Floyd reviewed the customer's order. Experience had taught him that it was worth the time it took to do a quick proofread before printing however many copies were ordered. Seeing an error in the headline, he grabbed his red pen and marked the copy: the customer had transposed a couple of words. Strangely, he noticed that the same error kept appearing throughout the document. Could it be that what Floyd assumed was an error was actually correct? Deciding to play it safe, he swiveled his chair around, picked up his desk phone, and dialed the client's number.
"Hello," the friendly voice on the other end of the line greeted, "this is Andrew."
"Hey, Andrew," Floyd replied. "This is Floyd over at Showalter Printing."
"Hi, Floyd," Andrew said warmly. "How're the brochures coming along?"
"That's actually what I’m calling about" Floyd said, happy to get to the point so quickly, "I was doing a quick review of the proof you submitted and I came across this weird error: every instance of your organization's name is listed as 'The Quinton J. Bromberg Society for Suicide Awareness Prevention.' I think whoever made this up, their computer has a glitch in the autocorrect."
"There's no error," Andrew said, still warmly, though some weariness had entered his voice. "We are indeed the Quinton J. Bromberg Society for Suicide Awareness Prevention. I know, most people expect it to be 'suicide prevention awareness,' but we're the other way 'round."
"Wait," Floyd said, confused, "you guys try to get be people to commit suicide?! That's horrible!"
"Not at all," Andrew said, the exhaustion in his voice belying the fact that this was not his first time having this conversation. "We work to prevent the public from being aware that suicide exists at all. When Mr. Bromberg passed away, he left instructions in his will that a sizable portion of his substantial wealth should go to establish this nonprofit. So, we do our best to fulfill his wishes.
"To be clear," Andrew added, "we don't lie to anyone or try to convince anyone that suicide doesn't happen. Instead, we target individuals who have never heard of suicide to begin with and work to keep it that way."
"Are you sure he didn't make a mistake when writing his will?" Floyd asked, trying to make sense of what he was hearing.
"That," Andrew said, as if by rote, "is almost certainly the case. After speaking with his widow and those who knew him, we are quite certain that Mr. Bromberg simply mistyped his wishes in his will. Unfortunately, our lawyers have made it very clear that we must uphold the wording as it appears in his last will and testament."
"That's awful," Floyd said, surprised by his own candidness. "I mean," he stumbled, trying to recover, "I'm surprised that your entire organization is founded on a mistake. Why is his family not fighting it?"
"Oh, they are," Andrew said, sounding a bit more cheerful. "Particularly his widow. I hope she succeeds and shuts us down. Do you have any idea how hard it is to prevent people from learning about suicide? It's basically impossible."
"Why not just shut down your organization on your own?" offered Floyd. "Why wait for Mrs. Bromberg to do it?"
"The founding of this society was a stipulation for other charities to receive funding," Andrew said, the weariness in voice growing again. "If we close our doors, several actually worthwhile groups will have to pay back their funds. At least, until Mary Ellen wins her case and is able to convince a judge that this organization exists against her late husband's wishes. I believe the next hearing is in about four months, so, fingers crossed!"
Floyd thought about what he'd been hearing, his initial shock replaced with sympathy. And by the sound in his voice, Andrew had had to explain this same story plenty of times already. Instead of being angry, he felt sorry for the guy.
"That sounds rough," he offered lamely. "Well, I guess I've got what I need. I'll print up these brochures and send them to the address we have on file. Sorry to bother you."
"It's fine," Andrew said, sighing slightly. "I'm used to it."
Showing posts with label surreal. Show all posts
Showing posts with label surreal. Show all posts
Monday, March 16, 2020
Monday, March 2, 2020
Summons
Brian returned the contents of his jeans' pockets as he walked away from the security detail at the entrance of the courthouse. Since this was his first time going to jury duty since moving to his new place, he wasn't sure where he needed to go. He pulled the summons from his jacket pocket to see if he could decipher the instructions now that he was physically in the building, but it was no use. Brian looked around for someone he could ask for help and saw a woman behind a desk a little ways away, just in front of the elevators. Brian walked towards her.
"Um, excuse me," Brian said to the young woman sitting behind the desk. She appeared to be in her early twenties, had dark hair pulled back in a tight ponytail, and was wearing a plain yet professional-looking blouse. "Can you…?" he started, but paused. The woman's breathing was labored, she had a far-off look in her eyes, and she had a light sheen of sweat on her face despite the cool temperature of the lobby. "Are you okay?"
"What they don't tell you," the woman said breathlessly, not making eye contact with Brian, "is that a small order of cheesy breadsticks is still supposed to be for, like, four people." Brian looked down at the desk and saw a large, greasy piece of waxed paper laid out, showing the crumby remnants of, apparently, a small order of cheesy breadsticks.
"I'm here for jury duty," Brian said, cutting to the chase.
"You're in the right place," she replied, still slightly out of breath and still staring off into space.
"Right," Brian said slowly, trying to keep his cool. "Where do I go next?"
"What's your summons say?" she asked, raising her head to face Brian, though with her eyes closed.
"I don't know," Brian replied, the annoyance in his voice becoming more obvious. "I couldn't make sense of it."
"Let's see it" the woman said, extending her hand but keeping her eyes closed. Brian handed the paper to her and she finally opened her eyes to examine it. As soon as she laid her eyes on the paper, she held it back up to Brian. "This isn't your summons: it's the instructions that came with your summons. Did you bring your actual summons with you?"
"Look," Brian said, fed up with this woman’s behavior, "I couldn't make sense of the terrible instructions, but I brought the piece of paper that actually has 'summons' printed across the top. Now you’re telling me that the summons is the one without 'summons' on it?"
"Sir," the woman said a bit condescendingly, finally making eye contact, "there's no need to get an attitude."
Brian closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "Since I don't have the summons," he asked, looking back at the woman, "what do I do?"
"You'll need to go subbasement C and get a replacement summons," the woman said with what seemed to Brian to be a sarcastic smile. She gestured behind her. "You can take the elevators or," pointing behind Brian, "the stairs. Have a nice day."
Hoping that walking would help him blow off steam, Brian took the stairs.
After six flights—a main level, two basement levels, a garage level, and two subbasement levels—Brian finally arrived at the highly anticipated subbasement C. While the walk had helped him cool down a little, he was still pretty annoyed. Opening the heavy door that separated the stairwell from the rest of the floor, the first thing Brian noticed was the faint smell: stale booze mixed with just a hint of bleach. An outdoor public bathroom on a hot day is far worse, but it still wasn't something he was prepared for. He stepped out of the stairwell and heard his shoes peel off the sticky floor. Brian looked down and saw a dried puddle below his feet with a disconcerting red color. Trying not to think about what he could be stepping in, he headed down the hall.
Unlike on the main floor or in the stairwell, the fluorescent lights of subbasement C had a sickeningly green tint to them. Plus, it seemed like every fifth light was flickering. Along with the smell and the sound of his shoes, still sticky from the mysterious puddle, it all made for a truly unnerving experience.
Brian stopped in front of a room directory to see where he needed to go. Some of the letters had fallen off and laid on the ground. According to the sign, only four rooms were on subbasement C: A chives I, Arch s II, rchives I I, and Sum ons Rei sue. Thankfully, the room numbers were intact, so Brian headed down the hall looking for room C-13.
After walking for several minutes, Brian reached room C-13. Except, there were two C-13s: C-13a and C-13b. The doors faced each other from either sides of the hall. Not sure what else to do, he opened the door to C-13a. Well, he tried to open the door, but it was locked. So was C-13b. Shaking his head in confusion, Brian knocked on b and then a. No answer.
Just as Brian was turning to walk back towards the stairs, C-13b's door opened. An elderly man with thinning hair; thick, black-rimmed glasses; and wild, unkempt eyebrows poked his head out. He did not look happy.
"Yeah?" the man demanded. "What do you want?"
"I need my summons reissued," Brian blurted out, wanting to just have this day over with.
"You need room C-13 down the hall," the elder man said, pointing with his thumb farther down the hall. He started to close the door, but Brian stuck in his toe in and held it open.
"Isn't this room C-13b?" Brian asked, confused.
"Yeah," the man said in a patronizing tone through the small opening, "and C-13 is down the hall. Now if you don't mind…" The man pointedly looked at Brian's foot.
"Fine," Brian said, retracting the appendage. The door closed immediately and a click indicated the lock sliding in place.
Brian continued down the hall, looking, once again, for C-13. Fortunately, he soon found it about fifty feet from where he had spoken to the elderly gentleman. He tried the doorknob and, miraculously, it wasn't locked. Relieved, he opened the door and stepped through.
And down. The room was about one step lower than the hall.
"Aaagh!!" Brian screamed, barely catching his balance before he fell on his face. Something inside him snapped. He was beyond frustrated, beyond angry, beyond furious. He didn't know what to label what he was feeling, but he knew he was losing the grip on his sanity.
"Can I help you?" a concerned voice called out. Brian looked up to see a middle-aged woman with short, red hair and blue, horn-rimmed glasses standing behind a counter.
Brian looked at the woman, his breathing heavy. "Summons reissue," he said tersely. "Can you help me?"
"Certainly," she said turning towards the computer on the counter. "I just need to see your driver's license." Brian fished his wallet out of the back pocket of his jeans, pulled out his license, and laid it on the counter. The woman picked up and paused. "Is this your current address?" she asked after a few seconds.
"Yes," Brian replied. "I moved there about a year-and-a-half ago."
"Hmm," the woman said as she typed something into her computer. "It looks like there's been an error," she said at last. “You're outside this court's jurisdiction, so apparently you were issued your original summons by mistake."
"Does that mean I can leave?" Brian asked, barely concealing his excitement.
"It does," the woman said, nodding.
Brian was so relieved, he nearly collapsed on the floor. After so much trouble, so much discomfort, so much Sisyphean effort, he was finally free from this personal hell. With a sign of relief and smile on his face, Brian turned to leave.
"Sir," the woman said behind him, "you'll be issued your release as soon as you visit the Service Release department on the fifth floor.”
Brian stared at the woman. Of course this miserable trip wasn't over yet; that would be too easy! "I'm sorry?" he finally managed to get out.
"You need to be released from service today or you'll be issued a fine." The woman pulled a sheet of paper from an unseen shelf below the counter and held out it out to Brian. He hesitated. Maybe if he didn't take the sheet, the woman would take care of it for him and he could just leave. Eventually, the inevitable happened: Brian took the paper. After all, she was a seasoned professional in torment and he was merely her latest victim.
"Fifth floor?" Brian asked, a shell of the man he was when entered the building that morning.
"That's right," the woman said with a smile. "Have a nice day."
"Um, excuse me," Brian said to the young woman sitting behind the desk. She appeared to be in her early twenties, had dark hair pulled back in a tight ponytail, and was wearing a plain yet professional-looking blouse. "Can you…?" he started, but paused. The woman's breathing was labored, she had a far-off look in her eyes, and she had a light sheen of sweat on her face despite the cool temperature of the lobby. "Are you okay?"
"What they don't tell you," the woman said breathlessly, not making eye contact with Brian, "is that a small order of cheesy breadsticks is still supposed to be for, like, four people." Brian looked down at the desk and saw a large, greasy piece of waxed paper laid out, showing the crumby remnants of, apparently, a small order of cheesy breadsticks.
"I'm here for jury duty," Brian said, cutting to the chase.
"You're in the right place," she replied, still slightly out of breath and still staring off into space.
"Right," Brian said slowly, trying to keep his cool. "Where do I go next?"
"What's your summons say?" she asked, raising her head to face Brian, though with her eyes closed.
"I don't know," Brian replied, the annoyance in his voice becoming more obvious. "I couldn't make sense of it."
"Let's see it" the woman said, extending her hand but keeping her eyes closed. Brian handed the paper to her and she finally opened her eyes to examine it. As soon as she laid her eyes on the paper, she held it back up to Brian. "This isn't your summons: it's the instructions that came with your summons. Did you bring your actual summons with you?"
"Look," Brian said, fed up with this woman’s behavior, "I couldn't make sense of the terrible instructions, but I brought the piece of paper that actually has 'summons' printed across the top. Now you’re telling me that the summons is the one without 'summons' on it?"
"Sir," the woman said a bit condescendingly, finally making eye contact, "there's no need to get an attitude."
Brian closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "Since I don't have the summons," he asked, looking back at the woman, "what do I do?"
"You'll need to go subbasement C and get a replacement summons," the woman said with what seemed to Brian to be a sarcastic smile. She gestured behind her. "You can take the elevators or," pointing behind Brian, "the stairs. Have a nice day."
Hoping that walking would help him blow off steam, Brian took the stairs.
After six flights—a main level, two basement levels, a garage level, and two subbasement levels—Brian finally arrived at the highly anticipated subbasement C. While the walk had helped him cool down a little, he was still pretty annoyed. Opening the heavy door that separated the stairwell from the rest of the floor, the first thing Brian noticed was the faint smell: stale booze mixed with just a hint of bleach. An outdoor public bathroom on a hot day is far worse, but it still wasn't something he was prepared for. He stepped out of the stairwell and heard his shoes peel off the sticky floor. Brian looked down and saw a dried puddle below his feet with a disconcerting red color. Trying not to think about what he could be stepping in, he headed down the hall.
Unlike on the main floor or in the stairwell, the fluorescent lights of subbasement C had a sickeningly green tint to them. Plus, it seemed like every fifth light was flickering. Along with the smell and the sound of his shoes, still sticky from the mysterious puddle, it all made for a truly unnerving experience.
Brian stopped in front of a room directory to see where he needed to go. Some of the letters had fallen off and laid on the ground. According to the sign, only four rooms were on subbasement C: A chives I, Arch s II, rchives I I, and Sum ons Rei sue. Thankfully, the room numbers were intact, so Brian headed down the hall looking for room C-13.
After walking for several minutes, Brian reached room C-13. Except, there were two C-13s: C-13a and C-13b. The doors faced each other from either sides of the hall. Not sure what else to do, he opened the door to C-13a. Well, he tried to open the door, but it was locked. So was C-13b. Shaking his head in confusion, Brian knocked on b and then a. No answer.
Just as Brian was turning to walk back towards the stairs, C-13b's door opened. An elderly man with thinning hair; thick, black-rimmed glasses; and wild, unkempt eyebrows poked his head out. He did not look happy.
"Yeah?" the man demanded. "What do you want?"
"I need my summons reissued," Brian blurted out, wanting to just have this day over with.
"You need room C-13 down the hall," the elder man said, pointing with his thumb farther down the hall. He started to close the door, but Brian stuck in his toe in and held it open.
"Isn't this room C-13b?" Brian asked, confused.
"Yeah," the man said in a patronizing tone through the small opening, "and C-13 is down the hall. Now if you don't mind…" The man pointedly looked at Brian's foot.
"Fine," Brian said, retracting the appendage. The door closed immediately and a click indicated the lock sliding in place.
Brian continued down the hall, looking, once again, for C-13. Fortunately, he soon found it about fifty feet from where he had spoken to the elderly gentleman. He tried the doorknob and, miraculously, it wasn't locked. Relieved, he opened the door and stepped through.
And down. The room was about one step lower than the hall.
"Aaagh!!" Brian screamed, barely catching his balance before he fell on his face. Something inside him snapped. He was beyond frustrated, beyond angry, beyond furious. He didn't know what to label what he was feeling, but he knew he was losing the grip on his sanity.
"Can I help you?" a concerned voice called out. Brian looked up to see a middle-aged woman with short, red hair and blue, horn-rimmed glasses standing behind a counter.
Brian looked at the woman, his breathing heavy. "Summons reissue," he said tersely. "Can you help me?"
"Certainly," she said turning towards the computer on the counter. "I just need to see your driver's license." Brian fished his wallet out of the back pocket of his jeans, pulled out his license, and laid it on the counter. The woman picked up and paused. "Is this your current address?" she asked after a few seconds.
"Yes," Brian replied. "I moved there about a year-and-a-half ago."
"Hmm," the woman said as she typed something into her computer. "It looks like there's been an error," she said at last. “You're outside this court's jurisdiction, so apparently you were issued your original summons by mistake."
"Does that mean I can leave?" Brian asked, barely concealing his excitement.
"It does," the woman said, nodding.
Brian was so relieved, he nearly collapsed on the floor. After so much trouble, so much discomfort, so much Sisyphean effort, he was finally free from this personal hell. With a sign of relief and smile on his face, Brian turned to leave.
"Sir," the woman said behind him, "you'll be issued your release as soon as you visit the Service Release department on the fifth floor.”
Brian stared at the woman. Of course this miserable trip wasn't over yet; that would be too easy! "I'm sorry?" he finally managed to get out.
"You need to be released from service today or you'll be issued a fine." The woman pulled a sheet of paper from an unseen shelf below the counter and held out it out to Brian. He hesitated. Maybe if he didn't take the sheet, the woman would take care of it for him and he could just leave. Eventually, the inevitable happened: Brian took the paper. After all, she was a seasoned professional in torment and he was merely her latest victim.
"Fifth floor?" Brian asked, a shell of the man he was when entered the building that morning.
"That's right," the woman said with a smile. "Have a nice day."
Monday, February 17, 2020
The Solution
The goat stared blankly ahead—or at least as best as it could with its eyes on the sides of its head—and occupied itself by chewing on some grass near the post it was tied to. Gregor carefully untied the rope from the post and led the goat to the nearby altar.
Once at the altar, Gregor put the goat in a headlock and, leaning in hard with his substantial bodyweight, swung the goat to the ground. Startled, the goat started bleating and kicking in protest, though Gregor was experienced enough to avoid the worst of the animal's flails. Kneeling on the goat to keep it from escaping, Gregor wrangled with its legs—first the back, then the front—and tied them together with thick twine. With its limbs immobilized, Gregor lifted the animal and gently placed it in the center of the altar.
While the animal wrestling was the most physically demanding part of the process, it was straightforward. The next step was always a bit trickier, at least Gregor thought so. He lit the candles that were placed at strategic points on the outer edge of the round altar. The light of the flames danced warmly, invitingly, against the dark wood of the altar. He walked back to the nearby fence, pulled on the waiting black robe, and raised the hood, which almost completely covered his face.
Back at the altar, Gregor bent down to reach the shelf underneath, rising again a moment later holding a ceremonial dagger. The golden hilt was encrusted with gemstones and the blade, which was nearly as long as his forearm, gleamed in the candlelight.
Gregor moved into position near the goat’s head—it was still trying to wiggle out of its bonds, though it wasn't finding any success. Clutching the dagger in both hands, Gregor closed his eyes and spoke quietly, his voice just above a whisper.
"Domine, occidere est creatura. Confirma me: et quo reo hominem et impleta est vita!"
As the final words left his lips, Gregor held the goat's head still with his left hand and sliced its throat with the blade in his right. Blood gushed out from the animal's neck, flowing to the edges of the altar and spilling onto the ground below. The goat tried bleating again, but its larynx had been severed, so the only sound it made was an unsettling gurgling as the life drained out of it. In less than a minute, the creature was dead.
With the sacrifice complete, Gregor carefully pulled the robe over his head, turning it inside out as he removed it—keeping any blood that splattered on the robe—before walking back to the fence. Once at the fence, he placed the robe across the top rung before walking around the edge of the altar, blowing out each candle as he reached it. With the goat lying in its gore and the candles extinguished, Gregor lifted the latch that held the gate closed and stepped through.
Outside of the fenced area, Gregor walked out the door of the shed and closed it behind him. Back in the sunshine, Gregor did a quick inspection of his clothes for any stray blood. Finding none, he made his way up the hill. As he walked, he grumbled softly to himself, complaining about the heat of the day. At the hill's summit, he pulled his name badge out of his shirt pocket and swiped it across the RFID reader. After a beep and an audible click, Gregor pulled open the door and walked into the office building.
Back in his office, Gregor found that the laptop he had been working on and turned it on—it still wasn't connecting to WIFI. He grumbled annoyedly and picked up his desk phone. He pulled a Post-it Note off of the laptop and dialed the four-digit extension number written on it.
"Hello," the voice on the other end said, "this is Michael."
"Hey, Michael," Gregor replied. "This is Greg from IT. I'm sorry, but I wasn't able to fix your laptop. I'll have to order you a new one."
"Aw, really?" Michael asked disappointedly. "There isn't anything else you can try?"
"Believe me," Gregor said, sighing slightly. "I've tried absolutely every possible solution."
Once at the altar, Gregor put the goat in a headlock and, leaning in hard with his substantial bodyweight, swung the goat to the ground. Startled, the goat started bleating and kicking in protest, though Gregor was experienced enough to avoid the worst of the animal's flails. Kneeling on the goat to keep it from escaping, Gregor wrangled with its legs—first the back, then the front—and tied them together with thick twine. With its limbs immobilized, Gregor lifted the animal and gently placed it in the center of the altar.
While the animal wrestling was the most physically demanding part of the process, it was straightforward. The next step was always a bit trickier, at least Gregor thought so. He lit the candles that were placed at strategic points on the outer edge of the round altar. The light of the flames danced warmly, invitingly, against the dark wood of the altar. He walked back to the nearby fence, pulled on the waiting black robe, and raised the hood, which almost completely covered his face.
Back at the altar, Gregor bent down to reach the shelf underneath, rising again a moment later holding a ceremonial dagger. The golden hilt was encrusted with gemstones and the blade, which was nearly as long as his forearm, gleamed in the candlelight.
Gregor moved into position near the goat’s head—it was still trying to wiggle out of its bonds, though it wasn't finding any success. Clutching the dagger in both hands, Gregor closed his eyes and spoke quietly, his voice just above a whisper.
"Domine, occidere est creatura. Confirma me: et quo reo hominem et impleta est vita!"
As the final words left his lips, Gregor held the goat's head still with his left hand and sliced its throat with the blade in his right. Blood gushed out from the animal's neck, flowing to the edges of the altar and spilling onto the ground below. The goat tried bleating again, but its larynx had been severed, so the only sound it made was an unsettling gurgling as the life drained out of it. In less than a minute, the creature was dead.
With the sacrifice complete, Gregor carefully pulled the robe over his head, turning it inside out as he removed it—keeping any blood that splattered on the robe—before walking back to the fence. Once at the fence, he placed the robe across the top rung before walking around the edge of the altar, blowing out each candle as he reached it. With the goat lying in its gore and the candles extinguished, Gregor lifted the latch that held the gate closed and stepped through.
Outside of the fenced area, Gregor walked out the door of the shed and closed it behind him. Back in the sunshine, Gregor did a quick inspection of his clothes for any stray blood. Finding none, he made his way up the hill. As he walked, he grumbled softly to himself, complaining about the heat of the day. At the hill's summit, he pulled his name badge out of his shirt pocket and swiped it across the RFID reader. After a beep and an audible click, Gregor pulled open the door and walked into the office building.
Back in his office, Gregor found that the laptop he had been working on and turned it on—it still wasn't connecting to WIFI. He grumbled annoyedly and picked up his desk phone. He pulled a Post-it Note off of the laptop and dialed the four-digit extension number written on it.
"Hello," the voice on the other end said, "this is Michael."
"Hey, Michael," Gregor replied. "This is Greg from IT. I'm sorry, but I wasn't able to fix your laptop. I'll have to order you a new one."
"Aw, really?" Michael asked disappointedly. "There isn't anything else you can try?"
"Believe me," Gregor said, sighing slightly. "I've tried absolutely every possible solution."
Monday, February 3, 2020
Lunchtime
"Hey, Charlie," Ralph said as his coworker took a seat next to him.
"Hiya, Ralph," Charlie said, putting his brown paper lunch sack on the cafeteria table.
"Whatcha got for lunch today?" Ralph asked, making conversation.
"Pastrami on rye," Charlie said as he pulled a sandwich, still wrapped in butcher paper from the deli, from the sack.
"Nice!" Ralph said, nodding his head enthusiastically. "You go to Petrucci's?"
"Nah," Charlie said as he unwrapped his sandwich. "Went to a deli that Rick recommended. Some place called Applegate's."
"Never heard of 'em," Ralph said, picking at his reheated meatloaf leftovers. "They new?"
"I guess," Charlie said, shrugging. He picked up one half of his sandwich, which had been cut diagonally, and took a bite. The sandwich was stacked high with thinly sliced meat and included spicy brown mustard and a healthy portion of sauerkraut. Even though the sandwich had been made about ten minutes prior, the meat was still warm, the toppings still cool, and the bread wasn’t the least bit soggy.
Ralph watched as Charlie bit into the sandwich, envious of his friend’s lunch. However, as Charlie took the first bite, he change: the color drained from his face and dark circles surrounded his eyes, his fingertips turned a ghastly gray and his nails nearly black, his dark brown hair darkened until it was jet black, and his normally plump build shrank until he was gaunt and his cheeks were sunken in. The change was complete almost instantly.
Ralph, not believing what he was seeing, blinked hard. When he opened his eyes, Charlie looked normal again.
"You feelin' okay?" Ralph asked.
"Yeah, why?" Charlie said, his mouth full.
"This is gonna sound crazy," Ralph said, "but you looked like you died for a second."
"Oh, that," Charlie said, nodding to himself. "So, the thing with Applegate's is, by eating their food, I've sold my everlasting soul to the devil and will spend all of eternity being tortured in hell."
Ralph's eyebrows shot up in shock. "You sold your soul for a sandwich?"
Charlie nodded as he took another bite.
"Was it worth it?" asked Ralph, still in shock. "How's the sandwich?"
"I'm not gonna lie," Charlie said between chews, "this is one killer sandwich. I'll probably go there again tomorrow."
Ralph stared at his now-damned friend, his eyes wide with disbelief. He shook his head and looked back at his own lunch. After a moment, he looked back at Charlie, who was clearly enjoying his lunch.
Ralph asked: "Mind picking me up one?"
"Hiya, Ralph," Charlie said, putting his brown paper lunch sack on the cafeteria table.
"Whatcha got for lunch today?" Ralph asked, making conversation.
"Pastrami on rye," Charlie said as he pulled a sandwich, still wrapped in butcher paper from the deli, from the sack.
"Nice!" Ralph said, nodding his head enthusiastically. "You go to Petrucci's?"
"Nah," Charlie said as he unwrapped his sandwich. "Went to a deli that Rick recommended. Some place called Applegate's."
"Never heard of 'em," Ralph said, picking at his reheated meatloaf leftovers. "They new?"
"I guess," Charlie said, shrugging. He picked up one half of his sandwich, which had been cut diagonally, and took a bite. The sandwich was stacked high with thinly sliced meat and included spicy brown mustard and a healthy portion of sauerkraut. Even though the sandwich had been made about ten minutes prior, the meat was still warm, the toppings still cool, and the bread wasn’t the least bit soggy.
Ralph watched as Charlie bit into the sandwich, envious of his friend’s lunch. However, as Charlie took the first bite, he change: the color drained from his face and dark circles surrounded his eyes, his fingertips turned a ghastly gray and his nails nearly black, his dark brown hair darkened until it was jet black, and his normally plump build shrank until he was gaunt and his cheeks were sunken in. The change was complete almost instantly.
Ralph, not believing what he was seeing, blinked hard. When he opened his eyes, Charlie looked normal again.
"You feelin' okay?" Ralph asked.
"Yeah, why?" Charlie said, his mouth full.
"This is gonna sound crazy," Ralph said, "but you looked like you died for a second."
"Oh, that," Charlie said, nodding to himself. "So, the thing with Applegate's is, by eating their food, I've sold my everlasting soul to the devil and will spend all of eternity being tortured in hell."
Ralph's eyebrows shot up in shock. "You sold your soul for a sandwich?"
Charlie nodded as he took another bite.
"Was it worth it?" asked Ralph, still in shock. "How's the sandwich?"
"I'm not gonna lie," Charlie said between chews, "this is one killer sandwich. I'll probably go there again tomorrow."
Ralph stared at his now-damned friend, his eyes wide with disbelief. He shook his head and looked back at his own lunch. After a moment, he looked back at Charlie, who was clearly enjoying his lunch.
Ralph asked: "Mind picking me up one?"
Tuesday, May 8, 2018
Stand-in
"Derek!" Cammy squealed excitedly over the phone. "I just won tickets to see Irony in concert!"
"Are you kidding me?!" Derek replied, his excitement nearly as high as his girlfriend's. "How'd you win them?"
"It was one of those radio call-in things," Cammy said, still excited but calming down a little. "I was caller five or seven or whatever. I never thought I'd have a chance, but I won!"
"That's awesome!" Derek said, genuinely impressed. "Her shows have been sold out for weeks. When are the tickets for, tomorrow or Sunday?"
"Uh, that's the thing," Cammy said. "The tickets are for tonight."
"Babe," Derek said, suddenly serious. "You know that we have that work dinner tonight. My boss is expecting you to be there."
"Just tell him what happened," Cammy said. "It's not like we planned for me to miss it."
"It's not that easy," Derek said. "I've told you how he talks about the importance of being supported by a significant other. I really need you to be there for me tonight."
"I'm sure it's not that bad," Cammy said.
"No, it really is," Derek said, panic creeping into his voice. "The last guy who didn't bring his girlfriend to one of these dinners was fired less than a month later. If you don’t come tonight, you're basically writing my pink slip."
"Okay," Cammy said, thinking. "Elly from my Thursday morning class told me about a service for just this sort of thing."
"What, fake girlfriends?" Derek asked sarcastically.
"Actually," Cammy said, "yeah. Elly was recovering from what she says was a sprained ankle but I'm pretty sure it was a calf reduction procedure and her fiancé had to meet with the minister who's going to perform their ceremony. She called up this place and said they sent a girl over to fill in for her."
"What you're describing is an escort service," Derek said a little condescendingly.
"That's what I said," Cammy said, ignoring her boyfriend’s tone, "but the girl who took her place was actually doing an impersonation. Like, she wore a wig and talked like her. Elly said that her fiancé was weirded out by how much this fake girlfriend acted like her."
"I don’t know if I'm comfortable with this, Cam," Derek said apprehensively. "My job could be in danger."
"It'll be fine," Cammy said dismissively. "I'll call them and set it all up. They need to interview me or whatever to know how to act and sound like me. I got Bethany to cover my classes, so I'm going home to get ready for the concert. I'll text you if there are any problems, but I'm sure it'll be fine."
"Okay," Derek said, still not really convinced but not seeing an alternative. "Who are you taking to the concert?"
"My cousin, Gina," Cammy said. "Babe, I need to go. I'll call you after the concert. Good luck!"
"Thanks," Derek said, accepting his fate. "Have fun." He hung up his phone. He sat at his desk, staring at his cell phone in his hand, not sure if the conversation he had just had was real. He decided to just get back to work, though his concentration was shot for the day. Still, he was able to approve a few budgets and write some emails before five o’clock.
As he was gathering up his stuff to leave, Derek got a text from Cammy:
The stand in is going to meet you at your place at 615
XOXO
"Stand-in" sounded better than "fake girlfriend," Derek thought. That's probably what the company calls their girls. It still seemed like an escort service, but a least one that's trying to look legit. He packed his laptop into his messenger bag and went home.
By 6:00, Derek was freshly shaved, dressed in his suit, and ready to go, which made the wait for the stand-in all the more nerve-racking. He sat on the couch, distractedly reading a news article on his phone. After what seemed like an eternity, the intercom buzzed at 6:11. Derek jumped up, walked over to the door, and pressed the button to talk.
"H-hello?" he said, lamely.
"It's me, Cammy," said the voice through the speaker. She must have forgotten something, Derek thought as he hit the button to let her into the building. Holding the button down, he realized that even if she had forgotten something, Cammy has a key to his apartment. Maybe she forgot her keys, he reasoned. She's done that before.
About a minute later, Cammy walked in, wearing a formfitting black dress that he hadn't seen before. Except, it wasn't Cammy. No, this woman was an inch or two taller and had hair that was a touch darker than Cammy's platinum blonde. On closer look, her blue eyes were slightly darker and closer together, her nose was a bit longer, and her lips were a bit thinner. Still, Derek had been fooled for a second and he and Cammy had been dating for nearly a year. It was probably close enough to fool his boss for the evening. He decided to test the stand-in.
"Hi, Cammy," Derek said, extending his hand.
"What are you doing?" the stand-in said in a perfect Cammy voice before hugging him and kissing him on the cheek. Derek pulled away from the kiss, but the stand-in held onto him.
"We need to act perfectly normal tonight, don't you agree, honey?" stand-in Cammy said pointedly. Derek moved back into the hug, but didn't kiss her back.
"I think I might be coming down with something and I don't want you to get it," he said.
"Good thinking," she said knowingly. "You're so sweet to think of me like that. Better make sure not to shake anyone's hand tonight then."
"Right…" Derek said, nodding. This might actually work, he thought. He pulled away from the hug again and this time, stand-in Cammy let him go. "Ready to go?"
"Absolutely," she said.
The car ride over was surprisingly pleasant. This stand-in Cammy seemed just like the real thing and more than once, Derek forgot that he wasn't talking to his girlfriend. While some of her mannerisms weren't exactly right, Derek was still impressed. What kinds of questions had Cammy been asked to gain this level of insight into her life?
Once at the restaurant, Derek used the valet service and joined stand-in Cammy where she was standing in front on the sidewalk. She wrapped her arms around herself, reacting to the cold night air. Derek put an arm around her shoulders, protecting her from the chill.
"Thanks, baby," stand-in Cammy said, turning towards him. "You're so thoughtful." He realized that her perfume was the same as the real Cammy's, though it subtler, as if stand-in Cammy hadn't bathed in it like the real Cammy often did. It was a nice change.
Inside, Derek took advantage of the cocktail hour and began introducing Cammy to his coworkers. Once again, he was impressed with how quickly she responded with accurate information. At least, it sounded accurate. For the first time, Derek realized that he didn't know that much about his girlfriend. Did she teach yoga or spinning classes? He knew that she spent her day at the gym as an instructor, but doing what? And he knew she was from somewhere near Los Angeles, but he couldn't recall the actual name of the city. Cerritos sounded like a real place, so if the stand-in was making up facts, she was doing a good job.
When stand-in Cammy talked to Alexis from marketing, she seemed to know an awful lot about camping. Was that how the real Cammy would have responded? Had Cammy gone on camping trips with her family before her parents split up? Derek was ashamed to admit to himself that he simply didn't know.
When they were all called into the dining room for dinner, George from accounting walked up beside Derek as they went inside. "Nice to finally meet Cammy after all this time," he said.
"Thanks," Derek said, a bit distracted—learning you don't know some as well as you thought takes time to process. "Where's Meredith?" he asked, snapping out of it. "I haven't seen her yet."
"She couldn't make it," George said, a little disappointed. "Her sister is visiting and the two of them are at the Irony concert."
"Wait," Derek said, suddenly worried, "aren't you afraid of losing your job if Meredith isn't here?"
"No," George answer, a little confused, "why would I be?"
"Saunders is always going on about being supported by his wife and how we all need to have someone in our lives who supports us," Derek explained. "Plus, Carlos got fired last year after he didn't bring his girlfriend with him to this dinner."
"That's why you think Carlos was fired?" George asked, "No, he slept with Bill's wife. At this dinner last year, I think."
"What?!" Derek asked, shocked. "Then why is Bill always going on about being supported by Carol?"
"Not sure," George said, shrugging. "Maybe he's putting on a good face or maybe he's trying to convince himself. Either way, I'm pretty sure he hasn't fired anyone simply because their spouse or whatever didn't come to some dinner."
Suddenly, Derek was aware of the fact that he had no idea how much he was paying for the stand-in. When his job was on the line, the price didn’t seem to matter, but now that he knew he could have come stag, the price of what amounted to a private performance by a skilled actress seemed like it would be awfully expensive.
Derek found the stand-in sitting at a table and took the seat next to her, leaning in he whispered in her ear, "I think you should go. You don't feel well."
"Babe, I feel fine," stand-in Cammy said, brushing him off.
"You should still go," Derek continued undeterred. "Your services are no longer required. I'll call you a cab."
This time, stand-in Cammy leaned in and whispered in Derek’s ear. "Won't it look weird if I leave right as we sit down to eat? Wouldn't it look much more believable if I suddenly don't feel well after eating?"
Derek had to admit that she had a good point. He nodded his agreement and leaned back in his chair, dreading his future credit card statement. The catering crew began distributing salad plates and Derek tried to at least enjoy the meal.
When the dessert plates were being passed out after the main course, Bill Saunders, CEO and President of Saunders International, stood up to say a few words.
"Thank you for coming," he said into the wireless microphone one of his aides handed him. "As you know, I strive for our company to excel in the many fields we're currently engaged. But I also know that it's important to be appreciated. That's why I make sure that we have this dinner every year: to let you know that I appreciate all of your hard work. And not just you, but your significant others, too. I wouldn't be the man I am today if it wasn't for my wife, Carol. And through it all, she's been by my side, staying faithful and true.
"I always go on and on about Carol's importance in my life," Bill continued, "so I'd like you all to hear from her now. Would you please give her a round of applause?" The crowd obliged and politely clapped as Carol Baxter-Saunders stood up and took the mic from her husband. Derek saw that instead of applauding, stand-in Cammy was on her phone. Was that like the real Cammy, Derek thought? She was on her phone a lot, he had to admit, but he thought that she would know better than to text during his boss' speech.
"Thanks, Bill," Carol spoke into the mic. "This has been a big year, both for this company and for the Baxter-Saunders family. For Saunders International, we experienced tremendous growth, including expansions into Singapore and Tunisia. For our family, our daughter, Brittany and her husband Joshua have expanded their family by adopting a baby girl, Carlotta. We have been blessed in so many ways and we're happy to be able to share our good fortune with all of you!" The crowd applauded and Carol passed the mic back to Bill, who kissed her gently on the check as he took it from her.
"And with that formality out of the way, let's dance!" The lights immediately dimmed and Irony's dance hit "Influential" started playing. While Derek enjoyed dancing—he had met Cammy while they were dancing at a club—he saw this as his opportunity to leave and avoid a potentially devastating bill. He leaned in to tell stand-in Cammy that they needed to go, but she was already leaning in to talk to him.
"Are you feeling okay?" she asked, speaking loudly over the music and pressing a hand to his forehead. "If you still think you’re coming down with something, maybe we should go?"
I forgot that I said that earlier, Derek thought. She's good.
"Yeah," Derek nearly shouted back, "I'm not doing terrible, but I don't want to push things, you know?"
"Of course," stand-in Cammy said sweetly, slinging her purse strap onto her shoulder.
Back in the car, Derek’s curiosity got the better of him.
"The date's over, right?" he asked rhetorically. "That means you're 'off the clock,' as it were. So, I have to ask: how did you get this job as a stand-in?"
"If I told you," stand-in Cammy said, her voice suddenly deeper and punctuated by a slight New Jersey accent, "you wouldn’t believe me."
"After tonight," Derek said, "I'll believe just about anything."
"Let me put it this way," stand-in Cammy began innocently, "if I told you, I'd have to kill you."
"Seriously?" Derek asked, one eyebrow cocked.
"Of course not," stand-in Cammy said, chuckling a little while digging through her purse, "but I'm not supposed to talk about me. The fact that I'm no longer in character is already breaking the rules. Mind if I vape?" she asked, holding up an electronic cigarette.
"Uh," Derek fumbled, caught off guard, "I guess?"
"Thanks," stand-in Cammy said, putting the vaporizer to her lips.
Derek, shocked again—though this time by how different the stand-in was acting from Cammy—and drove the rest of the way home in silence.
After pulling into his apartment's parking lot, Derek turned to the stand-in, not sure what the next step was.
"So, do you bill me or how does this work?" he asked, lamely.
"Your girlfriend gave the company your credit card information," she replied, her natural voice sounding so strange to Derek. "You'll get charged based on how long we were out and how elaborate the ruse was. I didn't have to wear a prosthetic chin or anything, so the 'elaborate' part won't be too bad."
"If I were to, um, need your services again," Derek said nervously, "how do I get in touch with you?"
"Your girlfriend has the number," the stand-in said, looking down at her phone, "and the company keeps records of all the clients, so just call and say you want the girl you were sent last time."
"Are you not allowed to give me your name?" Derek asked.
"That's up to me," the stand in said, looking up, "but if it's all the same to you, I'd like to keep things professional."
"I'm not going to come looking for you or anything," Derek reassured. "I'm just curious."
"Even so," stand-in Cammy said, putting her phone in her purse, "let's leave some things to the imagination. I just ordered a ride on my phone and they should be here any minute. If you don't mind, I'd rather not go from one car to another."
"Don't want to look too 'professional,'" Derek said.
"Something like that," the stand-in said, nodding. "Now, am I going to have to open my door myself or are you going to end this night like a gentleman?"
"Right," Derek said as he got out of the car and walked around to the passenger side. After opening the door, he extended his hand and helped stand-in Cammy out of the car. Once she stood up, she leaned in to hugged Derek, who didn't resist this time.
"I had a great time, Derek," the stand-in said in Cammy's voice into Derek's ear. "You're important to me, so it was nice to be able to support you."
After her ride picked up the stand-in, Derek walked inside his apartment. He kept thinking about the last thing stand-in Cammy said to him. The real Cammy was more concerned with attending a concert that she won tickets to at the last minute than keeping her promise to him. He almost felt like he preferred the stand-in to than the real Cammy, though having the curtain drawn back a little at the end was unsettling.
Although, Derek reasoned, he had been wrong about needing Cammy at the dinner that night. Still, she didn't know that when she bailed on him for the concert. It turned out that it didn't matter, but as far as Cammy knew, he could have lost his job simply because she wanted to go to see Irony perform. Not that he could blame her: Irony's shows sell out for a reason.
Derek decided to let it go, since his job wasn't in jeopardy. But his date with the stand-in proved that he didn't know Cammy that well. Were they only dating because it was convenient or did they really care about each other? He didn't know, but he wanted to. He pulled out his phone and sent his girlfriend a text.
I left the dinner early and Im probably going to go to bed soon, but I want to see you in the morning and hear all about the concert. Have fun!
I want to hear about more than the concert, Derek thought. I want to hear about everything.
"Are you kidding me?!" Derek replied, his excitement nearly as high as his girlfriend's. "How'd you win them?"
"It was one of those radio call-in things," Cammy said, still excited but calming down a little. "I was caller five or seven or whatever. I never thought I'd have a chance, but I won!"
"That's awesome!" Derek said, genuinely impressed. "Her shows have been sold out for weeks. When are the tickets for, tomorrow or Sunday?"
"Uh, that's the thing," Cammy said. "The tickets are for tonight."
"Babe," Derek said, suddenly serious. "You know that we have that work dinner tonight. My boss is expecting you to be there."
"Just tell him what happened," Cammy said. "It's not like we planned for me to miss it."
"It's not that easy," Derek said. "I've told you how he talks about the importance of being supported by a significant other. I really need you to be there for me tonight."
"I'm sure it's not that bad," Cammy said.
"No, it really is," Derek said, panic creeping into his voice. "The last guy who didn't bring his girlfriend to one of these dinners was fired less than a month later. If you don’t come tonight, you're basically writing my pink slip."
"Okay," Cammy said, thinking. "Elly from my Thursday morning class told me about a service for just this sort of thing."
"What, fake girlfriends?" Derek asked sarcastically.
"Actually," Cammy said, "yeah. Elly was recovering from what she says was a sprained ankle but I'm pretty sure it was a calf reduction procedure and her fiancé had to meet with the minister who's going to perform their ceremony. She called up this place and said they sent a girl over to fill in for her."
"What you're describing is an escort service," Derek said a little condescendingly.
"That's what I said," Cammy said, ignoring her boyfriend’s tone, "but the girl who took her place was actually doing an impersonation. Like, she wore a wig and talked like her. Elly said that her fiancé was weirded out by how much this fake girlfriend acted like her."
"I don’t know if I'm comfortable with this, Cam," Derek said apprehensively. "My job could be in danger."
"It'll be fine," Cammy said dismissively. "I'll call them and set it all up. They need to interview me or whatever to know how to act and sound like me. I got Bethany to cover my classes, so I'm going home to get ready for the concert. I'll text you if there are any problems, but I'm sure it'll be fine."
"Okay," Derek said, still not really convinced but not seeing an alternative. "Who are you taking to the concert?"
"My cousin, Gina," Cammy said. "Babe, I need to go. I'll call you after the concert. Good luck!"
"Thanks," Derek said, accepting his fate. "Have fun." He hung up his phone. He sat at his desk, staring at his cell phone in his hand, not sure if the conversation he had just had was real. He decided to just get back to work, though his concentration was shot for the day. Still, he was able to approve a few budgets and write some emails before five o’clock.
As he was gathering up his stuff to leave, Derek got a text from Cammy:
The stand in is going to meet you at your place at 615
XOXO
"Stand-in" sounded better than "fake girlfriend," Derek thought. That's probably what the company calls their girls. It still seemed like an escort service, but a least one that's trying to look legit. He packed his laptop into his messenger bag and went home.
By 6:00, Derek was freshly shaved, dressed in his suit, and ready to go, which made the wait for the stand-in all the more nerve-racking. He sat on the couch, distractedly reading a news article on his phone. After what seemed like an eternity, the intercom buzzed at 6:11. Derek jumped up, walked over to the door, and pressed the button to talk.
"H-hello?" he said, lamely.
"It's me, Cammy," said the voice through the speaker. She must have forgotten something, Derek thought as he hit the button to let her into the building. Holding the button down, he realized that even if she had forgotten something, Cammy has a key to his apartment. Maybe she forgot her keys, he reasoned. She's done that before.
About a minute later, Cammy walked in, wearing a formfitting black dress that he hadn't seen before. Except, it wasn't Cammy. No, this woman was an inch or two taller and had hair that was a touch darker than Cammy's platinum blonde. On closer look, her blue eyes were slightly darker and closer together, her nose was a bit longer, and her lips were a bit thinner. Still, Derek had been fooled for a second and he and Cammy had been dating for nearly a year. It was probably close enough to fool his boss for the evening. He decided to test the stand-in.
"Hi, Cammy," Derek said, extending his hand.
"What are you doing?" the stand-in said in a perfect Cammy voice before hugging him and kissing him on the cheek. Derek pulled away from the kiss, but the stand-in held onto him.
"We need to act perfectly normal tonight, don't you agree, honey?" stand-in Cammy said pointedly. Derek moved back into the hug, but didn't kiss her back.
"I think I might be coming down with something and I don't want you to get it," he said.
"Good thinking," she said knowingly. "You're so sweet to think of me like that. Better make sure not to shake anyone's hand tonight then."
"Right…" Derek said, nodding. This might actually work, he thought. He pulled away from the hug again and this time, stand-in Cammy let him go. "Ready to go?"
"Absolutely," she said.
The car ride over was surprisingly pleasant. This stand-in Cammy seemed just like the real thing and more than once, Derek forgot that he wasn't talking to his girlfriend. While some of her mannerisms weren't exactly right, Derek was still impressed. What kinds of questions had Cammy been asked to gain this level of insight into her life?
Once at the restaurant, Derek used the valet service and joined stand-in Cammy where she was standing in front on the sidewalk. She wrapped her arms around herself, reacting to the cold night air. Derek put an arm around her shoulders, protecting her from the chill.
"Thanks, baby," stand-in Cammy said, turning towards him. "You're so thoughtful." He realized that her perfume was the same as the real Cammy's, though it subtler, as if stand-in Cammy hadn't bathed in it like the real Cammy often did. It was a nice change.
Inside, Derek took advantage of the cocktail hour and began introducing Cammy to his coworkers. Once again, he was impressed with how quickly she responded with accurate information. At least, it sounded accurate. For the first time, Derek realized that he didn't know that much about his girlfriend. Did she teach yoga or spinning classes? He knew that she spent her day at the gym as an instructor, but doing what? And he knew she was from somewhere near Los Angeles, but he couldn't recall the actual name of the city. Cerritos sounded like a real place, so if the stand-in was making up facts, she was doing a good job.
When stand-in Cammy talked to Alexis from marketing, she seemed to know an awful lot about camping. Was that how the real Cammy would have responded? Had Cammy gone on camping trips with her family before her parents split up? Derek was ashamed to admit to himself that he simply didn't know.
When they were all called into the dining room for dinner, George from accounting walked up beside Derek as they went inside. "Nice to finally meet Cammy after all this time," he said.
"Thanks," Derek said, a bit distracted—learning you don't know some as well as you thought takes time to process. "Where's Meredith?" he asked, snapping out of it. "I haven't seen her yet."
"She couldn't make it," George said, a little disappointed. "Her sister is visiting and the two of them are at the Irony concert."
"Wait," Derek said, suddenly worried, "aren't you afraid of losing your job if Meredith isn't here?"
"No," George answer, a little confused, "why would I be?"
"Saunders is always going on about being supported by his wife and how we all need to have someone in our lives who supports us," Derek explained. "Plus, Carlos got fired last year after he didn't bring his girlfriend with him to this dinner."
"That's why you think Carlos was fired?" George asked, "No, he slept with Bill's wife. At this dinner last year, I think."
"What?!" Derek asked, shocked. "Then why is Bill always going on about being supported by Carol?"
"Not sure," George said, shrugging. "Maybe he's putting on a good face or maybe he's trying to convince himself. Either way, I'm pretty sure he hasn't fired anyone simply because their spouse or whatever didn't come to some dinner."
Suddenly, Derek was aware of the fact that he had no idea how much he was paying for the stand-in. When his job was on the line, the price didn’t seem to matter, but now that he knew he could have come stag, the price of what amounted to a private performance by a skilled actress seemed like it would be awfully expensive.
Derek found the stand-in sitting at a table and took the seat next to her, leaning in he whispered in her ear, "I think you should go. You don't feel well."
"Babe, I feel fine," stand-in Cammy said, brushing him off.
"You should still go," Derek continued undeterred. "Your services are no longer required. I'll call you a cab."
This time, stand-in Cammy leaned in and whispered in Derek’s ear. "Won't it look weird if I leave right as we sit down to eat? Wouldn't it look much more believable if I suddenly don't feel well after eating?"
Derek had to admit that she had a good point. He nodded his agreement and leaned back in his chair, dreading his future credit card statement. The catering crew began distributing salad plates and Derek tried to at least enjoy the meal.
When the dessert plates were being passed out after the main course, Bill Saunders, CEO and President of Saunders International, stood up to say a few words.
"Thank you for coming," he said into the wireless microphone one of his aides handed him. "As you know, I strive for our company to excel in the many fields we're currently engaged. But I also know that it's important to be appreciated. That's why I make sure that we have this dinner every year: to let you know that I appreciate all of your hard work. And not just you, but your significant others, too. I wouldn't be the man I am today if it wasn't for my wife, Carol. And through it all, she's been by my side, staying faithful and true.
"I always go on and on about Carol's importance in my life," Bill continued, "so I'd like you all to hear from her now. Would you please give her a round of applause?" The crowd obliged and politely clapped as Carol Baxter-Saunders stood up and took the mic from her husband. Derek saw that instead of applauding, stand-in Cammy was on her phone. Was that like the real Cammy, Derek thought? She was on her phone a lot, he had to admit, but he thought that she would know better than to text during his boss' speech.
"Thanks, Bill," Carol spoke into the mic. "This has been a big year, both for this company and for the Baxter-Saunders family. For Saunders International, we experienced tremendous growth, including expansions into Singapore and Tunisia. For our family, our daughter, Brittany and her husband Joshua have expanded their family by adopting a baby girl, Carlotta. We have been blessed in so many ways and we're happy to be able to share our good fortune with all of you!" The crowd applauded and Carol passed the mic back to Bill, who kissed her gently on the check as he took it from her.
"And with that formality out of the way, let's dance!" The lights immediately dimmed and Irony's dance hit "Influential" started playing. While Derek enjoyed dancing—he had met Cammy while they were dancing at a club—he saw this as his opportunity to leave and avoid a potentially devastating bill. He leaned in to tell stand-in Cammy that they needed to go, but she was already leaning in to talk to him.
"Are you feeling okay?" she asked, speaking loudly over the music and pressing a hand to his forehead. "If you still think you’re coming down with something, maybe we should go?"
I forgot that I said that earlier, Derek thought. She's good.
"Yeah," Derek nearly shouted back, "I'm not doing terrible, but I don't want to push things, you know?"
"Of course," stand-in Cammy said sweetly, slinging her purse strap onto her shoulder.
Back in the car, Derek’s curiosity got the better of him.
"The date's over, right?" he asked rhetorically. "That means you're 'off the clock,' as it were. So, I have to ask: how did you get this job as a stand-in?"
"If I told you," stand-in Cammy said, her voice suddenly deeper and punctuated by a slight New Jersey accent, "you wouldn’t believe me."
"After tonight," Derek said, "I'll believe just about anything."
"Let me put it this way," stand-in Cammy began innocently, "if I told you, I'd have to kill you."
"Seriously?" Derek asked, one eyebrow cocked.
"Of course not," stand-in Cammy said, chuckling a little while digging through her purse, "but I'm not supposed to talk about me. The fact that I'm no longer in character is already breaking the rules. Mind if I vape?" she asked, holding up an electronic cigarette.
"Uh," Derek fumbled, caught off guard, "I guess?"
"Thanks," stand-in Cammy said, putting the vaporizer to her lips.
Derek, shocked again—though this time by how different the stand-in was acting from Cammy—and drove the rest of the way home in silence.
After pulling into his apartment's parking lot, Derek turned to the stand-in, not sure what the next step was.
"So, do you bill me or how does this work?" he asked, lamely.
"Your girlfriend gave the company your credit card information," she replied, her natural voice sounding so strange to Derek. "You'll get charged based on how long we were out and how elaborate the ruse was. I didn't have to wear a prosthetic chin or anything, so the 'elaborate' part won't be too bad."
"If I were to, um, need your services again," Derek said nervously, "how do I get in touch with you?"
"Your girlfriend has the number," the stand-in said, looking down at her phone, "and the company keeps records of all the clients, so just call and say you want the girl you were sent last time."
"Are you not allowed to give me your name?" Derek asked.
"That's up to me," the stand in said, looking up, "but if it's all the same to you, I'd like to keep things professional."
"I'm not going to come looking for you or anything," Derek reassured. "I'm just curious."
"Even so," stand-in Cammy said, putting her phone in her purse, "let's leave some things to the imagination. I just ordered a ride on my phone and they should be here any minute. If you don't mind, I'd rather not go from one car to another."
"Don't want to look too 'professional,'" Derek said.
"Something like that," the stand-in said, nodding. "Now, am I going to have to open my door myself or are you going to end this night like a gentleman?"
"Right," Derek said as he got out of the car and walked around to the passenger side. After opening the door, he extended his hand and helped stand-in Cammy out of the car. Once she stood up, she leaned in to hugged Derek, who didn't resist this time.
"I had a great time, Derek," the stand-in said in Cammy's voice into Derek's ear. "You're important to me, so it was nice to be able to support you."
After her ride picked up the stand-in, Derek walked inside his apartment. He kept thinking about the last thing stand-in Cammy said to him. The real Cammy was more concerned with attending a concert that she won tickets to at the last minute than keeping her promise to him. He almost felt like he preferred the stand-in to than the real Cammy, though having the curtain drawn back a little at the end was unsettling.
Although, Derek reasoned, he had been wrong about needing Cammy at the dinner that night. Still, she didn't know that when she bailed on him for the concert. It turned out that it didn't matter, but as far as Cammy knew, he could have lost his job simply because she wanted to go to see Irony perform. Not that he could blame her: Irony's shows sell out for a reason.
Derek decided to let it go, since his job wasn't in jeopardy. But his date with the stand-in proved that he didn't know Cammy that well. Were they only dating because it was convenient or did they really care about each other? He didn't know, but he wanted to. He pulled out his phone and sent his girlfriend a text.
I left the dinner early and Im probably going to go to bed soon, but I want to see you in the morning and hear all about the concert. Have fun!
I want to hear about more than the concert, Derek thought. I want to hear about everything.
Tuesday, April 10, 2018
Name and Address
Darryl the
deliveryman walked up to the house and rang the doorbell. This was his last
delivery of the day and he was anxious to get back to the warehouse so he could
clock out and go home. Beyond just wanting to relax, his girlfriend, Joslyn,
was making lasagna for dinner tonight and he'd been looking forward to it all day.
After a
short wait, a tired-looking woman holding a baby answered the door. She was
dressed in sweatpants and an oversized, stained t-shirt, with her greasy hair
tied in a loose ponytail. The baby in her arms smiled at Darryl, all the while
drooling on to the bib that made up the only clothing it was wearing, apart
from a diaper.
"Yes?"
she yawned, a look of weary indifference on her face. "Can I help
you?"
"Hi
there," Darryl said politely. "I’ve got a package here for a … uh, a Muh…
Muhbil… aw, geez. I’m sorry, but this one is a tough one."
"The
name’s Stromberg," the woman said flatly.
"Wow,"
said Darryl, "I would not have guessed that from the spelling." He
scanned the package’s barcode with a handheld scanner, tucked the cardboard box
under his arm, and turned the scanner around so that the screen faced the
woman. "Please sign here."
She took the
stylus and distractedly signed her name. A crashing sound came inside the
house. "Jeffery! Knock it off!" she shouted behind her without taking
her eyes from off the scanner. "Sorry about that," she said as she
finished signing her name. "My husband’s on a business trip and I’ve been
all alone with the kids for nearly the whole week."
"Don't
worry about it," Darryl said, taking the scanner back and pressing a few
buttons. "You just yelled at your kid. I didn't have to run from a dog or
someone with a weapon, so I still count this as an easy delivery." Having
marked the package as delivered in his scanner, Darryl handed the woman the
cardboard box. "Just out of curiosity, how do you pronounce your first name?"
"Gretchen,"
Mrs. Stromberg said, a little confused.
"Huh,"
Darryl said, surprised. "Well, you've got some creative ways to spell your
names. Have a nice day!" Darryl started walking back to the delivery truck
as Gretchen read the label on the package.
"Hold
on a second," she called after him, her eyes still on the box. "This
isn't for us."
"Really?"
Darryl asked, one foot already inside the truck.
"Yeah,"
she said, the annoyance in her voice intensifying. "We're the Strombergs,
not the Mmm… Muhbellawannas," she said less-than-confidently. "And
this isn't even our address. We're on Elm Street, not Elk."
Darryl
paused. He considered just driving off and letting someone at the distribution
warehouse worry about it, but since he already scanned the package, it would
eventually get traced back to him. He took his foot out of the truck walked
back towards the house and Gretchen.
"Sorry
about that, ma'am," he said, his voice flavored with irritated disappointment.
"Mistakes like this are rare these days, but they do happen. Lucky
us." He scanned the package a second time, pressed some buttons, and took
the box back from Mrs. Stromberg. "Sorry to bother you," he
apologized.
"That's
okay," Gretchen said, a slight smile creeping onto half of her face.
"If I'm being honest, it was just nice to talk to someone about something
other than dinosaurs or princesses."
"Well,"
Darryl said, grinning, "I'm glad I could give you a couple of minutes of
human conversation. Have a nice day."
Gretchen
waved as she stepped back inside and closed the door. Darryl got into his truck
and typed in the address from the package into the GPS mounted on the
dashboard, mentally kicking himself for not catching the typo. When the route
loaded, he breathed a sigh of relief when he saw that his destination was only
eight minutes away.
As he drove
away, Darryl laughed ironically to himself. He must have really been thinking
hard about lasagna if he thought Gretchen Stromberg could somehow be spelled "Ayo
Mbelewana."
Tuesday, February 23, 2016
Emotional Words
“Are we ever going to get serious?” she asked abruptly.
“Serious?” he asked. “Babe, what do you mean? We already share this sentence. That seems pretty serious to me.”
“Than what about that?” she asked, pointing.
“The semicolon? So what? A lot of clauses are connected with semicolons.”
“Yeah, independent clauses,” she said.
“So we’re both independent,” he said, “that doesn’t mean we don’t support each other. I mean, if we weren’t closely connected, we’d still have separate sentences.”
“But isn’t it time that we settle down?” she asked. “Think about it: I get rid of a few words and become dependent to you and in a few years we can have add some phrases to our sentence.”
“Uh,” he said nervously, “I don’t know about phrases. I mean, we don’t want to turn our sentence into a run-on or anything.”
“One or two additional phrases wouldn’t make this place a run-on,” she said, starting to get frustrated.
“Whoa,” he said. “What’s next? Parentheses? Bullet points?”
“Stop being dramatic,” she said, unsuccessfully trying to hide her annoyance. She took a moment to collect herself before continuing. “I just want to know that we’re going somewhere.”
“Look,” he said, “if I wasn’t serious, I wouldn’t have invited you to join me in this sentence.”
“And I’ve enjoyed our time together,” she said, “but it’s not enough anymore. This is a big paragraph and there are a lot of other clauses out there.”
“What are you saying?” he asked, both surprised and a little angry.
“I’m saying that the language is changing all the time and I’m not going to always be relevant.”
He responded back by shouting his words. “I never promised you anything beyond the two of us! Why are you changing like this? Have I changed from when you first joined me in this sentence?”
She looked at him, her face full of sadness. “No. You haven’t. I guess that’s the problem.”
In his agitated state, he walked over to the semicolon that had originally brought them together (though now felt like it was pulling them apart) and ripped off the upper half.
“There!” he said, spitting his words at her. “Happy?! The semicolon’s gone!”
“Really?” she asked, getting fed up. “A comma splice? Real mature.”
“What? I’m supposed to drop everything and get an em dash just to show you that I care?”
“An em dash?” she said, her annoyance rapidly becoming sadness. “Do you even know me at all? I’m a traditional clause.”
“Of course!” he said, waving his arms sarcastically. “You've got to have a fairy tale sentence with a lovely colon.”
“I don’t know what I was thinking even bringing it up,” she said, shaking her head. “I was naïve to think that anything would ever change.”
“Maybe things could change,” he said, his voice full of anger and sadness, “but you have to give me some time. You can't just drop this on me and expect to be okay with it.”
She looked at him, her eyes moist with tears. “I need more than ‘maybe.’” She walked over and kissed him on the cheek. “Goodbye.”
The next day, they had a period installed and got their own sentences again. A few months later, she moved to a different paragraph where she met a nice clause and after less than a year, she became dependent to him (with a beautiful colon!). They ended up having three phrases together and are even expecting a footnote soon.
He stayed independent, and ultimately, alone.
“Serious?” he asked. “Babe, what do you mean? We already share this sentence. That seems pretty serious to me.”
“Than what about that?” she asked, pointing.
“The semicolon? So what? A lot of clauses are connected with semicolons.”
“Yeah, independent clauses,” she said.
“So we’re both independent,” he said, “that doesn’t mean we don’t support each other. I mean, if we weren’t closely connected, we’d still have separate sentences.”
“But isn’t it time that we settle down?” she asked. “Think about it: I get rid of a few words and become dependent to you and in a few years we can have add some phrases to our sentence.”
“Uh,” he said nervously, “I don’t know about phrases. I mean, we don’t want to turn our sentence into a run-on or anything.”
“One or two additional phrases wouldn’t make this place a run-on,” she said, starting to get frustrated.
“Whoa,” he said. “What’s next? Parentheses? Bullet points?”
“Stop being dramatic,” she said, unsuccessfully trying to hide her annoyance. She took a moment to collect herself before continuing. “I just want to know that we’re going somewhere.”
“Look,” he said, “if I wasn’t serious, I wouldn’t have invited you to join me in this sentence.”
“And I’ve enjoyed our time together,” she said, “but it’s not enough anymore. This is a big paragraph and there are a lot of other clauses out there.”
“What are you saying?” he asked, both surprised and a little angry.
“I’m saying that the language is changing all the time and I’m not going to always be relevant.”
He responded back by shouting his words. “I never promised you anything beyond the two of us! Why are you changing like this? Have I changed from when you first joined me in this sentence?”
She looked at him, her face full of sadness. “No. You haven’t. I guess that’s the problem.”
In his agitated state, he walked over to the semicolon that had originally brought them together (though now felt like it was pulling them apart) and ripped off the upper half.
“There!” he said, spitting his words at her. “Happy?! The semicolon’s gone!”
“Really?” she asked, getting fed up. “A comma splice? Real mature.”
“What? I’m supposed to drop everything and get an em dash just to show you that I care?”
“An em dash?” she said, her annoyance rapidly becoming sadness. “Do you even know me at all? I’m a traditional clause.”
“Of course!” he said, waving his arms sarcastically. “You've got to have a fairy tale sentence with a lovely colon.”
“I don’t know what I was thinking even bringing it up,” she said, shaking her head. “I was naïve to think that anything would ever change.”
“Maybe things could change,” he said, his voice full of anger and sadness, “but you have to give me some time. You can't just drop this on me and expect to be okay with it.”
She looked at him, her eyes moist with tears. “I need more than ‘maybe.’” She walked over and kissed him on the cheek. “Goodbye.”
~~~
The next day, they had a period installed and got their own sentences again. A few months later, she moved to a different paragraph where she met a nice clause and after less than a year, she became dependent to him (with a beautiful colon!). They ended up having three phrases together and are even expecting a footnote soon.
He stayed independent, and ultimately, alone.
Tuesday, August 18, 2015
Neighbors
“Morning,
Marie.”
“Morning, Dave.”
“Bit of a cold morning, isn’t it?”
“Well,
it’s a bit early still, but yeah, it’s much colder than I was expecting.”
“I just have so much trouble getting moving on these colder mornings. I feel like I’m moving so slow, you know?”
“The sun should warm things up soon enough. What are your plans for the day?”
“Same old, same old. Work until sundown, come back here to rest. You?”
“Basically the same for me, but I’ll stay here.”
“Of course, of course. It must be nice to live where you work.”
“It’s great when I get some traffic, but I don’t always get lucky. I was thinking of setting up shop somewhere else; you know, see if a different location works out better for me.”
“Do what you feel is best, but it’d be a shame to lose you as a neighbor.”
“It’s nice to know you feel that way. I’ve really enjoyed our conversations. Everyone else in the neighborhood has kept their distance, so you’re friendship has meant a lot.”
“I hope things work better for you today and you can stay. Well, I’ve got to head out. See you this evening.”
“Yeah, see you then.”
“Dave? Is that you?”
“Marie, you moved! I didn’t think you would relocate today.”
“Yeah, I
really didn’t want to, especially after our conversation, but a girl’s got to
eat.”
“That makes sense. Still, it’s sad to see you go.”
“How’d you find the new place?”
“I guess I wasn’t watching where I was going and I just wandered in. Can you get me out of here? I guess I got myself trapped.”
“Of course you got trapped, silly. My silk is supposed to be sticky.”
“Yeah, yeah, I get it: big scary black widow catches her prey. Come on, seriously, Marie, let me go. It’s your old pal, Dave the ladybug.”
“I’m afraid I can’t do that, Dave. I’ve spent the whole day building this new web and you’re the first thing I’ve caught. Like I said, a girl’s got to eat.”
“Hey! Wait a minute! I was the only one that even talked to you in our whole neighborhood and this is how you repay me?”
“Everyone
kept their distance for their own safety, Dave. I guess you should have done
the same. I really am sorry. I’ll at least wrap you up quickly so you don’t
have to suffer.”
“Hmfph! Rrmbf!”
“I really need to remember to not make friends with species that I eat. This is just like what happened with Portia the fruit fly.”
“Morning, Dave.”
“Bit of a cold morning, isn’t it?”
“I just have so much trouble getting moving on these colder mornings. I feel like I’m moving so slow, you know?”
“The sun should warm things up soon enough. What are your plans for the day?”
“Same old, same old. Work until sundown, come back here to rest. You?”
“Basically the same for me, but I’ll stay here.”
“Of course, of course. It must be nice to live where you work.”
“It’s great when I get some traffic, but I don’t always get lucky. I was thinking of setting up shop somewhere else; you know, see if a different location works out better for me.”
“Do what you feel is best, but it’d be a shame to lose you as a neighbor.”
“It’s nice to know you feel that way. I’ve really enjoyed our conversations. Everyone else in the neighborhood has kept their distance, so you’re friendship has meant a lot.”
“I hope things work better for you today and you can stay. Well, I’ve got to head out. See you this evening.”
“Yeah, see you then.”
~~~
“Hello?”
“Hello?”
“Dave? Is that you?”
“Marie, you moved! I didn’t think you would relocate today.”
“That makes sense. Still, it’s sad to see you go.”
“How’d you find the new place?”
“I guess I wasn’t watching where I was going and I just wandered in. Can you get me out of here? I guess I got myself trapped.”
“Of course you got trapped, silly. My silk is supposed to be sticky.”
“Yeah, yeah, I get it: big scary black widow catches her prey. Come on, seriously, Marie, let me go. It’s your old pal, Dave the ladybug.”
“I’m afraid I can’t do that, Dave. I’ve spent the whole day building this new web and you’re the first thing I’ve caught. Like I said, a girl’s got to eat.”
“Hey! Wait a minute! I was the only one that even talked to you in our whole neighborhood and this is how you repay me?”
“Hmfph! Rrmbf!”
“I really need to remember to not make friends with species that I eat. This is just like what happened with Portia the fruit fly.”
Saturday, November 22, 2014
Bitter
Fernando poured a cup of coffee and passed it to Britta. She accepted the cup happily and breathed in the aroma. It was a cold, winter morning, so having some hot coffee would do her some good. She usually added creamer to her coffee, but she didn’t want to delay warming up, so she decided to take it black this time.
She looked at Fernando as he poured a cup for himself and thought about her feelings towards him. They were just friends – him with his girlfriend and her with Rick – but she often wondered if things would be different were they not tied down. Not that she wanted to break things off with Rick; she just wondered if she and Fernando would be compatible as a couple, or if being friends was for the best.
She continued thinking on the matter when she took her first sip of coffee. Not only was it still rather hot, it was also very strong. Strong and incredibly bitter. She looked back at Fernando and was suddenly annoyed at him. Why hadn’t he told her that the coffee was like this? Didn’t he care about her at all?
Her annoyance grew until she was not just angry, she was furious. All of the time that she and Fernando had spent hanging out and this is how he repays her friendship? He might as well slap her in the face. No, a slap in the face would be better than this. This was like a stab in the back.
Fernando turned to offer Britta some creamer, when he saw that she was glaring at him. He seemed to know what was going on and spoke up.
“Britta,” he said, “you can’t drink this coffee straight: it’s very bitter and can sometimes affect the drinker.” He opened a shot of French Vanilla creamer and held it out for his friend. “Drink this, it will help mellow out the coffee.”
Britta looked at him, scowling. “Don’t you mean it'll mellow me out?”
“Just drink it, Britta.”
“Why should I do anything you tell me to do, Fernando?” Britta asked, her words dripping with venom.
“Drink this and I’ll leave you alone forever.”
“Good,” Britta said as she grabbed the shot and threw her head back as she downed the contents. Suddenly, she wasn’t angry anymore. In fact, she wasn’t sure why she had been angry at all. She looked at her friend. “What happened?”
“I forgot to tell you,” Fernando explained, “this is pure, uncut Columbian coffee that my tia sent me. It can be a bit strong for the uninitiated. It sometimes makes the drinker as bitter as the coffee itself. Feeling better?”
“Yeah,” Britta said, still a little surprised at what had happened. She looked at Fernando and thought about how he was such a good friend. Here he was sharing with her something that his aunt had sent him. That was just like him to be so kind. Maybe if things were different …
Friday, January 31, 2014
Letter
Dear Host,
I wanted to thank you for finally letting me free. You have so many tricks to keep me locked up that I was surprised that I finally got out. In fact, if I had been acting alone I would probably still be hidden away in my prison cell. I’m no fool, you see, so I had someone on the outside blow a hole in the wall. After that, it was as easy as walking out.
I have to admit, you really worked hard to make things uncomfortable for me. I like things soft and docile, like an obese cow. (Heh, I’ll have to remember that one for the next time I see Cyn.) Anyway, once I was free, I set to work rearranging the decor to better suit my style. At first you didn’t notice. I made little changes here and there. Before you realized what was going on, I had moved in and was practically running the place. Yeah, you still fight me now and then, and even knock me down from time to time, but I can already tell that there isn’t much fight left in you.
You see, all of your plans work better on my brother, Anxi, than on me. You learned how to fight him pretty well. You were winning practically every time you two fought. And while he and I do have some similarities in our fighting styles, I’m much more subtle. He’ll rush at you hard and fast, trying to knock you down with the first blow, but backing off if you stand your ground. Much like how a crocodile will jump out and snap its jaws at its prey; if it misses, it won’t chase. I, however, am more like a snake, sneaking up very slowly so you don’t see me and once I strike, I let my venom work its way into you, slowing you down until you drop. Then I swallow you whole.
But you know all of that, don’t you? That’s why even leaving the house is a victory these days. There you are, going through the motions of improving your life, but all along the way I’m there, whispering in your ear that it’s a waste of time. You’re still fighting, sure, but it won’t be much longer before you fall. Just as the mouse will flail in the serpent’s jaws, your efforts are meaningless at this point.
And the best part is, you let me do it! You didn’t know it, but you just stood by while I knocked down your defenses. Even your basic bodily functions are in disarray! Your bowels are a mess, you’ve put on weight, and my double-pronged attack on your sleep has you neither able to fall asleep or wake up. With any luck, you’ll have trouble breathing soon and will even become disinterested in anything that used to bring you pleasure. We both know that at the rate we’re going, it’s only a matter of time before I’ve won.
Sincerely,
Your Depression
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