Timber Loft
by Emily Hegland

Can you hop on a call?

The ping of the Slack message came promptly at 9:02 am on a Monday morning. Before Thomas could type a response, his speakers rang out with a familiar blooping tune. Susan’s shadowed face appeared on his screen, poorly lit from an overexposed window behind her. “Sorry for the cold call, but I don’t want any chat logs to be misconstrued down the line.”

“It’s fine,” Thomas said, watching his face in the smaller box in the corner. He looked young and handsome, professional even, in his new setup. Since starting this job, he’d moved out of the Logan Square garden unit he shared with a straight comedy writer who left bowls of Froot Loop-streaked milk on the coffee table. The new apartment that provided his striking backdrop—a “GUT RENO TIMBER LOFT” according to Craigslist—was in a boxy redbrick warehouse in a trendy stretch of Chicago. A popular bakery, a salvaged furniture store and a Filipino breakfast spot dotted the block. What was once an industrial hub was now a salaried workers’ playground. To the east, it was straight shot downtown on the Grand Avenue bus. To the west, Ukrainian Village, a neighborhood rife with domed churches and Eastern European groceries. The high ceilings banded with broad wood beams in Unit 1N took his breath away. Thomas signed the lease on the spot.

For the bulk of his twenties, he slung cortados by day and fed thrifted fabrics though the thrumming fang of his sewing machine by night. His cheeks would ache with the ghost of each day’s plastered-on smile. He was tired of customer service, tired of not having a savings account and most of all, tired. Each day at the café depleted him. He craved a cushy desk job that would free him up for evenings of boundless creativity.

So he took a three-month online analytics course, which led to an intense bout of Zoom interviews. Now, Thomas was a newly minted Junior Analyst at a data company. Certified corporate.

“They’re just so sensitive here,” Susan said. “Things get flagged by compliance for no reason. I congratulated Jen on her wedding last week and got grilled for using the word ‘union.’” She rolled her eyes, took off her readers. “Anyway, this is just little side project I want to get off the ground, a proof of concept, really. Nothing too fancy.”

“Mhmm...” He performed the action of listening and watched himself with admiration. Susan barreled on. “Basically, the ask is a model to help a hypothetical HR department streamline their understanding of how self-reporting employees spend their time. Extract some useful insights from a variety of data points. I could have asked Rajeesh or Lauren to take a shot at it, but I’m trying to get the ball rolling here, see what it could be first. Those two get hung up on approvals and oversight and all that.”

“Got it.”

“So can you help me out, Tom?” She always called him Tom.

“Yeah, sure. Happy to help.”

“You’re a lifesaver,” she said familiarly. “And listen, Vern really values my opinion. So a good word from me goes a long way come review time.”

That piqued his interest. An alliance. Like Survivor.

At the café, he’d only gotten a raise when the minimum wage went up. But at Auto Optimize, they handed out them like candy. He’d qualify as soon as his six-month review—a milestone that loomed large on his Outlook calendar.

His office, a nook with an exposed brick wall, was the only area of the home that looked correct, economically speaking. Double monitors flanked the sewing table that had become his desk. A keyboard pulsated with a parade rainbow backlights. A gleaming silver laptop with sat in the center like a crown jewel. This new tech was furnished by a generous work-from-home stipend for new hires.

The rest of the loft was hobbled together with a kitschy collection of furniture that had been thrifted, gifted or garbage. In the open plan layout, the living room was denoted by the perimeters of a massive Persian rug from Goodwill. The stained sofa and particle board coffee table looked out of place in this cathedral of gleaming wood floors, at odds with floor-to-ceiling windows and soapstone kitchen island. But he did his best with what he had. A pay bump would be the perfect way to level up his furniture game, anyway. Maybe replace the busted birchwood console that held his television.

That night, he met Søren for dinner at a German-Soul Food fusion spot near the loft. “It’s artistic,” Thomas said. “In a way.”

“To type in numbers and spit out a graph?” Søren swigged golden ale from a glass boot, angled toward Thomas like a kick to the chin. “It’s assembly line shit. Modern day fucking Model T.”

He felt as if his sternum had been stepped on. “Well, sorry not everyone can sell a two inch vase for two grand,” he muttered, picking at his collards.

“Commerce does not denote the merit of art.” Søren sawed into his schnitzel. “Price is arbitrary.”

“It does when I actually have rent to pay.”

Søren squared his shoulders, popped his jaw. “You think I don’t work hard. And so what if I don’t? Americans. You’re all obsessed. Like that hideous mural down the street. Chicago hustles harder.” He hissed the words. “Who cares? Take a rest.”

* * *

Chicago, 1891

Maria Pazcek was a textile worker at a clothing factory. She was the fast with the machine, and precise. She worked cleanly, folding her creations into neat piles on the table so they wouldn’t wrinkle. Like the other seamstresses, she was expected to complete twelve men’s coats a day, double-breasted numbers that fell to the knee, each of which took her three quarters of an hour with supreme concentration.

It wasn’t wise to talk as she worked. Instead, Maria would think. Thread, feed the wool through the machine, craft the words she wanted to say as precisely as she would hem a seam. So by the time she was ready to share her ideas, she had the words just right. “Mrs. O’Connell, would you very much mind if we walked together a while?” She hastened to catch up to Jane’s stride as many of day shift workers began their exodus, the hastiest of the bunch eager to escape ahead of the river of bodies channeled through the door like cattle. The slower seamstresses, still at their machines, either kept their heads down or watched the other women with envy. She waved goodbye to Antonia. Poor thing was only on her seventh coat even though she’d arrived arm-in-arm with Maria that morning. As she turned, she caught eyes with one of the new girls, a young woman with honey hair and brown eyes like muddy wells. Maria looked away, flushed, and reminded herself of her mission.

“Miss Pazcek, please join me,” said Jane, offering her arm to link. It was common practice to pair up with another woman for the journey home. She and Jane lived in the same tenement, an overcrowded spot with shared rooms for the single women. She would have only a few minutes to make her case.

Once they were out the door and on Grand Avenue, Maria pulled out her gift. “I’ve made you something,” she said, presenting the neatly folded handkerchief. “Embroidered by hand— while I was at home of course.”

“When do you possibly find the time?” Jane marveled, inspecting the peculiar stitching. “I haven’t been sleeping well lately,” Maria confessed.

Jane began to unfold the swatch of fabric.

“It’s a flier,” Maria said. “But I didn’t know how to get to a printing press, so…” The central image was the stitched outline of a woman in a draped gown looking to the horizon. A decorative banner swept in ribbons across her frame: Union of Chicago Anarchists, it said, and on the pedestal where she stood, smaller: Garment Workers Branch, complete with a handsewn needle-and-thread insignia of Maria’s own design. “I was hoping you might show it to Mr. O’Connell, what with his work in the McCormick factory strike.

“I saw one of his pamphlets,” Maria continued, speaking faster to keep up with Mrs. O’Connell’s quickening pace. “Workingmen, unite? For the eight-hour workdays and safety measures for factory workers. I was just thinking that maybe the women could be involved, too. We work in the same conditions, sometimes even worse, and for those of us without a husband, there’s no one to—”

Jane began to fold the kerchief, wrong side out. “Hush, Maria,” she hissed. “It’s not for us to kick up a fuss about it. If you don’t like it, well, find yourself a fur trader and start a family.”

“But I actually do like working, I just think—”

“Listen, Maria.” Jane had turned her voice to a whisper. “Why do you think I’m even working? Strikes don’t put food on the table. Just do as Mr. Einhorn says and meet your quota. You’re fast, anyway. I’ve never seen you on the floor past sunset.”

“Yes, but it’s not just me—Antonia will be sewing until her fingers bleed tonight.” Her whole speech, meticulously planned for weeks behind the sewing machine, was becoming a childish plea. “Jane. There are children working at some of the plants.”

“There’s no reason to keep carrying on,” Jane said, turning the corner as they approached their building. She stopped at the front door and pressed the kerchief into Maria’s palms. “Please. Stop. My husband can’t be bothered with women’s woes.”

* * *

By Tuesday, Thomas had successfully ranked a lineup of fictional employees by productivity. He randomized a bell curve of values named after Survivor contestants from the season he’d been binging: Mike, Drea, Rocksroy, Maryann. Columns for “mouse/keyboard activity” and “lock screen duration” populated with averages. He could select any number of fields from the columns and spit out a ranked list, color-coded from top to bottom: shades of green were exceptional, yellow was the middle of the curve, anything in pink or red was flagged. He was pleased to see his new skills create something out of nothing. It was beautiful to behold. Beautiful but—

His stomach sank. This whole project, all his hard work, seemed to be a data-driven way to scrutinize every moment of time an employee took to themselves. Just another excuse to cut costs and vote people off the island. Thomas put a piece of tape over his laptop’s built-in camera and ignored a text from Søren. He didn’t feel like hearing his opinions on the practice of covertly collecting data to rank employees. Instead, he turned on Survivor, he pulled out his special box and began to roll a joint.

This was the pattern he’d fallen into since the new job. He used to roll up and then dig through his trunk of thrifted fabrics: a trove of duvets, dresses, dish towels, blazers from the eighties, trench coats from the nineties, leather and linen and crocheted cotton and silk scarves; until he was struck with inspiration. Then he’d sketch his vision. A boxy button-down shirt cut from a quilt. A billowing wedding gown built from varied ivory panels of vintage curtains. A faux fur bikini made from a plush toy.

But now he felt immobilized to creation. Suspicious of it. No one had ever wanted to buy the things he made. When he set up his booth at summer festivals, he barely broke even. He was burnt out by it, intimidated by his arty friends. Grace booked consistently. She’d just shot a spread for Vogue Thailand. Søren reliably scored shelf space for his Scandinavian minimalist jars in high-end boutiques. He held gallery shows where collectors bought austere ceramic statues glazed in strata of earth tones. This made Thomas feel scrappy and crafty and silly, especially when people at those shows asked him What are you working on right now? and his answer was A men’s crop top and short shorts.

And so, he kept the tradition of a joint for one, but shunned sewing. He exhaled clouds of smoke and inhaled episodes of Survivor. He numbed away the feeling his call with Susan gave him, the impending review, the part of his brain that felt monitored. And at the loft, something about the way the smoke hung in the air, like a body sitting next to him on the couch, made him feel a little less alone.

* * *

From the moment she got home, Maria sewed for hours, replaying Jane’s words in her head with each stitch. She thought of Antonia at the machine rethreading the bobbin. She thought of the honey-haired girl. She thought of Mr. Einhorn’s leering gaze and the stories she’d heard about girls as young as fifteen called to his office.

On the fabric, she recreated the insignia of a needle and thread surrounded by a circular seal. She stitched it again and again, readjusting the twill in her embroidery hoop for each. By the time the sun began to puncture the sky with dreamy orange hues, she had cut the embroidered illustrations and secured each to a wooden backing, finished with a pin.

She packed all ninety-five buttons into her bag and headed to the factory, toting her bag through streets of tenement buildings and butchers and brick factories, head held high. Who cares what Jane said, anyway? Maria was ready to spread the word, speak to each of the women herself, one by one, and convert them. If the men at McCormick could do it, why couldn’t the Einhorn women?

* * *

It was five p.m. on Wednesday and Thomas was feeling a curious mixture of anxiety and celebration. Susan loved his updates to the model. She promised to sing his praises to the higher ups, get him on the fast track to a promotion. More money, more responsibility. Maybe one day he’d have her job, she’d joked. He wondered what Susan was like outside of work, if she used the phrase circle back when talking to her college-age daughter.

Ready to massage his odd mood into something like serenity, he sat down for his ritual. As his joint shortened, Thomas noticed how the smoke seemed to hang in a low clump beside him. He kept eying the strange pattern, undispersed. The smoke would twirl from the orange tip of the joint and then, as if compelled, weave itself like thread into a cloud next to him. Soon, he was watching the cloud more intensely than the television.

The figure seemed half-formed. He rolled and lit up another hastily, eager to see how the smoke might behave. The spools danced in the air and funneled toward the cloud until he swore he could see a woman in the cloud, her thick skirt gathered to her ankles and a hat pinned atop her hair. She held something in her lap with one hand, the other moving up and down in a quick rhythm. It looked like a hoop, the thing she held, a bolt of fabric taut as she pulled a needle back and through, back and through in mechanical precision.

* * *

Maria arrived at the factory and tucked her bag of hand-sewn union buttons beneath her machine. She didn’t dawdle; she got straight to work as always. And with each seam she sewed, she perfected her pitch: Do you want your children cutting off their fingers in slaughterhouses? Do you want your husbands waiting up all night for you to come home? Do you want a wage that puts food on the table for your family?

She was fired up, sewing faster than ever. The sooner she finished her batch of coats, the sooner she could start the whisper campaign.

Maria was so focused on her sewing and her speeches that she didn’t notice the sparks from another woman’s machine. The grey cloud that began to grow. She didn’t look up when she smelled smoke.

She never even thought about what she’d do in the event of a fire. In 1871, the wood built metropolis had been razed by hostile flames. Maria was a baby at the time, but her mother told her scary stories in Polish about three nights of fire, when she thought she was being punished by God and sent to hell.

As Maria grew up, the Second City arose from the ashes in red-brick fury. Hearty brick hubs cropped up along the railways. Garment factories, meatpacking plants, and steelhouses pumped smoke into the newly skyline. The bricklayers prided themselves on the new fireproof structures. A great fire would never spread for miles again.

But at the Einhorn Menswear Clothing Factory, the material of the building wasn’t the issue—simplistic design was to blame. The single exit revealed itself as a major design flaw. Seamstresses draped in linen petticoats, surrounded by bolts of cut wool and thread-choked bobbins, began to yelp and hop up from their machines, to push toward the single door. There was no protocol in the event of a fire at Einhorn’s factory, even in a post-1871 Chicago. Einhorn made it out, flinging himself from the second story window and breaking both legs in the process. Jane was one of the first to slip through the exit. Antonia escaped and promptly tended to Mr. Einhorn, a charity that earned her a wedding band.

Maria Pazcek, seated at the northeast corner of the first floor, first ran, then crawled toward the crowd of women congealed near the door. She left behind the bag of hand-sewn buttons to burn. In front of her, one of the women’s skirts had caught aflame. She reached up and tried to rip the fabric, keep the burn from spreading. Instead, it brought the girl down to the floor with her.

“I’m sorry,” said Maria, coughing.

The girl with honey hair was sobbing, her skirt billowing with flame. Maria recognized the brown eyes like wells. “I’m getting married,” said the girl between gasps. Maria held her hand. So delicate, not calloused like hers. Maria wanted to marry the girl herself. Maybe once they escaped she’d cut her hair, propose and settle down. Start working with the men at McCormick Reaper Factory and join the union.

“Roll,” shouted Maria, rolling herself to get the pair started. “Roll!”

Like timber logs, the women rolled. The air was oven-hot and thick, heavy with a storm cloud of smoke. The sound of scuttling shoes and cracking wood beams and screeches. Maria tried to hum the union song, tears streaming down her eyes from the smoke. As she wormed toward the door, a current of heels came like an ocean wave came crashing over the timber, leaving them limp as dolls as the flames lapped the brick walls.

The building remained standing.

* * *

Thomas awoke on the sofa, slick with sweat. He’d been dreaming of fire, of being stepped on, of gasping for breath. He tried to shake the nightmare but it followed him as he made coffee. The dream felt real. It didn’t disappear as he gained consciousness, lost to the recesses of his brain. But the events of the night before were a blur. He didn’t even remember who won Survivor.

He dreaded proofing Susan’s deck for her meeting with the C-suite. Whether this model was used for Auto-Optimize or white-labelled and marketed to other corporate overlords, it now felt gross. No wonder Susan had selected him, a new and vulnerable little scrub, to do her dirty work. He paced through the timber loft, floors creaking beneath each stomp. She’d roped him into an alliance and now he was complicit.

He caught his distorted reflection in the TV, a black monolith at the center of the loft. All alliances must end. Time for classic Survivor move: the blindside.

* * *

The first slide said Welcome.

“Steve, Mark, Roland, Bernadette… thanks for making time.” Susan made a meal of their names, attempting to make eye contact with each floating head in the Zoom call. Mark behind a mahogany desk. Steven ambulating as he carried his phone. Roland, flanked by bookcases. And Bernadette, bespectacled and bird-like in her brightly lit office. “Today, I’m excited to share a sneak peek of a data model that could change the way we operate. Not only does it have strong potential to improve our internal structure, but zooming out, this has major growth potential from a business-to-business standpoint.”

She clicked to the next slide: Productivity Analytics Model.

“Basically, each company device is linked to an employee. This device captures data and uploads it to our server. So we have this reservoir of useful insights that’s just waiting to be tapped.”

Click.

“But here’s the exciting part.” Susan paused to build drama before revealing her bullet points one by one on the slide. “With this model, you can select specific data to analyze—any combination of things, from computer activity to keyboard strokes, even facial detection from the camera.”

Click.

“So, you select the values that you find important. The algorithm generates a distribution for each value and places each employee somewhere along the curve.” The slide showed a bell shaped curve.

“Whichever values you choose are then averaged together, resulting in a single numeric score for each employee on a scale of zero—incompetent—to ten—exceptional. Anything below five is cause for concern. So let’s see it in action.”

Click.

A list of names and numbers appeared in a table.

Steven Armour, CEO: 3.63, highlighted in fuchsia.

Mark Vanderberg, COO: 2.42, in a ruby band.

Roland Erikson, CTO: 1.45, the color of a fire truck.

Bernadette Wasser-Greene, CFO: 2.12, in cardinal.

Lastly,

Susan Garnet, VP of Analytics: 8.73, in a stripe of crocodile green.

A hush fell over the Zoom call.

“This—” Frazzled, Susan attempted to close the Powerpoint, clicking manically on her screen. “This isn’t the data I pulled.”

“Susan, what kind of stunt are you trying to pull?” Mark barked.

Bernadette cleared her throat. “You’ve pulled this from our server?”

“There’s been—” Susan stammered as she continued to click through the slides, now showing in-depth graphs of each executive’s time spent on their work computer. Dismal red lines descending throughout the workday. “—a mistake.”

Finally, she managed to close the presentation. Four frowning faces in boxes splashed her across the screen.

“I don’t think this is very professional, Susan,” said Steven. “Roland, Bernie, Mark, let’s huddle after this.” The boxed heads bopped with nods.

“But—”

“Susan,” he said with a tight-lipped smile. “Let’s circle back regarding this presentation.”

* * *

Thomas hummed to himself, abuzz with a new mission. He’d used the company-wide data Susan shared to collect the personal emails of everyone with the title “junior” or “associate.” Then he drafted an email on his old Acer laptop:

Subject: Important: Do not read on your work computer

Inside, a simple message:

Feeling powerless at Auto-Optimize? Let’s organize.

He included a private video meeting link.

That night, he lit up a joint and opened his trunk. He dug through the fabric; his mind painting looks from the shimmering sheer shrug and loose denim sundress he pulled from the sumptuous pile. He kept digging. At the bottom of the trunk, he found a piece he didn’t remember buying: a men’s double-breasted coat cut from sturdy wool.

It fit as if it had been made for him.

In the pocket of the coat, he found something even more stunning: an ancient linen handkerchief, embroidered with the image of a woman looking eastward, her draped gown billowing behind her. A banner encircling her said Union of Chicago Anarchists. On the pedestal she stood, the words Garment Workers Branch with needle-and-thread stamp.

Thomas tacked it on the brick wall of his office. Then he sketched a white dress, draped like the one on the kerchief, and pulled out his sewing machine.