A Hundred Thousand Dollar Day

Wednesday

     “Got one for you.” Jim appeared at the cubicle entrance, manila folder in hand.
Randall looked up from the screen. “Hoping I wouldn’t see your ugly face.” He grabbed a handful of pistachios from a zippered bag on his desk cracking the shells open with his teeth. “Want some?”
“I’m good,” Jim replied, his voice steady.
Randall wiped the salt from his fingers onto his khaki pants. He swiveled his chair facing the computer screen. His hands found the mouse, then the keyboard. “Who’s it for?” 
Reading a stapled document, Jim read aloud the ID number of the person on the payroll to receive an instant one hundred-thousand-dollar payment. 
“Any specs?” Randall asked. 
“Maryland. Twenty-four.”
Randall nodded, his eyes tethered to the screen. Maneuvering the keys on autopilot, he populated each blank field. After locating the entry in the database, he assigned the six-figure distribution. 
“That all?”
“Two more coming,” Jim replied.

Thursday

“Hate to interrupt.” Jim raised a manila folder over the carpeted wall of the cubicle. 
“Another one?” Randall glanced at the clock. Not even lunchtime yet. The maze of creases circling Jim’s eyes revealed the kind of day it would be. “Let me see.” 
“Alabama. Forty-one. Two kids.” 
Randall entered the ID number. First name. Last name. DOB. 
When prompted for a dollar amount, he typed $100,000.00. Clicking the zeros into place, his ears perked, as if listening to Morse code. The software didn’t require the cents columns, but somehow it felt right making the number seem more substantial.
Placeholders. His third-grade math teacher had explained that the zeros in a number this large were called placeholders. Their job was to stand in where nothing else stood. The emptiness of the zeros weighed on him as he sent the request through the innards of the payroll software. 
“That all for today?” Randall asked. 
Jim shook his head. “One more coming.”

Friday

Slumped in his chair, Randall processed routine reimbursements, fixed typos, entered predictable data. Mid-afternoon he rested his eyes and shelled a handful of pistachios. He swiveled to face the entrance of the cubicle just as Jim approached. For the third time that day.
“No. Just… no.”
“Afraid so. Twenty-one. Utah.”
At 1700, Randall stood from his desk and filed out of the office. He headed, not to the parking lot, but across the street, depositing five dollars into the open trumpet case of a curbside musician. His request underway, he walked in step with the 24 notes all the way to his truck.

Saturday

  The keycard reader sounded its familiar beep when Randall swiped his badge. He pushed the door open entering the building from the parking garage. The weekend unrolled as any other, video games and cold brew coffee, until his boss called that morning. 
Pushing the door open, he heard nervous whispers. Hurried footsteps shifted throughout the payroll floor. From across the room, Randall’s eyes synched with Jim’s. Seeing the creases, he understood why they called him in.
Jim walked the long hallway between cubicles, his hands gripping a thick stack of manila folders. Randall braced. 
“Thirty. And a K-9,” Jim said.
Randall’s breath shortened. He steadied his jaw but couldn’t stop its quiver. He brushed his cheek against his arm, folding a tear into the khaki sleeve of his uniform. 
It wasn’t a hundred-thousand-dollar day. It was the darkest cloud of a day. Not one distribution to process.
But thirty.
He thought of all the zeros. He thought of all the placeholders. 
He thought of all the knocks at the door, all the spouses, the mothers, the fathers absorbing the unthinkable—their service member was never coming home. He thought of the children who wouldn’t carve another memory with their parent. He thought of the comrades in the fight, the dog handlers, the commanding officers, all saluting farewell to friendships forged in battle. He thought of the grandparents, siblings, aunts, uncles, teachers, and coaches wiping their eyes, the 24 notes of taps echoing on in their memories forever.
He thought of the hundred thousand dollars and how it once seemed such a large sum. But in the face of loss so grave, it was only a placeholder. 
A placeholder, standing in where no one stood. 

Author’s note: The fallen service members referenced in this story are Sgt. Barun Rai (24, Md., Army), CPT Waid C. Ramsey (41, Ala., Army), and Sgt. Daniel Gurr (21, Utah, USMC). Their deaths fell on Wednesday, Thursday and Friday leading to Saturday, Aug. 6th, 2011, when 30 U.S. service members and one K-9 were killed in a helicopter crash alongside eight Afghan forces in Afghanistan. The date remains America’s deadliest day in the U.S. wars since Nine Eleven. August 2021 marks the 10-year anniversary.

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Peyton H. Roberts, M.A., is a military spouse and mother, as well as a bystander during two decades of war. Her social impact novel Beneath the Seams (Scrivenings Press) was selected as the May 2021 book club pick by Military Families Magazine. Peyton holds a Master’s in communication. Her writing has appeared in a variety of publications including As You Were: The Military Review, American Veteran Magazine, and Stars and Stripes. Connect with Peyton at www.peyton-roberts.com.