Karen had been experiencing a nagging sense of déjà vu for nearly two months. She knew him, she knew that she knew him, but from where? It was not an official familiarity. She was pretty sure she had never actually met him, at least not face-to-face, but still that ineffable feeling of familiarity crouched unseen in the back of her mind. Where, where had she…

The waiting music on her headset clicked out, and she was connected with a customer. The train of thought had to be held, at least momentarily, as she droned on her usual speech and heard the rude mutterings of an unhappy customer.

Karen sat at her partition in the internet service provider call center that still held her life hostage. She had an escape plan, she had a way out, but it would take much longer to come to fruition than maybe she was prepared for. Karen was going to school with the intent of becoming a mental health counselor of some kind. It was good having a purpose, something that seemed virtuous to strive for, but she was only able to pay for a single class per quarter (and only had the time for one anyways). A “four year degree” would likely take her a couple of sitting presidents to rotate out before it became a reality. That was okay. She would wait it out, it was worth it, but the slothful march of time was still frustrating.

A call was measured in her mind by how many times she had to glance at her bright pink sticky note resting on her monitor. This was both a means to passively protest her working conditions, and to keep her sanity in some shape that could still fit in society. It read “Brazil”, a reference to her favorite Terry Gilliam movie and it made her laugh internally at the absurdity of her conditions. She only had to glance at it once during the call. A short call with a customer with a shorter temper. The “waiting music” came back on over her headset, signaling a nice reprieve from the angry people she had to deal with. This reprieve could go on for minutes, or seconds. She peeled her banana, her breakfast, and risked a bite while she waited. The sweet taste of the fruit was as refreshing as her reprieve, but then she heard it, heard him and the déjà vu came back with monster truck force.

He sat behind her, taking up the old spot that Michelle had filled before she quit to go back to waiting tables. He was not always clean-cut, and seemed to have a permanent four ‘o clock shadow and dark sleepless rings under his eyes. He was polite, almost overly polite and seemed very frightened of eye contact. Karen got the very strong impression that this man went camping every day, but he was not the rugged sort of outdoorsman that was attractive. He clutched at his stomach a lot these past weeks, almost as if he was injured. Every neuron in her rational mind screamed that this man was totally foreign to her, but her subconscious mind could not let it be.

“Thank you for calling, this is Malcolm speaking, how can I help you?” her neighbor said, sending a nagging chill down her spine.

Who was this man? How did she know him? He was an utter stranger by sight. She had never seen him, and maybe that was the ticket? Maybe she had heard him before? The feeling only ever peaked when he spoke. How did she know Malcolm Steadman?

On most days this feeling would go away. She would move on from it and the feeling would not haunt her mind any longer than she paid attention to it. Today? Well today was a holiday. Customers were with their families, no one called today. Today she had time to think about it. So, she listened to Malcolm speak pleasantly on the phone while she ate her potassium rich breakfast. She tried to pinpoint his voice. It came to her in a flash of rancid thunder, as all inspired moments do. It could be that the solution was brewing in her mind the entire time, percolating until it was fully formed, but to Karen, this idea seemed to come out of nowhere: Check his name. So she did.

Riding on a wave of intuition, Karen typed “Malcolm Steadman” into the customer database. Three results came up, two active and one inactive, likely sent to collections. The inactive account was local. Karen opened it. The force of will she had to display to keep a victorious cry from escaping her mouth was herculean. She had been in this account, had left notes in it. The last line written, just months before payment stopped and it became inactive was this:

• -4.4

• Malcolm called in again. Terminated call. RED FLAG -Karen W.

She knew him because she had talked to him. Because he had changed her life. This sounded dramatic, this sounded bigger than it should, but it was true. Malcolm Steadman had called in with a desperately manic tale of existential angst and a poor dating life that at once made her impatient and heartbroken. Not heartbroken because the guy’s love problems was moving, no that was the impatience, it was heartbreaking because she realized then how callous she was to another persons problems. He was clearly a mental health case, and as unorthodox as his methods were, he was still reaching out for help then. It was her callous apathy to empathy that had changed her life. She had vowed to be better that day, had vowed to go back to school, to do something for people like Malcolm. He had changed her life.

And now he was sitting behind her, working at the very customer service call center that he used to harass.

Her feelings of victory gave way to fear now. Malcolm was obviously crazy when she had first talked to him. He had repeatedly harassed this place with bullshit about a blinking blue light on his router, and then would rant on about tectonic plates and entropy. Now he was here. Was this some sort of weird, sick and perverted fantasy for him? Was she in danger?

She had learned recently that psychopaths look like the most normal people. That they could be insurance salesman or gym teachers, fitting in was a part of their natural camouflage. Could Malcolm be a day away from shooting up the office? Should she leave now while she had the chance?

No. Psychopaths were also charming. Malcolm Steadman was far from charming. This did not mean that he was not capable of a psychotic break, and every instinct in her flared with loud Klaxons, but Malcolm was also one of the few people who seemed to like being here. Wasn’t it always the most miserable that shot up the office? When it was time to go home, Malcolm looked the most disappointed, and he regarded the outside world, what would appear to be freedom for everyone else in the office, with a weariness that was almost saddening.

Excitement, actual excitement filled her mind with energy. It was a betrayal of how she felt, how she should feel about the situation, but it was excitement nonetheless. She should be grabbing her purse, she should be making excuses to go home and start looking for another job. She should be doing everything she could to protect herself from the sprained mind that sat behind her. Karen? Well, she just isn’t that kind of person. Deep down, she wanted to help people. Deep down, she needed to help people. This was a second chance. She did not help him then, had even mocked him for his problems. Now? Now she could make it right. Now she could do her best to help the man who changed her life. She could get him to an actual therapist, get him medicated, and if worse came to worse, get him to a psych ward. She could help him be healthy.

She would have to buy a taser first, of course.

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