[CASE FILE ITEM: Personal journal entry, J. Matthers, recovered from workshop computer.]
Journal Entry - October 21
I’ve been looking for work. Not because I think I’ll find something. Because Lisa asked if I was, and I needed to say yes.
The listings are all wrong. “Junior Structural Inspector” at $58,000/year, certification required in software I’ve never used and don’t intend to learn. “Assistant Project Manager” for a biotech retrofit firm in South San Francisco - I read the job description and realized I’d be the oldest applicant by twenty years, reporting to someone who got their PE last spring.
I clicked through anyway. Filled out one application. They asked for a cover letter explaining my “enthusiasm for the role.” I closed the tab.
There’s a franchise consultant who keeps emailing me. I must have clicked on something, filled out a form during one of those afternoons where the line between research and self-punishment gets thin. He wants to schedule a call to discuss “wealth-building opportunities in the quick-service restaurant space.” I googled the requirements. McDonald’s wants $500,000 liquid. Hotel franchises want millions and on-site management. I deleted the email.
I thought about a liquor store. Sat with that idea for an hour, looking at listings. Then I pictured myself standing behind a counter making change for lottery tickets and checking IDs, eight hours a day, dealing with people who want to make small talk about the weather. I closed the laptop.
The house is quiet in a way it didn’t used to be. I notice it now. The refrigerator hum. The furnace cycling. The neighbor’s dog two houses down that barks at 4 p.m. every day when the mail truck comes. I’ve started noticing patterns I never paid attention to before.
I’ve been scrolling Nextdoor more than I should.
Redwood City community forum, sorted by recent. Package thieves on Stambaugh Street. Noise complaint about a party in Redwood Shores. Someone asking if anyone else heard gunshots near Woodside Road at 2 a.m. (fireworks, probably, but six people chimed in to say they heard it too). A post about a Tesla blocking a driveway for forty minutes while the owner was inside a cafe. Seventeen comments, all of them angry, none of them useful.
I read them all.
There’s a whole genre of post that’s just people asking if anyone has doorbell camera footage of a specific time and place. Someone’s car got keyed. Someone’s Amazon package disappeared. Someone’s catalytic converter was stolen in broad daylight and they want to know if anyone on the block caught it on video.
The responses are always the same: “Check your Ring.” “I’ll DM you my Nest footage.” “We’ve got an Arlo that covers the street, let me pull the clip.”
Everyone has cameras now. On the porch, on the garage, on the fence facing the alley. Hikvision, Reolink, Amcrest, cheap no-name brands from Amazon. Half the posts include screenshots - grainy, time-stamped, motion-triggered. License plates, faces, the white glow of phone screens visible through car windows.
I noticed that.
I didn’t do anything with it. Just noticed.
There’s a guy who posts every week about “suspicious vehicles” in his neighborhood. He includes photos: a van parked too long, a sedan with out-of-state plates, a work truck idling near the park. The comments are split between people thanking him for “staying vigilant” and people telling him to calm down. He doesn’t calm down. He posts again three days later with a new photo.
I don’t comment. I just read.
I recognize some of the streets. The Sequoia Station parking lot where someone reported a break-in. The corner of Broadway and Jefferson where a cyclist got hit and the driver didn’t stop. I drove past that intersection last Tuesday. Didn’t think about it. Now I think about it.
I drove through downtown yesterday. No reason. Just restless.
Past the office on Marshall Street. Matthers Seismic’s building, though they’ll probably rebrand soon if they haven’t already. The lights were on. I slowed down but didn’t stop. Saw two people in the second-floor conference room, backlit by the screen glare. I didn’t recognize them.
I kept driving. Past the Fox Theatre. Past Courthouse Square where the farmers market sets up on weekends and I used to buy stone fruit in the summer because Danny liked apricots and I wanted him to eat something that wasn’t packaged. Past the buildings I used to inspect - low-rise commercial, retrofit-compliant now because I’d told them what to fix and they’d fixed it.
The city looks different when you’re not working in it. It’s the same geography, same landmarks, but the context is gone. I used to see a building and know its load paths, its shear wall locations, its foundation type. Now I just see buildings.
I turned around at the port and drove home. The whole loop took thirty-five minutes. I don’t know what I was looking for.
Lisa called at 6 p.m. I knew what it was before I answered.
“Child support,” she said. No hello. She sounded tired.
“I sent a check,” I said.
“For half.”
“It’s what I can do right now. The disability determination is still - "
“Jeff.” She sighed. Long, slow, the kind of sigh that means we’ve had this conversation before and she’s exhausted by it. “The court order doesn’t care what you can do. It’s a court order.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
I didn’t answer. There wasn’t an answer that would help.
“I’m not trying to punish you,” she said. Her voice was quieter now. Not angry. Just worn down. “I know you’re going through something. But Danny needs new cleats and his phone is dying and I can’t keep pulling from my savings to cover what you’re supposed to be covering.”
“I’ll figure it out.”
“When?”
“I don’t know. Soon.”
She was quiet for a moment. I could hear her breathing. She used to do that when we were married - pause mid-argument to gather herself, decide if it was worth continuing. Usually it wasn’t.
“You used to be better at this,” she said finally.
“At what?”
“At handling things. At showing up.” Another pause. “I don’t know what happened to you, Jeff. I don’t think you do either.”
She hung up before I could say anything.
I sat on the couch with the phone in my hand. The living room was dark except for the glow from the monitor I’d left on in the corner. The screen saver had kicked in - just the default blue screen with the time in white block numbers. 6:17 p.m.
I thought about calling her back. Apologizing, maybe. Explaining. But I didn’t know what I’d be explaining. That I’m trying. That the money’s running out. That I spend too much time in the garage building things no one wants to buy and reading forum posts by strangers who are angry about the same things I’m angry about.
That watching feels easier than doing.
I didn’t call.
I turned off the monitor and sat in the dark. Outside, a car passed. Then another. The neighbor’s dog barked twice and stopped. The mail truck was long gone. Somewhere on Nextdoor, someone was posting about a package that didn’t arrive. Someone else was asking if anyone had footage.
Everyone’s watching now. That’s just how it is.
I got up and went to the garage. The workbench was clean. The soldering iron was off. The parts bins were labeled and organized. I stood there for a while, not building anything, just looking at the space where the work happens.
The city doesn’t need me anymore. Lisa doesn’t need me, except for the checks. Danny’s polite when he visits but he doesn’t need me either, not the way he used to.
I turned off the garage light and went back inside.
The house was still quiet.
I noticed.