Wake-Up Call. Joaquin De Torres

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      “Every room has a video camera situated on the wall above the bed’s headboard like a security camera, and records throughout the night. We call it a Night Cam. Now look at this. This is what was filmed from Patricia’s camera just two weeks ago.”

      She started the video again and my heart froze in my throat.

      * * *

      Sergeant LeMarcus Henderson, 3d Infantry Division, Special Electronics Warfare Team, and two-time Purple Heart recipient from the Iraqi War, limped into the Pittsburg Best Buy in a cami jacket, ripped jeans, untied boots, and a t-shirt reading “FUCK ALL WARS!” His hair was a nappy unkempt Afro, his thick beard a matching, hanging nest. The former soldier made a bee-line for the PC and laptop department of the store, his eyes searching for some far-off object.

      He reeked of beer, sweat and filth, making nearby customers wince and move away as he drew near. Best Buy floor manager Tim Wilson saw Henderson early from the cash register line and got on his walkie.

      “Floor alert,” he whispered harshly into the mouth piece. “Homeless African-American man going into Computer Electronics. Need assistance in Computer Electronics. Fran, he’s coming your way!”

      It was true, LeMarcus Henderson was a homeless African-American at the time; but back in the day, just eight years prior, he was a dangerous avatar who had dominion over an entire battlefield both on the ground and in the air. He worked the controls of a sophisticated new electronic frontal assault system from a single tablet or laptop called “LAP STRIKE.” At his fingertips, a Lap Striker had forward telemetry and topography readings of targets derived from drones, satellites, reconnaissance aircraft, and long-range infrared cameras in a tablet PC the size of a paperback novel, but only a quarter inch thick.

      “Taking point” had taken on a whole new meaning for the Army because when Lap Striker was on point, American forces were miles away behind him. Parachuting in at night behind enemy lines, Henderson remained hidden, fusing all information preloaded and downloaded of enemy areas before calling in air, tank or artillery strikes with the push of a button. One special, almost mundane feature of the tablet was its power grid scrambler. When attached either wirelessly or with cables to a transformer or capacitor, Henderson could send a plasma jolt into the energy stream and short circuit the grid, causing a blackout to a city the size of Baltimore for at least seven minutes; long enough to cause the chaos and military defenselessness for an effective strike.

      Henderson had all but forgotten those days when he was considered a hero for guiding in no less than 15 successful helicopter, drone and jet airstrikes. But during the war’s third year, an Iraqi artillery shell exploded close enough to send shrapnel through both his legs, knocking him out of the war and into a VA hospital in San Francisco. Two years later, Henderson was on the streets with post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) and an alcohol and cocaine problem that siphoned most of his four years of Army savings. In this last year, Henderson’s PTSD advanced into manic depression and bipolar disorder, strengthening the saddening statistic that 40 percent of all U.S. soldiers returning from the Iraq and Afghanistan wars suffered unrecoverable mental disorders.

      “Should we call the police?” asked one Best Buy associate near Wilson who stood like a sentry, surveying the scene.

      “No, but I’ll let Brian know.” He reached for a register phone and pressed the store intercom button. Instantly, the in-store speakers echoed.

      “Store manager to Computer Electronics, please. Brian to Computer Electronics for customer service, or call me on line three at register two, please.” The buzzer sounded on line three. He picked up the receiver and raised his head to the terraced, glass offices on the second floor above. He saw store manager Brian Stedman with the phone on his ear.

      “Brian, we have a homeless man going into electronics.”

      “So? You know what to do. Just have some associates hang around him and make sure he doesn’t take anything. Leave Monica in charge of the front if you want to help out.”

      “Okay, thanks.” Wilson turned to one of the assistant managers. “Monica, Brian wants you to watch the front while I go over there.” He left to join the small gathering of blue-shirted associates keeping an uneasy distance around the disheveled man.

      Henderson approached a display table of no less than 20 laptops sitting side by side on a long display rack. Their various trademark screen savers and features videos played repeatedly on each. He moved from one to the other, while nervous associates pretended to look busy as they milled around him. He stopped in front of one with a massive keyboard and a 19” screen. Fran, the assistant manager in charge of Computer Electronics that shift, approached him with a cautious smile.

      “Good afternoon! Is there anything I can help you with today?” Henderson moved passed her as he studied the laptop like it was a museum piece, ignoring her question.

      “Are you looking for a laptop for home or office use?” Wilson winced as Fran glanced at him, both knowing the ridiculousness of the standardized question. A couple of the younger associates stifled smirks and Wilson shot hard looks at them. Fran continued with her well-practice customer service routine.

      “We have specials this week right over here if you’d like to look at them.” She held her hand out to guide Henderson to the other models, but he didn’t move.

      “I LIKE THIS ONE!” he yelled out, slurring the words drunkenly. YEAH! I LIKE THIS ONE!” The volume of his exclamation made customers within earshot turn around and stare. He placed the fingers of his left hand lightly on the keyboard. Fran tensed up even more, imagining his hands would be grimy and force her to clean the unit. Wilson moved closer making sure man’s right hand wasn’t stuffing merchandise into his pocket. Henderson nodded his head up and down wildly, smiling like he had finally found buried treasure.

      “YEAH, MOTHA FUCKA! THAT’S WHAT I’M TALKIN’ ‘BOUT!”

      “Anything I can do to help?” The associates turned to the familiar voice. Brian Stedman’s calm, melodic voice seemed to break the tension.

      “He’s interested in the new Sony Matrix XL5 laptop,” answered Fran. “I thought he might be interested in one of our specials, but he said he likes this one.”

      “Great!” answered Stedman. He moved next to Henderson. “This model is the store’s newest and Sony’s most powerful. It’s perfect for home, work or travel. It has massive storage for downloading music, photos and movies.”

      The associates looked at each other wondering what their boss was doing; laying out the specs and features of a machine that no way in the world a homeless man could afford. But Wilson knew that this was vintage Brian Stedman. The perfect salesman, boss and professional no matter the situation, no matter the customer. Steadman treated everyone kindly and personably, from the associates to the district managers. He was especially warm to customers, thus resulting in his store’s number one sales ranking two years in a row. Wilson reasoned that this was Steadman’s way to train the young associates in both the product and in customer service; what better test than to perform such services than on a putrid-smelling, drunk, yelling homeless man? He grinned to himself to watch his boss’ biggest challenge to date.

      “This laptop has the highest graphics performance rating of all these models according to the field’s top three software magazines: Tech Authority, PC Magazine and Digital Market,” Stedman continued. “It contains the new NVIDIA G5 Triton graphics chip, so if you like gaming, graphics designing, chart building, or Photoshop creation, this one is the best. DVD playback looks absolutely stunning.”

      “This СКАЧАТЬ