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."
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?"
Sunday, December 29, 2019
Change of Plans
Vrrt! Vrrt!
Connor tightened the final bolt on the machine with his pneumatic wrench. After over a decade of researching, prototyping, and testing, he was finally ready to be the very first person to travel back in time.
Despite wanting to immediately start his chronal journey, Connor knew that he had to look the part if he didn’t want to arouse suspicions in the past. He left the shed in the backyard that functioned as his workshop and headed inside the house to change his clothes.
“Greta,” Connor called out to his digital assistant as he walked through the backdoor in the kitchen, “call Beatrice’s cell phone.”
“I’m sorry,” Greta cheerfully replied as Connor climbed the stairs to his bedroom, “calls to Beatrice have been blocked from this number. Would you like me to try to contact Beatrice some other way?”
“Greta,” Connor replied as he pulled off his coveralls, “has Beatrice blocked me from emailing her?”
“Let me check,” Greta replied with her perpetually chipper, albeit artificial, voice. “No, Beatrice has not blocked you from sending her emails.”
Connor sighed, a resigned smile sidling onto his face. “Well, at least there’s that.” He paused a moment as he struggled with his garters. “Why did men ever wear these stupid things?” he said to himself. “Was it really that embarrassing to have slouchy socks?” After finally securing in place the pair of what he saw as completely ridiculous articles of clothing, he spoke to his electronic servant. “Greta, start a new email to Beatrice.”
“New email started to Beatrice,” replied the disembodied voice emanating from a hidden speaker. “Begin speaking for dictation.”
“Dear Beatrice,” Connor spoke, buttoning his period-appropriate shirt. “I hope you’re well. I know things have been, well, bad between us since the breakup. Still,” he continued, pulling on his trousers and suspenders, “I genuinely hope things are working out for you. Anyway,” he said, bending down to tie his shoes, “I’m writing to let you know that it’s finished: I’m about to travel back in time.” He paused for a moment, both to trigger to Greta to start a new paragraph and to allow him to adjust the shoulder holster and the Luger pistol in it.
“I know you don’t believe in me,” he said, looking in the mirror on the wall as he tied his necktie into a single-Windsor knot, “but I’m about to change history. Though if I’m successful,” he added, partly to himself, as he slid on his suit jacket, concealing his weapon, “you won’t be aware anything is different. Even so, I wanted you to know that I’m finally doing this. See you on the other side. Sincerely, Connor. Greta, send email.”
“Email sent,” Greta sounded, her voice annoyingly happy at such a somber moment. Connor thanked the machine, trigging it to go into standby mode until its name was spoken again.
With the final addition of his overcoat, hat, and briefcase, Connor headed downstairs and back out to his workshop. He paused and scanned the room, trying to memorize the placement of every object, in case anything would be different when he returned. With a final deep breath, he opened the door on the side of the nearly spherical time machine.
“Off to kill Hitler, are you?” an English-accented female voice said behind him. “Classic move, that.”
Connor whipped around, causing his hat to fly off his head. The speaker was an adult woman of average height and indiscriminate age and race, her short hair cropped close to her head. She was wearing an unbuttoned khaki trench coat over what looked like a gray jumpsuit and plain gray sneakers. She stood just inside the door of the workshop with her hands in the pockets of her coat.
“Who are you?” Connor demanded. He considered pulling out his gun, but he decided to keep the fact that he was armed a secret for the time being. However, he did move the briefcase to his left hand, allowing him to reach his gun at a moment’s notice. “How do you know what I’m about to do?”
“Well,” the woman said in manner that struck Connor as surprisingly casual, “I’m with the Timeline Protection Authority or TPA. I know you’ve never heard of us because we don’t exist yet, but our job is to stop yahoos like you from going around and mucking with history.”
“Wait,” Connor said, holding up his hand as he processed what he just heard. “You’re here to stop me?”
“Got it in one,” she said, nodding slightly.
“So,” Connor said, his voice a mixture of confusion and annoyance, “you can go back in time to talk to me, but I’m not allowed to go back in time to stop mankind’s greatest monster?”
“Firstly,” she said, “Hitler is not mankind’s greatest monster. That was Vorn the Cruel from the Yarfle Empire, but the Yarflers only wrote on wax blocks, which don’t hold up very well, so they’ve been completely lost to history. Secondly, yes, I’m disrupting the timeline by being here, but you’ll disrupt it loads more if you kill Hitler.”
“Surely any changes I make will be for the better,” Connor reasoned.
“Not in the least,” the woman said dismissively. “Look, I realize this is all new to you, but I’ve done this plenty of times. If you kill Hitler, things will be worse off.”
“Okay,” Connor said, closing the door to the time machine, both annoyed and curious, “convince me. What bad stuff’s going to happen if I kill Hitler?” He walked over to his work table, set his briefcase down on it and sat on the lone stool in front of it.
“Fair enough,” the woman said, leaning back against the door frame, her hands still in her pockets. “How were you planning on doing it? Got a bomb in the briefcase? Going to leave it someplace you know he’ll be? Maybe at a rally when he was rising to power?”
“Uh,” Connor stumbled, shock written across his face. “Got it in one.”
“Think you might look a bit suspicious? Not too many black men in Germany in those days, you know.”
“True,” Connor conceded, “but historical data shows that while small, there was a population of Germans of African descent in Germany at the time. I’m sure people will notice me, but so what? As long as they don’t stop me, I don’t care if I turn a few heads.”
“Right, because Nazis are so well known for being racially tolerant,” the woman said sarcastically. “Trust me when I say that you won’t get near him and it’ll end rather poorly for you.”
“Fine,” Connor said, the annoyance in his voice growing. “I’ll go back and kill him when he’s in prison before he ever became involved in politics.”
“Another popular choice,” the woman said, a wry smile on her face. “You ever hear about how good ol’ Adolf got to where he was because of a power vacuum in Germany at the time?”
“Of course,” Connor said a bit incredulously.
“Well, there are a couple of options for what would have happened instead. If you get to him too late, Mister Tiny Moustache will still be able to talk to enough of his fellow inmates and when he dies in prison under mysterious circumstances, he’ll becomes a bit of a martyr and his ideas’ll spread. Once Hitler’s particular philosophies make it the general public, who’ll comes across them but none other than Heinrich Himmler. Turns out, Himmler is just as much of a wanker on his own as he was under Hitler, but Hitler actually kept him somewhat in check—shocking, I know. If Himmler assumes power, the war will be delayed by a few years, but it’ll last years longer and the death toll will be about doubled.
“Alternatively, if you kill the Reichster early enough into his prison sentence, Germany will stay weak and World War II will never happen.”
“There you go!” Connor said, feeling vindicated.
“Instead,” she continued, pointedly, “the Great Japanese Conquest takes place. Instead of just conquering east Asia, the Japanese will keep going and capture Russia and the rest of eastern Europe. By the time Pearl Harbor is attacked and the US joins the war, Japanese forces will have conquered all of Europe except for Great Britain, though it falls soon afterwards. The US will manage to fight back longer than any other country, lasting until the mid-1970s, but just like everyone else, you Yanks will eventually surrender.”
“So we’ll never develop nuclear weapons?” Connor asked. “That’s good.”
“No,” the woman said, shaking her head, “the bombs will still be made and dropped on Japan. That’ll piss them right off, it will. They’ll send even more troops to attack US soil—yeah, you lot will actually have to deal with the war on your own land—and they’ll eventually get their hands on plans for atomic bombs. They’ll end up leveling San Diego, New York, Washington, and Cleveland.”
“Why Cleveland?” Connor asked, a little confused.
“They’ll think it’s important,” the woman shrugged. “Anyway, the Japanese eventually conquer the globe. By the time the war is over, the death toll is nearly ten times what it would have been if you had just let Hitler live.”
“Uh,” Connor said, feeling more than a little defeated, “I guess…” He trailed off.
“Look,” the woman said sympathetically, “I get it: you dedicated your life to solving time travel and now that you’ve finally done it, I show up and crush your dreams.”
“I’ll kill the Japanese emperor!” Connor exclaimed suddenly. “If the problem with killing Hitler before he rises to power is that the Japanese conquer the world, I’ll kill Emperor Hirohito before that can happen.”
“I don’t think you get it, mate,” the woman said, shaking her head. “There are very few scenarios where changing the past will actually improve the present. Most of the time, you just make things worse.”
“Alright,” Connor said dejectedly, finally giving up on his dream. “I won’t try to change the past. But I want to know one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“Why wait until I’m about to leave to stop me? Why not stop me during the planning or testing phases? I wasted a lot of time creating something I can never use.”
“You kept your notes and such handwritten,” she said, “so we couldn’t be sure when to come and talk to you. Until, that is, you sent an email a few minutes ago where you mentioned time travel. We used the email’s timestamp to know when I should come and talk to you.
“So, I’ve got your word that you won’t use your time machine?” she asked. “No going back in time to kill anyone or become your own ancestor or anything?” Seeing the look of disgust on Connor’s face, she added, “Happens more than you’d think.”
“Yeah,” Connor said, a little creeped out. “You have my word.”
“Brilliant!” the woman said, standing up straight again. “Before I go, I’d like to make a suggestion: publish your work.”
“Like, in a scientific journal?” Connor asked.
The woman nodded.
“Should I leave out the part about time traveling?” Connor asked.
“Up to you,” the woman shrugged. “If you leave it in, everyone will think you’re daft. Well, most people: conspiracy theorists eat that stuff right up. But if you publish what you’ve done and convince the world at large that time travel is either not possible or at least possible but a really bad idea, you’ll save me a lot of trouble.”
“Uh,” Connor hesitated. “I’ll think about it.”
“Best I can ask for. Well, time for me to go.” The woman walked over to Connor and extended her right hand to him. “Pleasure meeting you. In person, anyway.”
“In person?” Connor asked as he shook the woman’s rubbery-feeling hand.
“Sure,” the woman said. “I’m Greta, though you chose to use my American voice.”
“What?” Connor asked, suddenly realizing that the woman he’d been talking to sounded exactly like his digital assistant, only with a British accent. “But—but, you’re a person!"
“Had some upgrades over the years,” Greta said, her wry smile returning. “Best of luck to you.”
Connor blinked and he was alone. He sat on the stool, realizing for the first time that the past twelve-and-a-half years had been wasted.
Vrrt! Vrrt!
The sound of Connor’s cell phone vibrating on the work table snapped him out of his haze. He turned, picked it up, and looked at the caller ID: it was Beatrice. He answered.
“I told you not to contact me,” she said, more weary than fury in her voice. “Especially not about your stupid time machine. And I suppose now you’re going to tell me that you went back and changed history?”
“Um,” Connor hesitated, “there’s been a change of plans.”
Connor tightened the final bolt on the machine with his pneumatic wrench. After over a decade of researching, prototyping, and testing, he was finally ready to be the very first person to travel back in time.
Despite wanting to immediately start his chronal journey, Connor knew that he had to look the part if he didn’t want to arouse suspicions in the past. He left the shed in the backyard that functioned as his workshop and headed inside the house to change his clothes.
“Greta,” Connor called out to his digital assistant as he walked through the backdoor in the kitchen, “call Beatrice’s cell phone.”
“I’m sorry,” Greta cheerfully replied as Connor climbed the stairs to his bedroom, “calls to Beatrice have been blocked from this number. Would you like me to try to contact Beatrice some other way?”
“Greta,” Connor replied as he pulled off his coveralls, “has Beatrice blocked me from emailing her?”
“Let me check,” Greta replied with her perpetually chipper, albeit artificial, voice. “No, Beatrice has not blocked you from sending her emails.”
Connor sighed, a resigned smile sidling onto his face. “Well, at least there’s that.” He paused a moment as he struggled with his garters. “Why did men ever wear these stupid things?” he said to himself. “Was it really that embarrassing to have slouchy socks?” After finally securing in place the pair of what he saw as completely ridiculous articles of clothing, he spoke to his electronic servant. “Greta, start a new email to Beatrice.”
“New email started to Beatrice,” replied the disembodied voice emanating from a hidden speaker. “Begin speaking for dictation.”
“Dear Beatrice,” Connor spoke, buttoning his period-appropriate shirt. “I hope you’re well. I know things have been, well, bad between us since the breakup. Still,” he continued, pulling on his trousers and suspenders, “I genuinely hope things are working out for you. Anyway,” he said, bending down to tie his shoes, “I’m writing to let you know that it’s finished: I’m about to travel back in time.” He paused for a moment, both to trigger to Greta to start a new paragraph and to allow him to adjust the shoulder holster and the Luger pistol in it.
“I know you don’t believe in me,” he said, looking in the mirror on the wall as he tied his necktie into a single-Windsor knot, “but I’m about to change history. Though if I’m successful,” he added, partly to himself, as he slid on his suit jacket, concealing his weapon, “you won’t be aware anything is different. Even so, I wanted you to know that I’m finally doing this. See you on the other side. Sincerely, Connor. Greta, send email.”
“Email sent,” Greta sounded, her voice annoyingly happy at such a somber moment. Connor thanked the machine, trigging it to go into standby mode until its name was spoken again.
With the final addition of his overcoat, hat, and briefcase, Connor headed downstairs and back out to his workshop. He paused and scanned the room, trying to memorize the placement of every object, in case anything would be different when he returned. With a final deep breath, he opened the door on the side of the nearly spherical time machine.
“Off to kill Hitler, are you?” an English-accented female voice said behind him. “Classic move, that.”
Connor whipped around, causing his hat to fly off his head. The speaker was an adult woman of average height and indiscriminate age and race, her short hair cropped close to her head. She was wearing an unbuttoned khaki trench coat over what looked like a gray jumpsuit and plain gray sneakers. She stood just inside the door of the workshop with her hands in the pockets of her coat.
“Who are you?” Connor demanded. He considered pulling out his gun, but he decided to keep the fact that he was armed a secret for the time being. However, he did move the briefcase to his left hand, allowing him to reach his gun at a moment’s notice. “How do you know what I’m about to do?”
“Well,” the woman said in manner that struck Connor as surprisingly casual, “I’m with the Timeline Protection Authority or TPA. I know you’ve never heard of us because we don’t exist yet, but our job is to stop yahoos like you from going around and mucking with history.”
“Wait,” Connor said, holding up his hand as he processed what he just heard. “You’re here to stop me?”
“Got it in one,” she said, nodding slightly.
“So,” Connor said, his voice a mixture of confusion and annoyance, “you can go back in time to talk to me, but I’m not allowed to go back in time to stop mankind’s greatest monster?”
“Firstly,” she said, “Hitler is not mankind’s greatest monster. That was Vorn the Cruel from the Yarfle Empire, but the Yarflers only wrote on wax blocks, which don’t hold up very well, so they’ve been completely lost to history. Secondly, yes, I’m disrupting the timeline by being here, but you’ll disrupt it loads more if you kill Hitler.”
“Surely any changes I make will be for the better,” Connor reasoned.
“Not in the least,” the woman said dismissively. “Look, I realize this is all new to you, but I’ve done this plenty of times. If you kill Hitler, things will be worse off.”
“Okay,” Connor said, closing the door to the time machine, both annoyed and curious, “convince me. What bad stuff’s going to happen if I kill Hitler?” He walked over to his work table, set his briefcase down on it and sat on the lone stool in front of it.
“Fair enough,” the woman said, leaning back against the door frame, her hands still in her pockets. “How were you planning on doing it? Got a bomb in the briefcase? Going to leave it someplace you know he’ll be? Maybe at a rally when he was rising to power?”
“Uh,” Connor stumbled, shock written across his face. “Got it in one.”
“Think you might look a bit suspicious? Not too many black men in Germany in those days, you know.”
“True,” Connor conceded, “but historical data shows that while small, there was a population of Germans of African descent in Germany at the time. I’m sure people will notice me, but so what? As long as they don’t stop me, I don’t care if I turn a few heads.”
“Right, because Nazis are so well known for being racially tolerant,” the woman said sarcastically. “Trust me when I say that you won’t get near him and it’ll end rather poorly for you.”
“Fine,” Connor said, the annoyance in his voice growing. “I’ll go back and kill him when he’s in prison before he ever became involved in politics.”
“Another popular choice,” the woman said, a wry smile on her face. “You ever hear about how good ol’ Adolf got to where he was because of a power vacuum in Germany at the time?”
“Of course,” Connor said a bit incredulously.
“Well, there are a couple of options for what would have happened instead. If you get to him too late, Mister Tiny Moustache will still be able to talk to enough of his fellow inmates and when he dies in prison under mysterious circumstances, he’ll becomes a bit of a martyr and his ideas’ll spread. Once Hitler’s particular philosophies make it the general public, who’ll comes across them but none other than Heinrich Himmler. Turns out, Himmler is just as much of a wanker on his own as he was under Hitler, but Hitler actually kept him somewhat in check—shocking, I know. If Himmler assumes power, the war will be delayed by a few years, but it’ll last years longer and the death toll will be about doubled.
“Alternatively, if you kill the Reichster early enough into his prison sentence, Germany will stay weak and World War II will never happen.”
“There you go!” Connor said, feeling vindicated.
“Instead,” she continued, pointedly, “the Great Japanese Conquest takes place. Instead of just conquering east Asia, the Japanese will keep going and capture Russia and the rest of eastern Europe. By the time Pearl Harbor is attacked and the US joins the war, Japanese forces will have conquered all of Europe except for Great Britain, though it falls soon afterwards. The US will manage to fight back longer than any other country, lasting until the mid-1970s, but just like everyone else, you Yanks will eventually surrender.”
“So we’ll never develop nuclear weapons?” Connor asked. “That’s good.”
“No,” the woman said, shaking her head, “the bombs will still be made and dropped on Japan. That’ll piss them right off, it will. They’ll send even more troops to attack US soil—yeah, you lot will actually have to deal with the war on your own land—and they’ll eventually get their hands on plans for atomic bombs. They’ll end up leveling San Diego, New York, Washington, and Cleveland.”
“Why Cleveland?” Connor asked, a little confused.
“They’ll think it’s important,” the woman shrugged. “Anyway, the Japanese eventually conquer the globe. By the time the war is over, the death toll is nearly ten times what it would have been if you had just let Hitler live.”
“Uh,” Connor said, feeling more than a little defeated, “I guess…” He trailed off.
“Look,” the woman said sympathetically, “I get it: you dedicated your life to solving time travel and now that you’ve finally done it, I show up and crush your dreams.”
“I’ll kill the Japanese emperor!” Connor exclaimed suddenly. “If the problem with killing Hitler before he rises to power is that the Japanese conquer the world, I’ll kill Emperor Hirohito before that can happen.”
“I don’t think you get it, mate,” the woman said, shaking her head. “There are very few scenarios where changing the past will actually improve the present. Most of the time, you just make things worse.”
“Alright,” Connor said dejectedly, finally giving up on his dream. “I won’t try to change the past. But I want to know one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“Why wait until I’m about to leave to stop me? Why not stop me during the planning or testing phases? I wasted a lot of time creating something I can never use.”
“You kept your notes and such handwritten,” she said, “so we couldn’t be sure when to come and talk to you. Until, that is, you sent an email a few minutes ago where you mentioned time travel. We used the email’s timestamp to know when I should come and talk to you.
“So, I’ve got your word that you won’t use your time machine?” she asked. “No going back in time to kill anyone or become your own ancestor or anything?” Seeing the look of disgust on Connor’s face, she added, “Happens more than you’d think.”
“Yeah,” Connor said, a little creeped out. “You have my word.”
“Brilliant!” the woman said, standing up straight again. “Before I go, I’d like to make a suggestion: publish your work.”
“Like, in a scientific journal?” Connor asked.
The woman nodded.
“Should I leave out the part about time traveling?” Connor asked.
“Up to you,” the woman shrugged. “If you leave it in, everyone will think you’re daft. Well, most people: conspiracy theorists eat that stuff right up. But if you publish what you’ve done and convince the world at large that time travel is either not possible or at least possible but a really bad idea, you’ll save me a lot of trouble.”
“Uh,” Connor hesitated. “I’ll think about it.”
“Best I can ask for. Well, time for me to go.” The woman walked over to Connor and extended her right hand to him. “Pleasure meeting you. In person, anyway.”
“In person?” Connor asked as he shook the woman’s rubbery-feeling hand.
“Sure,” the woman said. “I’m Greta, though you chose to use my American voice.”
“What?” Connor asked, suddenly realizing that the woman he’d been talking to sounded exactly like his digital assistant, only with a British accent. “But—but, you’re a person!"
“Had some upgrades over the years,” Greta said, her wry smile returning. “Best of luck to you.”
Connor blinked and he was alone. He sat on the stool, realizing for the first time that the past twelve-and-a-half years had been wasted.
Vrrt! Vrrt!
The sound of Connor’s cell phone vibrating on the work table snapped him out of his haze. He turned, picked it up, and looked at the caller ID: it was Beatrice. He answered.
“I told you not to contact me,” she said, more weary than fury in her voice. “Especially not about your stupid time machine. And I suppose now you’re going to tell me that you went back and changed history?”
“Um,” Connor hesitated, “there’s been a change of plans.”
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, May 1, 2018
Support Group
Moore walked into the room and quietly found a seat. The metal folding chairs were arranged in a small circle, allowing the attendees to face each other. A couple of young women were at a small table in the back of the room, helping themselves to the coffee and donuts. Moore had heard about support groups like this one before, but had never attended one until today. Life was hard for him, made all the harder from the feeling that no one understood what he was going through. Still, he felt a little silly being there; after all, how many millions of people suffered fates much worse than him? He started having second thoughts and considered leaving.
As he was eyeing the door, a man started speaking to him. The bespectacled man looked about forty with a long, graying beard that came about a third of the way down his chest. He held out a hand, which Moore took.
"Hi there," the man said, sitting in the chair next to him. "I'm Justin."
"Uh, hey," Moore said, snapping out of his thoughts. "I'm Moore."
"I don't recognize you," Justin said. "Is this your first time here?"
"Yeah. I heard about you guys from a friend of mine, Max."
Justin looked surprised. "Really? I remember Max, but didn't think he got much out of our little group."
"I mean, I don't know," Moore said lamely. "Maybe he didn't, but he said it might work for me."
"Well," Justin said, standing up, "it's great to have you." He handed Moore a pamphlet. "We'll be reading from this in the meeting. And feel free to help yourself to some coffee and donuts."
Moore nodded as Justin walked to the other side of the circle and called out to the other attendees that it was time to start the meeting. As everyone found a seat in the circle, Justin began the introduction.
"Thank you for joining us, everyone. It's always nice to see our little group grow and it's doing just that because we have someone new joining us today." Justin turned from talking to the group as a whole and looked directly at Moore. "Whenever we have someone new, we like to review how these meetings go. Candy, would you like to lead us?" Justin asked.
Candy was a woman who looked like she was in her late twenties or early thirties with platinum blonde hair. She was pretty, if a bit plain, and wore a pretty boring outfit: tan sheep skin boots, black leggings, and a loose-fitting, gray hoody.
"Sure," she said as she stood up, putting her hands in the single front pocket on the hoody. "Okay, so we're all here because our parents gave us stupid names. We meet mainly for two reasons: it helps to know that there are other people who know our struggle and that leads to us to better accept ourselves. We start by reciting our mantra, before moving to the sharing portion of the meeting. Everyone is invited to share, but nobody's forced to. If you do share, introduce yourself and tell us your stupid name."
"Thank you, Candy," Justin said. "And now, we'll all stand and say the mantra together, found on the inside fold of our pamphlet," he said, holding it up. "Alright, Killian, will you lead us?"
Killian nodded and stood up. Killian was chubby and looked like he was still in high school. He had a head of dark, bushy hair and smelled strongly of body spray. He cleared his throat before beginning, with everyone joining in.
"Our names are stupid, but we aren't. Our parents chose names that are stupid, but that doesn't mean that they are. New people in our lives will make jokes and comments that are stupid, but that doesn't mean they are. We cannot control how the world sees us and that's okay. Our names are a part of us, but they do not define us. We are more than just our names."
With the chant finished, most of the group sat back down, leaving Justin standing.
"And now," he said, "we'll move on to the sharing portion of our meeting. I'll begin. My name is Justin Tyme."
"Hi, Justin," the group said together.
"As many of you know, having a name based on a phrase is not easy. As a child, I struggled with people constantly making the same joke about my name: 'you got here your name.' It's happened so long that I don’t actually remember a time when it wasn't already old. But, having this stupid name has also helped. I learned to appreciate really clever jokes, even ones about my name. When my son was born, I even posted a picture of him on social media with the caption 'a little Tyme.' I just repeat the mantra and remind myself that I didn't choose this name and it doesn't define me.
"Okay, who'd like to share next?"
"I'll go," said Candy, who introduced the basics of the meeting. "My name's Candy Caine."
"Hi, Candy," said the group.
"I've met other girls who go by Candy, but it's usually short for Candace. My mom figured that I'd just go by the nickname, so that's what my birth certificate says.
"It was tough when I was a teenager. I'd tell people my name and get told that it was a 'stripper name,' nevermind the fact that my best friend at the time was a girl named Sinnamon with an S, which literally has 'sin' in it. But, no, Candy Caine was the stripper name. But just as our mantra says, I refused to let my name define me. I figured out that people telling me that I have a stripper name was a reflection of them, not me.
"I work in marketing now and just got promoted to junior VP at my firm. The VP above me said that one of the reasons I got the promotion was because I worked so hard on everything. As I'm sure you all know, when you have a stupid name, you have to work harder than everyone else to prove to people that you're not as dumb as your name. At first that was a burden, but now I see it as a kind of gift that my mom gave me. Thank you."
"Thank you, Candy," Justin said. "Who'd like to go next?"
The meeting continued, with members sharing how having a stupid name was a struggle, but how it also served as a blessing, forcing them to be more than just their names. The other attendees included Polly Ester Williams, who admitted that her name was only stupid if she included her middle name; Krystal Ball and Crystal Bell, who met in high school and often got confused for each other, despite being different races; Killian Smalls, the chubby kid who led the mantra and said he was named after a catchphrase from a '90s movie, which meant that the only people of a certain age knew how stupid his name was; a couple of guys who had the same first name as their last name: William Williams and Adam Adams; and Queenie Stephens and Julian Butts, the only attendees who had just one stupid name.
With everyone else having shared, Moore felt everyone's eyes on him. He knew that he didn't have to say anything, but he also felt like everyone expected him to, so he stood up.
"Hi," he said, his hands in his pockets, "my name is Moore Orless."
"Hi, Moore," everyone said back.
"Like the rest of you, I've been frustrated about my name my whole life, but I learned something recently that suddenly made having this name even harder. I grew up without my father in my life. I knew lots of kids growing up without dads, so I didn't think too much of it. What was different for me was that he left me with a stupid last name. My mom named me Moore after my great-grandfather, which I understand, but with my last name, it's a combination that's, well… stupid.
"I recently decided to track down my father and confront him for not being in my life and leaving me with a stupid name. I ordered a copy of my birth certificate and it turns out that my father's last name isn't Orless, it's Thompson. I asked my mom where my last name came from and she said that she just made it up. Made it up! I spent my childhood getting made fun of and even got beat up a few times because she wanted my name to be a stupid phrase.
"I was telling all of this to a buddy of mine, Max Powers, and he told me about this group. He only came a couple of times, but he said I might get something out it. I guess it helps to know how many other people have stupid names, but it's still tough because my last name was just made up, you know? I spent a long time being mad at my dad and learning that he's not to blame for my last name, it really shook me. Like, you go your whole life knowing something only to learn that it's a lie.
"Anyway, I want to forgive my mom, but I'm not ready yet. Maybe coming here will help me let it go and move on. I don't know, but I figure I'll try. Thanks."
Moore sat back down, feeling a little better to get all of that off his chest. Justin stood back up.
"Thanks for sharing, Moore," he said. "I can't speak for everyone, but it took a while for me to forgive my parents for my stupid name. But I was able to forgive them. If you need someone to talk to, just one-on-one, let me know and I can set you up with a sponsor.
"And with that, we'll adjourn. Thanks for coming and I hope to see everyone back here next month."
As he was eyeing the door, a man started speaking to him. The bespectacled man looked about forty with a long, graying beard that came about a third of the way down his chest. He held out a hand, which Moore took.
"Hi there," the man said, sitting in the chair next to him. "I'm Justin."
"Uh, hey," Moore said, snapping out of his thoughts. "I'm Moore."
"I don't recognize you," Justin said. "Is this your first time here?"
"Yeah. I heard about you guys from a friend of mine, Max."
Justin looked surprised. "Really? I remember Max, but didn't think he got much out of our little group."
"I mean, I don't know," Moore said lamely. "Maybe he didn't, but he said it might work for me."
"Well," Justin said, standing up, "it's great to have you." He handed Moore a pamphlet. "We'll be reading from this in the meeting. And feel free to help yourself to some coffee and donuts."
Moore nodded as Justin walked to the other side of the circle and called out to the other attendees that it was time to start the meeting. As everyone found a seat in the circle, Justin began the introduction.
"Thank you for joining us, everyone. It's always nice to see our little group grow and it's doing just that because we have someone new joining us today." Justin turned from talking to the group as a whole and looked directly at Moore. "Whenever we have someone new, we like to review how these meetings go. Candy, would you like to lead us?" Justin asked.
Candy was a woman who looked like she was in her late twenties or early thirties with platinum blonde hair. She was pretty, if a bit plain, and wore a pretty boring outfit: tan sheep skin boots, black leggings, and a loose-fitting, gray hoody.
"Sure," she said as she stood up, putting her hands in the single front pocket on the hoody. "Okay, so we're all here because our parents gave us stupid names. We meet mainly for two reasons: it helps to know that there are other people who know our struggle and that leads to us to better accept ourselves. We start by reciting our mantra, before moving to the sharing portion of the meeting. Everyone is invited to share, but nobody's forced to. If you do share, introduce yourself and tell us your stupid name."
"Thank you, Candy," Justin said. "And now, we'll all stand and say the mantra together, found on the inside fold of our pamphlet," he said, holding it up. "Alright, Killian, will you lead us?"
Killian nodded and stood up. Killian was chubby and looked like he was still in high school. He had a head of dark, bushy hair and smelled strongly of body spray. He cleared his throat before beginning, with everyone joining in.
"Our names are stupid, but we aren't. Our parents chose names that are stupid, but that doesn't mean that they are. New people in our lives will make jokes and comments that are stupid, but that doesn't mean they are. We cannot control how the world sees us and that's okay. Our names are a part of us, but they do not define us. We are more than just our names."
With the chant finished, most of the group sat back down, leaving Justin standing.
"And now," he said, "we'll move on to the sharing portion of our meeting. I'll begin. My name is Justin Tyme."
"Hi, Justin," the group said together.
"As many of you know, having a name based on a phrase is not easy. As a child, I struggled with people constantly making the same joke about my name: 'you got here your name.' It's happened so long that I don’t actually remember a time when it wasn't already old. But, having this stupid name has also helped. I learned to appreciate really clever jokes, even ones about my name. When my son was born, I even posted a picture of him on social media with the caption 'a little Tyme.' I just repeat the mantra and remind myself that I didn't choose this name and it doesn't define me.
"Okay, who'd like to share next?"
"I'll go," said Candy, who introduced the basics of the meeting. "My name's Candy Caine."
"Hi, Candy," said the group.
"I've met other girls who go by Candy, but it's usually short for Candace. My mom figured that I'd just go by the nickname, so that's what my birth certificate says.
"It was tough when I was a teenager. I'd tell people my name and get told that it was a 'stripper name,' nevermind the fact that my best friend at the time was a girl named Sinnamon with an S, which literally has 'sin' in it. But, no, Candy Caine was the stripper name. But just as our mantra says, I refused to let my name define me. I figured out that people telling me that I have a stripper name was a reflection of them, not me.
"I work in marketing now and just got promoted to junior VP at my firm. The VP above me said that one of the reasons I got the promotion was because I worked so hard on everything. As I'm sure you all know, when you have a stupid name, you have to work harder than everyone else to prove to people that you're not as dumb as your name. At first that was a burden, but now I see it as a kind of gift that my mom gave me. Thank you."
"Thank you, Candy," Justin said. "Who'd like to go next?"
The meeting continued, with members sharing how having a stupid name was a struggle, but how it also served as a blessing, forcing them to be more than just their names. The other attendees included Polly Ester Williams, who admitted that her name was only stupid if she included her middle name; Krystal Ball and Crystal Bell, who met in high school and often got confused for each other, despite being different races; Killian Smalls, the chubby kid who led the mantra and said he was named after a catchphrase from a '90s movie, which meant that the only people of a certain age knew how stupid his name was; a couple of guys who had the same first name as their last name: William Williams and Adam Adams; and Queenie Stephens and Julian Butts, the only attendees who had just one stupid name.
With everyone else having shared, Moore felt everyone's eyes on him. He knew that he didn't have to say anything, but he also felt like everyone expected him to, so he stood up.
"Hi," he said, his hands in his pockets, "my name is Moore Orless."
"Hi, Moore," everyone said back.
"Like the rest of you, I've been frustrated about my name my whole life, but I learned something recently that suddenly made having this name even harder. I grew up without my father in my life. I knew lots of kids growing up without dads, so I didn't think too much of it. What was different for me was that he left me with a stupid last name. My mom named me Moore after my great-grandfather, which I understand, but with my last name, it's a combination that's, well… stupid.
"I recently decided to track down my father and confront him for not being in my life and leaving me with a stupid name. I ordered a copy of my birth certificate and it turns out that my father's last name isn't Orless, it's Thompson. I asked my mom where my last name came from and she said that she just made it up. Made it up! I spent my childhood getting made fun of and even got beat up a few times because she wanted my name to be a stupid phrase.
"I was telling all of this to a buddy of mine, Max Powers, and he told me about this group. He only came a couple of times, but he said I might get something out it. I guess it helps to know how many other people have stupid names, but it's still tough because my last name was just made up, you know? I spent a long time being mad at my dad and learning that he's not to blame for my last name, it really shook me. Like, you go your whole life knowing something only to learn that it's a lie.
"Anyway, I want to forgive my mom, but I'm not ready yet. Maybe coming here will help me let it go and move on. I don't know, but I figure I'll try. Thanks."
Moore sat back down, feeling a little better to get all of that off his chest. Justin stood back up.
"Thanks for sharing, Moore," he said. "I can't speak for everyone, but it took a while for me to forgive my parents for my stupid name. But I was able to forgive them. If you need someone to talk to, just one-on-one, let me know and I can set you up with a sponsor.
"And with that, we'll adjourn. Thanks for coming and I hope to see everyone back here next month."
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