people would know. Well, she wasn’t the one driving. Hopefully they would have some sense to move out of the way.
Two more minutes. No sense waiting. People should have started suspecting the moment she took her lunch break at 4 p.m. It only took one person with some sense to point out what was happening, and the critical mass would follow. Ruth was afraid of the masses, and the easy influence of the individual. It seemed like people were just waiting for permission to do what they already wanted to do.
Ruth sat down, buckled up, and pushed the button with the X she’d taped onto it (there were too many buttons up here). The route plotted on the console and the little dots of obstruction began moving erratically around the trailer. C’mon, move, move.
Ruth was grateful to the booth’s engineers for sparing her the ugly scene, though she could clearly hear the screams stopping and starting and stopping again, along with the crunch of what she hoped were just branches. Awful. She might suggest better soundproofing and suspension for the next model. This must be the reason for the high operator turnover, but Ruth knew it was one of those necessary evils that she had to steel herself against in order to win in this highly competitive environment. There was nowhere to go but forward, in this life and in this vehicle, and moving through obstacles was just a matter of course. She just hoped there were no children, or anyone who should know better.
The trailer steamrolled through shrubbery and emerged onto the open road. She turned on the rear camera to ensure she wasn’t being followed. There was just the deep red sky, billowing smoke, and the occasional lick of flame. She really did cut it close.
She turned on the front-facing camera. Ahead of her was one of the most unusual skies she’d ever seen. A sunset to remember. She thought to send a photo of it to her son—it might remind him of when they used to go storm chasing together, the selfies they took against the wild skies as the wind whipped their hair around their smiling faces.
Ruth looked at the photo she took of it on her phone. It really did not do the scene justice and she debated whether to send it at all. She added a caption: Worth it! and then deleted it in favor of a flame emoji. She continued looking until the “delivered” icon changed to “read” and watched for three dots to appear, but they never did. He was probably still at work. She sent it to his work phone and stuffed hers in her pocket, feeling to make sure the button was still there. The Ativan was working now, finally, and the air filtration system kicked back on. Ruth removed her mask and breathed deeply. She closed her eyes and imagined herself as the filter, in and out, in and out. Replacing herself. She turned off the rear camera. No looking back, she recited, only forward. Forward to her next assignment, to wherever she could help.
JESSICA RICHARDSON is a writer with a satirical bent riding out the end times in St John’s, Newfoundland, with her three cats. She holds a philosophy degree from Vancouver Island University and a master’s in English from Memorial University of Newfoundland, where she wrote an academic satire called The Absurd Degree (forthcoming). Her stories and other survival strategies have been published in Newfoundland Quarterly, Paragon, and Toothcut. She plays drums in the summer-only girlband HAGS.
