Monday started the week anew for Waylon Smithers, with the familiar commute to work. He'd fortunately finished his rotation in infrastructure; not that he minded working with Sharon per se, but the work was tedious and rough. He had a great better appreciation for maintenance though. The idea of the nightmare Burns had put on the Springfield plant's department embarrassed him.
Overworked, underfunded, insufficiently trained… it was no wonder OSHA and the NRC kept breathing down their necks. Smithers vowed if he ever went back, he'd put the screws on Monty to get the place up to code. And maybe hire some people who actually had a college degree or two to oversee things. In that, at least, a solid lesson had been learned.
He was so lost in thought that he almost walked into Preston who was standing beside the timeclock, waiting. Smithers scanned Preston's face for any sign of recognition from "Shezeballe's" act on Saturday. Preston's face was the same as always. Not even a glimmer of anything. He truly hadn't recognized Smithers.
Smithers gave an inward sigh of relief. He'd been fairly certain Preston had no idea. It was amazing the difference a wig and some bronzer could make. Thank goodness for small blessings, eh?
"Ah, Waylon," Preston said haughtily, "good morning. We're moving you into hydrology today. I hope you brought sunscreen, you're going to be outside a good bit of the day."
Smithers winced as he fell into step beside Preston. With his fair complexion, burning was inevitable.
Preston adjusted his glasses, and continued to describe the process. This time, Smithers wouldn't be working under one specific person. There were a myriad of smaller divisions in hydrology, considering the complexity of the system.
The Primary system circled the reactor, a pressurized loop system that flowed through the reactor vessel and control rods, and through pipes in the Second circuit: the steam generator. The water from the Primary never mixed with water from the other systems, naturally.
The Secondary system was also a closed hydrology loop. Water, converted into steam from the contact with the heated Primary pipes, drove the turbine, which in turn drove the generators. From there, the water in the Secondary was cooled back down to a liquid via contact with condenser pipes, and moved to the steam generator where the cycle continued.
The Tertiary system was where the cooling took place. A more open system, warm water from the condenser heat exchange was piped into the cooling towers. It was sprayed over the exchange surface through mist-like distribution nozzles. There, it collected and dripped down, cooling as it went, and accumulating into a basic at the bottom. From there was pumped back into the condenser.
The cooling towers themselves, still part of the hydrology department, were natural draft cooling towers. Because the Tertiary circuit exposed the water to the risks of evaporation, fresh water had to continually be pumped into the basin from existing sources. Naturally, it was filtered and processed. In times of rain, when extra water accumulated, the cooled surplus was pumped back into the natural waterways.
All of that comprised hydrology.
Smithers was beginning to see how logical the layout of his training was: learning how to understand the equipment, how to tag it out for maintenance, how to do the physical repair work… at first it had seemed like the selection was random. He would've expected administration would've been first, maintenance last. How wrong he was.
Then again, Dimas did say he was a hands-on manager. Smithers wondered if this was the same training process that Dimas himself had used to learn his way around his Plateau City nuclear generating station. Smithers had to admit, unglamorous as parts were, the order made sense.
The rest of the week passed much like a blur.
Smithers woke up, ignored the letter in the bottom of his dresser, and waited for the weekend. In fact, on Wednesday he'd requested a half-day for Friday.
Dimas raised an eyebrow at the request, but granted it. Preston shook his head disapprovingly. "I expected as much," Preston scoffed. Smithers ignored the remark, and Dimas let it slide.
The half day was so that he and Keith could go to Niagara Falls. It was easier to do it now, before summer vacation started, while the kids were still in school and families weren't travelling.
Wednesday evening, after Dimas happily agreed to give Smithers permission to leave early under Preston's incredulous and scathing glare, Smithers met Keith at a nearby coffee bar. There, they discussed plans. They'd take the train in, cross the border, and stay on the Canadian side. There was a nice hotel that overlooked Horseshoe Falls. You do have a passport, right? Smithers asked Keith.
The younger man nodded enthusiastically. Absolutely! I used to go to Montreal for the night life. They have an active club scene up there. Hey, we should hit one of the nightclubs along the Niagara strip!
I don't dance much, Smithers admitted. It was a bit of a white lie, but still more true than not.
Keith had laughed, and prodded Smithers. It's a great way to relax, he pushed, work off some stress. He sipped his latte. I don't know about your days, Waylon, but I'll take nearly any way to unwind that I can. He winked.
Smithers sipped his coffee and tried not to think about the possible implications of Keith's statement. We don't have to do anything, Smithers reminded himself. He didn't want to move too fast. Burns' unopened letter, and the voicemail he still hadn't responded to weighed heavily on his mind. Tonight, he decided, he'd address at least one of those two. Which one, he wasn't sure.
He and Keith parted ways, and Smithers caught the bus back to his hotel.
Letter or phone, he thought, letter or phone.
The advantage of reading the letter meant that he didn't have to interact directly with Mister Burns. However, Smithers knew once he started reading it, he wouldn't be able to stop reading. And once he read it, those words would be stuck in his mind. Some things, once seen, cannot be forgotten.
That letter… what if it were a formal declaration that Burns never wanted to see him again? That was something Smithers already felt he'd accepted. What if, though, it was a plea for him to come back to Springfield; to Burns?
Smithers wasn't sure that would be any easier for him. He wasn't ready to face Mister Burns again. Thinking about it made his heart ache. He rubbed his neck absentmindedly. Why did this sort of pain feel so real?
No; the letter was not an option.
If, on the other hand, he called Burns, then he could simply hang up if the conversation started to get too unpleasant. It seemed less personal then running the risk of reading Burns' heart put to paper.
When he got back to his apartment, he made himself as comfortable as he could, poured a small shot of sipping whiskey, and grabbed his phone.
Here goes nothing, he thought, heart in his throat, as he dialed the familiar numbers of Burns' private line.
The phone rang several times, and Smithers was debating hanging up when Burns answered.
"Ahoy hoy?" The familiar voice flowed through his ear, causing Smithers' chest to constrict painfully around his lungs. The world felt as if all the air had been sucked out of it.
"Ahoy? Hello? Is anyone there?"
Smithers took a deep, rattling breath. Now or never.
"Hello, Monty."
"Smithers?" Surprise, then elation. "Waylon Smithers! It is you!" The joyful tone was replaced immediately by anger. "Why the hell have you been ignoring my calls? Who the devil do you think you are, Smithers! Why I have half a mind to fly out there tonight and wring your impudent neck! If I had known exactly how-"
Smithers interrupted Burns' rant just as the man was gathering steam. "-Enough, Monty. If you can't be civil, I'm done."
The line was silent.
"Monty, are you there?"
"… Did you just tell me to be quiet?"
"Not in those words, no."
There was an awkward pause. Smithers could practically hear Burns' heartbeat through the line.
"I see," Burns replied deflatedly. "So, Smithers, did you read that letter I sent you?"
Smithers took a deep breath. "No, Monty, I did not."
"Oh." A pause. "Uhm, why not?"
Smithers licked his dry lips. "Because, quite honestly, I'm not sure I want to read what you have to say. Whatever you want to tell me, you've got me on the line. Go ahead and say it." Smithers tapped his feet nervously. "I'm waiting…"
"Smithers…" Burns' voice trailed off. "I… just read the damned letter you bullheaded oaf." Burns' words might've been harsh, but his tone was yielding. It wasn't an order; it was a plea.
"Why can't you just tell me?"
"Because I can't, Smithers! I don't have to explain things further than that." A long silence, then Burns spoke again. "When are you coming back?"
Smithers took a sip of his whiskey and drummed his fingers on the rim of the glass. "I'm not sure I am," he replied brusquely.
"Oh."
"I find the lifestyle out here suits me. You were right, Monty, I did need to get out and see the world."
"I see," Burns replied. His voice which had moments ago been harsh and full of rage now seemed old and forlorn. "I suppose you'll be wanting your belongings sent out to you."
"I'll come get them myself when I'm ready."
"I see. Uhm, Hercules…" his voice trailed off for a moment. "He had a bit of an accident. He's okay," Burns quickly added, "but I thought you should… Eh, I thought you should know."
"What did you do to him?"
"Why do you think I did anything to him?"
Smithers narrowed his eyes, even though Burns couldn't see it. "Because I know you," he snarled softly, emphatically.
Burns sighed heavily into the line. "He was under my chair. I didn't see him when I stood up. I stepped on him. He broke his leg."
"Jesus, Monty," Smithers swore, putting his glasses on the table and massaging his eyes. "I can't even."
"… Can't even what, Waylon?"
Smithers, so focused on his dog, didn't even hear the use of his first name. It was arguably a pity.
"I can't leave any part of me around you that you won't break, can I? Everything that's important to me you just have to hurt, don't you? I can't deal with this anymore… with you. I need to get going." He lifted the phone away from his head for a minute and massaged his temples.
("You are coming back, right?" Burns asked through the line. Smithers didn't hear it.)
Smithers lifted the phone back to his ear.
"I'm not sure what my next plan is, after I've finished studying under Dimas. Maybe I'll ask him for a job, and work for him from now on."
"You know you're only there because I asked him to take you, right? You know I could end that with a single phone call."
Smithers' felt anger rise. The sensation that had been clutching his chest suddenly ignited. "If you think that will change anything," he snarled. "You go right ahead and try it. There are other fish in the sea, Monty. There's a convention in Albany this month, lots of head-hunters will be there. Maybe I'll just dust off my résumé. I'm sure Mister Dimas would give me a sterling recommendation."
"No one will hire you. I'll make sure of that."
"Hah, you're not as powerful as you think you are, Monty! Don't push me. I'll be back for Hercules as soon as I find a place out here." Smithers paused. "And I swear to god, Monty, if you do anything to my dog…"
"The little animal is fine," Burns' tone had weakened to a faint whisper. "I'll take care of him for you."
"You'd better." Smithers glanced at his watch. "Like I said, I have to go. Goodbye, Monty."
"Read the letter, Smithers."
Smithers gave a snort of anger, and disconnected. (Had he waited a second longer before hanging up, he might've heard a desperate "…please" from Burns.)
No, Smithers thought, he'd read the letter when he felt like it, not a day before. He tossed his phone down on the couch and paced the living room viciously. Hearing Monty's voice (he couldn't even call him Mister Burns anymore) had left his emotions a veritable tempest. The maelstrom roiled from one side of his being to the other, waves crashing between anger and heartache; and smashing any feeling in between.
He wanted to go out. He wanted another drink. He wanted to scream and throw his phone through the wall.
In the end, he did none of these things.
He sat down on the bed, grabbed his MyPod and cued up a favorites list called Strings. The first track was a piece for classic guitar, called "Malaguena." The second was actually a MIDI-created piece called "Resonant Chamber." It sounded as real as any stringed instrument. Smithers closed his eyes, and let the melodious refrains calm the storm in his soul.
Ah; but Friday could not come soon enough.