Cal held his pencil loosely in the fingers of his right hand, and he pressed his left hand onto the cover of Heart of Darkness, which lay on his desk; a worn, deep blue paperback with a broken spine. He tucked the pencil behind his right ear so he could reach for a drink. Coffee, baby bath water temperature. Will make a new one in a few minutes, he thought, though I guess it’s already almost four. It won’t keep me up any later than normal, though. Long pencil, precariously balancing on top of glasses on his ear, tumbled off and dropped between his legs onto the carpeted floor. Cal kept his hand pressed on the book as he reached down to grasp for the pencil, and then his headset signaled in his ear for nearly the five-hundredth time that day.
“Good afternoon, is this Leslie? Hi, Leslie – my name is Calvin, calling from The Lending Solution, where this call is being recorded for quality assurance purposes. I saw you were taking a look at current rates, so to ensure you have the most accurate information, I’ll go ahead and connect you with one of our licensed agents. Before we go, can you confirm your home is in the state of Pennsylvania?”
Leslie had hung up just before Cal finished saying Pennsylvania. He dispositioned the call in the thirty second window before the dialer went live again and the next call beeped through.
It had been almost two weeks since he had seen the last name of MENDOZA show up on his computer screen. A subtle chill tingled down his spine when he saw it. He launched into his standard sales script, and casually flipped open Heart of Darkness to the back inside cover, tightening his right hand around his pencil.
R 047217 – 3:58pm was scrawled, the book was re-closed, the pencil was tapping rhythmically all within ten seconds. He still held his left hand on the book. Mendoza, the client, at least graced Cal with a response, “Not interested, thank you,” before the inevitable hang-up.
Glancing over the top and around his desk, Cal tuned into the buzz of the contact center in full-swing. Four o’clock to seven o’clock was known as Rush Hour, and the chorus of voices sang different sections of the mortgage refinance sales operetta. It was gloriously dissonant and dull.
Turning off the dialer, Cal replaced his headset in its dock, and logged off of his computer. He tucked the book safely in his bag before he pushed his pencil into his front pocket as far as it would go, and grabbed his now-cold coffee cup to toss away.
Steady and breathe, dude – don’t show that anything is off. Inhale slowly, please. He smiled at the woman at the end of the row, who watched him heading out with jealousy. The stairwell was just after the door for the elevators, about sixteen paces away. Stairs were quicker than the elevator and he hated standing stagnant – especially on the days when he copied a Mendoza number.
Trying not to look too slow while trying not to walk too quickly was the game. Cal started to lean forward, anticipating pushing the door to the stairwell open with gusto, when he was called back by a booming, feminine managerial voice, raised over the drone of the call center floor.
“Calvin! Before you head out, could you come in here for a quick chat?”
Cal slowly turned back, and his stomach flipped at the same time.
I was sitting in a lecture hall along with 50 other master level students from all over the world. 50 more students joined us online. The class, “State-Building and War-Making in the Developing World” was taught by a popular professor at the institute. Students jumped to get into his classes each year, and ‘thanks’ to Covid, he’d expanded his class size from 25 to 100, seeing as going hybrid was now an option. The students latched onto his every word and wouldn’t raise their hands to interject unless they thought it would impress him.
This professor has multiple international awards under his belt, has authored many books, and speaks extensively about racism and the need to decolonise institutions. He is seen as both highly enlightened, as well as a representative of the “Global South”- a mouthpiece of sorts for those from the developing world. To me he was certainly accomplished and well spoken, but it was clear that he was from an elite background and not a representation of your average Mauritanian bloke. Afterall, he was the son of a UN ambassador, a Sorbonne and then later, Harvard graduate, and a former Minister of Foreign Affairs in Mauritania.
While we were in the lecture hall, the topic of the 2020 port blasts in Beirut came up. A French-Lebanese student asked him if he had heard of the petition thousands of Lebanese had signed inviting the French back? He hadn’t. Following the devastating port blasts, an online petition was anonymously launched to place Lebanon under French mandate for 10 years. The petition was signed by over 57,000 Lebanese who were and continue to be fed up with the Lebanese officials’ widespread corruption, lack of accountability, and terrorism. Lebanon has been independent from France for the last 76 years, and in that time experienced civil war, invasion by their neighbouring country, multiple refugee crises, and a government strife with division.
The professor looked fairly disgusted at the thought of the petition. Those who had signed it were victims of neo-colonial thought, pulling the country down farther with an inferiority complex, looking to outsiders to solve problems that they themselves were capable of solving. It would be like inviting back those who had triggered so many of Lebanon’s problems today.
I had only spoken up once before in class, but before my thoughts were fully formulated, I could feel my arm slowly rising. He looked my way and signalled that I was welcome to speak. Isn’t it problematic that you’re assuming the Lebanese population don’t know what they need? Are we not just perpetuating a lack of agency, the thing you fear most, by assuming that they don’t know what’s best for them? Is it not fully in their right to decide if they want to hand their agency off to the French? Who are we to object?
He looked clearly agitated by my insinuations of his own prejudices and neo-colonialism. But they obviously don’t know what’s best for them, he said. Looking huffed he repeated: the French returning would certainly not be what’s best for the Lebanese people. I argued with him for a few more minutes and eventually decided to drop the matter as we were not seeing eye to eye.
While I could understand his honourable desire for local Lebanese solutions, I thought it sadly comical that this definition of ‘agency’ came with conditions. Agency is apparently granted only when the elite, be they intellectual, political or economic, have decided it permissible. Agency is only allowed when decisions are deemed to be “for the best.” The deeper I dove into the program, the more apparent the irony around neo-colonialist ideology became: In our grand attempt to flee repeating past mistakes, the oppression continues. It is dressed differently, but as always, trumpeted as being “for people’s good.”
A bearded fellow with a live lizard clutching his shoulder steps on and sits next to a Cher-impersonator who sniffs haughtily at the lizard and scooches over a spot. A large woman boisterously booming something about reading the King James Bible waves her arms fervidly near the back. Some schoolboys in a bunch fuss over a paper airplane before sending it on a short journey to crash into the window opposite of them.
I’m comfortably observing from behind a book with my earbuds quite visible when the stranger sitting beside me tries to strike up a conversation. I give him the side-eye, trying to decide whether or not to ignore him. He is a booky, professor-type with kind smile-lines etched into the folds of his face. I decide he seems safe enough and remove my earbuds.
“Pardon me?”
“I said, ‘Have you ever thought about how much the metro resembles life?’” His light foreign accent is unidentifiable to me.
“I haven't.”
“Well, think,” he prompts me. “People step in. You ride with them for a while, then they step out.”
I find the analogy weak, but nod my head complacently.
“And another way to think of it,” he continues, “All these people? They are stuck. They may move around in the compartment. They may even switch cars if they are brave.
“But if they think they have any choices they are fooled. We are all going to the same place.”
“207th street?”
“Death,” he says somberly. “There is no escape! You do this, she does that, but no choices matter. We are all going in the same direction–it does not matter what you do.”
This sighing, sad, little man is clearly going through some particularly poignant mortality awareness or perhaps an unrelated loss of sense of control. I debate whether or not to challenge his thoughts before deciding I have nothing to lose.
“I think the choices matter.”
He raises his bushy little eyebrows at me.
“How so?”
“It matters to the pregnant woman that the man with the suitcase gave up his seat for her. It matters to everyone with a nose that that girl over there decided now was a good time to paint her nails. It matters to that child that his mother is reading to him. It matters to that lady that the man she is with has been staring at his phone the entire time she’s been talking to him.”
“Perhaps you know a little something,” He smiles a little wryly and elbows me teasingly.
“I don’t know if personal choice is all a grand illusion. I’m not sure whether or not I believe everything is ultimately fixed based on the genetics and circumstances handed to us or if we have something like true freewill. But I do know that the decisions we make or think we make matter. It matters in the moment–in the subway car–even if we all are barreling on toward the same stop.”
The man stands as the train approaches the next stop. Before getting off he turns to me and says, “I thought I was going to be giving you enlightenment. Life has some meanings left to show me.”
I replace my earbuds and go back to watching the next paper airplane flight attempt.
Silent giants of the sun
Old Sonoran sentinels
Someone had a lot of gall
Someone shot one with a gun
How great the cracking, moaning fall
Crushed the car of that someone
Most people don’t think of the FWS as one of the Big Three. Usually I just get a blank stare, or they confuse it with NOAA, which is a little insulting. Meanwhile the crowd forms around Gord after he says he works for the FBI. He always leaves out that he’s an accountant. Never even held a gun but acting like he’s James Frickin’ Bond.
The CIA guys are never regulars, but you can always tell who they are. Every single one chooses the corner booth under the burnt out bulb. I told Jen to replace it once, even brought her a new bulb, and then I caught the next spook who came in unscrewing it. We locked eyes and I could tell he was embarrassed. When he cashed out he made sure to accidentally show me the pistol under his jacket. Most of them do that, if they think you’re looking.
Every now and then, Jen manages to coax one into telling some stories. She’ll draw him out of the shadow with a free drink and keep it brimmed until his restraint is compromised. People there love a good murder story. The whole place went nuts over the guy who strangled a Bulgarian. Fervent admiration of our new hero stifling the transgressions of the nameless villain.
Apparently it’s different when it’s animals though. When I told them about the rabid coyote I had to shoot, I got booed. Gord searched for coyote photos on his phone, and that got Jen crying about how much they looked like her old dog, Mikey. After that I really got some ugly glares. I tried to turn things around by talking about the fish ladder we built in Rock Creek, how many lives that saves each spring. But people never seem to care as much about river herring. I could see the strangler eying me smugly while some lady at the end of the bar dreamt up a life for Mr. Coyote–a wife and kids, and a cozy den near the Potomac.
I didn’t tell her coyotes usually just sleep out in the dirt. Instead I slipped away to the corner booth, to wonder about the Bulgarian.
i. meetings
I stared at a spot of water damage on the ceiling. Should I tell someone? The brown spot was almost certainly larger than last week. But maybe Friday morning wasn’t the time to get involved with maintenance. I put my feet on the desk and considered placing a work order. Pros: a way to appear busy. Something to talk about at lunch. Cons: I didn’t know who to contact. Someone might kick me out of my space. I couldn’t decide.
I was startled when the CEO knocked on my office door. Or rather, he knocked on the little strip of window in the door. I yanked my feet off the desk. I hated when people knocked on the window. It was louder, and sometimes they used their fingernails to tap on the glass. Even worse when they knocked and then gave a little wave before coming in, like peekaboo. Just give me a business casual knock on wood.
At first I thought I must be getting fired. It was the first time the boss had ever visited my office. Fired for what though? It didn’t matter at a place like this; he probably didn’t even know my name. But why would he descend three floors and traverse the labyrinthine marketing department to fire me? Why not lounge behind his desk and push a box of kleenexes across the mahogany, dropping hard news with minimal chalance?
He looked unlike himself. I realized it was because his forehead was sweaty. Not the usual coiffure I had come to expect from his photos in the firm's newsletter. After shutting the door behind him with a surprising amount of care, he sat down on the edge of my desk. “I need you to do something for me.” Nothing unusual there. “Outside of regular hours.” A classic boss line. “Deliver this briefcase to the Luna Pier lighthouse at eleven o’clock tonight.” The whispering was odd.
He shoved a slim black briefcase into my lap. “When someone asks you, ‘Left or right?’ simply answer, 'down.’ Understand?”
I nodded. I understood nothing. He stood to leave the room, then paused with one hand on the door. “The case is locked. Please don’t try to open it.” I wanted to ask a question, but I couldn’t think of anything to ask. The door clicked behind him.
Great. I had scheduled a dentist appointment for three-thirty just to start the weekend early. But it was a two hour train ride to Luna Pier, and for an eleven o’clock meeting! Friday night was shot. I glanced over the briefcase, but I was overdue for morning meeting. I stashed it under my desk.
The meeting was in my department, just around the corner. The room was wrapped in glass walls. We called it the fishbowl. As I approached, I could see the team lead gesturing at an empty whiteboard. I opened the door and let his corporate enthusiasm wash over me.
He was always wearing a white dress shirt with a loose tie and rolled up sleeves. I imagined him pouring cereal on a Saturday, the getup unchanged. Or at the beach. On a rollercoaster.
I sat down and tried to catch up. Something about bite-sized content generation. It was amazing how much marketing content you could churn out while knowing so little about your own company. I didn’t know what was in that briefcase, for example.
The lead finally picked up a marker and wrote something on the white board: “snackable digital formats.” I thought about candy bars, thought about my dentist appointment, and then thought about whether I snacked too much. I looked down and noticed the curve of my button up shirt. I sucked in my stomach a bit, almost reflexively. Then I looked around the conference table and wondered if anyone else was doing the same thing. I imagined the whole human race going around sucking in their stomachs to feel less fat. The team lead continued to talk and gesture, and everyone stared blankly at snackable digital formats.
When the meeting ended, I started wandering the halls in search of a vending machine. I vaguely thought there was one on our floor somewhere, but maybe it only looked like the kind of place where a vending machine would hang out. I was about to try another floor when I remembered the briefcase, and imagined the possibility of a million dollars cash sitting under my desk. Who knew what a CEO would put in a briefcase for a late night rendezvous? Maybe best to keep it close.
I went back to my office, retrieved the briefcase, and remembered the whole awkward encounter. I gave the case a little shake, to no effect. It was unsatisfyingly light, like an empty ice cream carton. I should check the train schedule to Luna Pier. How much time would I have after my dentist appointment? Should I pack a bag? I pushed it out of my mind and headed for the elevator.
No luck on the fourth floor, but on the third I rounded a corner to find a small break room with a sink, a fridge, and a promising glow. But if I did find a vending machine, what should I get? I imagined a rainbow of options and was preemptively overwhelmed. But just my luck: the machine had only one item left, a Payday. On the other hand, I felt disappointed at the glaring lack of options. Well, I had come all this way. But then again, maybe I shouldn’t be eating a candybar before my first dentist trip in ages. But at least I had made the appointment at all. For every healthy choice, a double indulgence. I reached into my pocket and counted the change: a dollar thirty-five. The Payday was two fifty. Ludicrously overpriced, in my opinion.
A woman stepped into the break room. Thick plastic frames from the 2010s perched on a large nose. A pretty yellow skirt and a coffee mug that read “Math Counts.” She claimed the dregs of the coffee pot and leaned against the counter for a sip.
She looked at me and my handful of change. “I can’t help you there,” she said. “But the coffee’s free.” She started filling up the pot with more water.
“I can tell how it tastes just by the smell,” I said. I meant to joke but had zero inflection. She shrugged.
“Beggars can't be choosers.” She was right, it was my own fault for not having enough change in the first place. But was it my fault society had gone cashless, and the vending machine didn't take cards? “That Payday doesn’t look too fresh anyway,” she said.
“Alright, I’ll take a cup.”
“Good choice.” She slid the filter into place and flipped a green switch. “What department are you? You can’t be from this floor.”
“Marketing,” I said.
“How are you guys handling the bad press?” I had no idea what she was talking about. “Lots of rumors about the firm right now. You know. Embezzlement, bribes.”
“I don’t really read the news,” I said, lowering my voice in hope she would follow suit.
“Well you should,” she said. “I’m in accounting, and let me tell you, things haven’t been adding up. Quite literally.” I looked down at the briefcase by my feet, and she followed my gaze. “What’s that?”
“Nothing,” I said, fumbling to pick it up. She raised an eyebrow. I didn’t like her prying, but I felt suddenly eager to bounce my strange scenario off someone else. I took a step into the hallway and made sure no one was around. “I’m supposed to deliver this to the Luna Pier lighthouse tonight.” I briefly explained the unusual visit.
She grabbed my arm. “No way. Can I come?” I couldn’t decide whether the assumed familiarity was charming or unpleasant. What she said about company rumors had shaken me.
“Why?” I asked.
“I’ve been trying to figure out the discrepancies, but my senior always makes up some excuse that doesn’t fit with what I see in the books. Maybe this is big. Maybe we can put some pieces together and leak it to the press.”
An amateur sleuth. Probably listened to true crime. But it would be nice to have a friendly face nearby in case this thing went south. Oh god, listen to me.
The coffee machine beeped and she poured me a cup. “What do you say?”
“Okay, maybe,” I said. “But you can’t come to the actual meeting at eleven.” She pouted but agreed to my terms.
The day was progressing strangely. Now that I had spoken my task out loud, it became real to me. This wasn’t picking up prints from a vendor. The sun was down by nine.
I spent the rest of the day sitting in my office and talking to no one. Not unusual for a Friday. I sipped my third floor coffee, lifting the briefcase up and down, testing its weight. I never once tried to open it. For all I knew, it might not actually be locked. Finally, I grabbed my spring jacket from the corner coat rack and headed for the elevators. It was time for the first of my two appointments.
ii. incidentals
The green pleather chair squeaked as I settled into it. I kept my eyes on the briefcase, which I had set in the corner of the sterile room. I heard someone enter behind me, a fuss of tools and rubber gloves.
"Hello, I’m filling in for Dr. Spencer today,” said a man. “I'm Dr. Sitaux, adjunct." Adjunct dentist? That didn’t sound right. I leaned back in the chair and winced as he pulled a bright light close.
Did I really need a filling? Dental malpractice was the kind of thing you heard about all the time, after all. Split off from the rest of the medical community, no proper oversight. Doctors of infinite root canals in a world of black briefcases.
“What do you want to listen to?” Dr. Sitaux asked. He picked up a TV remote and flipped through a list of music stations on the screen.
“Anything’s fine,” I said. He kept scrolling.
“70s classic rock? 80s dance hits? 90s hot alternative?” I tried to think of the kind of sensible song that would fit on a decades playlist, but I was drawing a blank.
“I’m good.”
“There’s got to be something here, what kind of music do you like?” It was exactly the question I did not want to discuss with my adjunct dentist on a Friday.
“This one’s good,” I said, trying to stop him at random.
“80s rock or best of folk 2010?”
“Um, 80s rock.” It seemed safer somehow. He clicked a button and set the remote to the side. He jammed a couple of cold metal instruments into my mouth while The Clash kicked things off with “Should I Stay or Should I Go.”
One filling and four bus stops later, I stared at an empty backpack on my bed, next to the black briefcase. I didn’t want to carry two bags but felt I should bring something for such a long trip. I could consider it over dinner.
I heated up a can of soup–something soft for my sore tooth–and checked the fridge for a drink. Nothing but a stray Heineken in the door of the fridge. Hobson’s choice. I was about to open it when the doorbell rang. I set the bottle on the counter and answered the door. It was the accountant.
“I told you to meet me at the train station,” I said.
“I couldn’t wait. Guess what happened at work.”
“How did you get my address?”
“I looked up your W-2.” Naturally. She pushed past me and walked inside, throwing a large purse on the counter. A regular manic pixie.
“What happened at work?” I asked. She was inspecting the bottle on the counter. She opened it and took a slow sip before answering.
“Right, work. Just before five there's an announcement over the PA system, everyone in the building can hear it: ‘A reminder to all personnel: your reputation is the firm’s reputation.’ And they go on and on about presenting a united front. Never explicitly referencing the news, or any allegations. But obviously trying to shut down conversation about it.” She stopped for another long sip. I sat on a stool at the counter. I was suddenly horrified I had told this overenthusiastic accountant about my errand.
“Do you think someone heard us talking today?” I asked. She held a wrist to her mouth and tried not to spit the drink.
“Don’t be ridiculous. Everyone’s talking about the news.” She reached into her bag and tossed a newspaper across the counter. It spun with perfect accuracy, the headline facing me: “Friends In Low Places: Firm’s Ties Erode Public Trust.” It seemed a little pulpy. But I couldn’t believe this was the first time I’d heard anything about our tarnished reputation.
“That’s today’s paper. Saw it on the way here. I bet the CEO’s in hot water.” I looked at the briefcase.
“What exactly is the firm being accused of?”
“Pulling strings in city government to deregulate the industry, pave the way for a monopoly, and cripple the courts in civil suits.”
“That’s all, huh?” I scanned the article, but got distracted by the weather section: rain tonight. Better pack a poncho.
“Shoddy journalism if you ask me though,” she said. “Reads like hearsay.” I looked up.
“Do you think I’m doing something criminal?” I said. Her eyes brightened.
“Maybe. This could be evidence.” She pointed to the briefcase.
“Maybe we should take it to the authorities.”
“Come on, what would you even tell the police?” She finished the beer. “And more importantly, what else have you got going on tonight?”
She had come straight from work, so I offered her the soup and toasted some bread. She didn’t hedge or make me insist, which was at least one refreshing counterpoint to her tactlessness. While she ate I packed a water bottle, a couple of ponchos, and a heavy duty flashlight into my backpack. I couldn’t think of anything else. In another half hour, we caught a bus to the train station. It was only six o’clock, but I wanted a chance to scope out the pier before dark.
We waited for the train on a wooden bench that stretched the length of a white-tiled wall.
“So, are you covered for incidentals and everything?” she said. It was the question I couldn’t think of this morning.
“I didn’t ask,” I confessed. She gave me a tisk and pushed up her glasses.
“You better at least get those tickets reimbursed.” I nodded. We watched people load on and off trains, commuters and weekenders trading places while the sunlight turned yellow. “I can’t believe you haven’t tried to open it yet,” she said, gesturing to the case in my lap.
“I just want to get this over with,” I said.
“Yeah, I bet someone’s tailing us to keep an eye on things anyway.” I rolled my eyes, and then took a second glance at the man reading the newspaper to our left.
Our train arrived, and the first car we tried was empty. She swept an arm around at all the available seats in an unspoken “after you.”
It was just the two of us for the first thirty minutes. I fiddled with my phone while she provided a running commentary on the changing scenery: “Out of the city now.” “Trees are budding already.” “Didn’t realize it got so hilly out this way.” “Look at all those cows.”
An hour in and I was feeling sleepy. I put my phone away and leaned my face against the glass. It really was scenic, and I regretted missing the cows. The gentle sway of the traincar and the changing tones of the tracks became my meditation until sleep came.
I dreamed I was an understudy. I sat in a dark auditorium, following along with a script in hand while actors ran through lines on stage. I was mentally critiquing the person playing my role. The delivery was weak, the movements wooden. After the scene was over I followed the actor backstage, still inwardly deriding his forced manner of speaking. His awkward wave goodbye. Then I followed him home, shaking my head at the lifeless brushing of teeth. The exaggerated snore. The unconvincing breakfast. I even followed him to work. By this point, I had already noted the person I was following was in fact me. My apartment, my workplace. But that was irrelevant; I continued to shake my head at the performance. Speak up, I thought. Loosen those shoulders. I even started to take issue with the script. All my lines were inane. Once we reached my desk, the CEO burst into the room and pointed to the brown spot on the ceiling. He shouted at the other me, saying I should have called maintenance a month ago and that water had leaked into other rooms and there was mold growing in the walls. Other me just shrugged.
I awoke, disappointed with the ending. Come to think of it, the whole theme was a little on the nose. I felt disgusted at my lack of imagination. The subconscious was supposed to tease both mystery and revelation, like a Murakami novel. At least the dream had an existential flavor.
I sat up in my seat and rubbed the sleep from my eyes. A dense forest sped by in a blur. I couldn’t see the sun, but the light had turned from yellow to orange. I figured we must be nearing our stop. I felt hungry already–why hadn’t I packed any food? A few people had boarded our car, but the accountant was missing. I looked down at my feet. The briefcase was also missing.
I froze, my heart pounding as I scanned the car. An old woman knitting, a pair of teens holding hands, and a young kid playing videogames. I could check other cars, but it seemed pointless.
My first thought was that the accountant must have bolted with the briefcase at the last stop. Maybe our meeting in the breakroom was planned. Maybe she worked for some kind of government entity, trying to bring the firm down. Her enthusiasm for my errand was strange, after all. I considered this for a moment. A math counts mug? Commit to the bit, I guess.
My second thought was that I would be held responsible for this. I imagined breaking the news to my CEO. Then I imagined him snapping his fingers, and someone in HR coming in to break my kneecaps.
My third thought was that I didn’t have a clue what any of this was about. What the errand was, what was in the briefcase, what the stakes were. Until this morning, I hadn’t even known the firm was under any kind scrutiny. And for what, I still didn’t really understand. Maybe that made me the ideal courier. A fall guy if anything went wrong. Oh god, listen to me. No one was going to break my kneecaps. Probably.
The accountant suddenly reappeared from another car, briefcase in hand. She held it up as if to reassure me, then crossed the car and set it in my lap.
“I went to the bathroom,” she explained before I could say anything. “And you were sleeping, so I thought I’d better bring it with for safekeeping.” I eyed her with suspicion.
“I wish you would’ve woken me up.”
“You looked like you were having a nice dream.”
We rode the rest of the way in silence. I felt I shouldn’t trust her, but I couldn’t help it. Maybe her breezy confidence was an act, but it worked.
The train curved out of the woods and I saw water. I caught my breath. It was a massive block of blue, sprawling out below bubbly clouds of pink and azure. There was the lighthouse, its highest point pricking the deep orange sun behind. I strained my eyes and imagined I could see tiny people walking the pier. I looked at the accountant, but she seemed lost in thought.
iii. audibles
When we got off the train we headed straight for the beach. We didn’t need directions; there was one main strip that ended in a cul de-sac at the shore. Besides that, the body of water had its own gravity. Its presence stayed constant in the back of my mind.
The beach itself was a little disappointing, hemmed in by docks and ugly motels. But the lighthouse was a splendid old-world affair, with white brick and black iron trim. The cap flashed a bright green light even as the sun kissed the horizon behind. We strolled past families and kids with ice cream cones, ascending a ramp onto the pier. Gentle swells sucked at the concrete.
“What’s that for?” The accountant shaded her eyes and pointed to the raised metal catwalk that ran the length of the pier. It was fitted with a strand of lights that had just flickered on as the sun continued to sink.
“Probably for lighthouse keepers back in the day. To keep from being swept off the pier in stormy weather.” There were no ladders to access it now.
“Can you imagine?” she said. I looked at the catwalk and tried to picture an old keeper in a full yellow rainsuit, toting a lantern and struggling against gale-force winds on his way to work. Far out.
It was some time before we even reached the halfway point, a slight bend where the pier angled twenty degrees left. She walked on the low shelf close to the water, hopping on the massive boulders at the edge from time to time. I stayed in the center and observed the various people passing by, occasionally stepping to the side to let a group pass.
As the last rays of sun warmed my face, I felt my shoulders relax. I couldn’t remember the last time it had been this warm out. The lighthouse rose before us, imposing and beautiful. I looked down at the briefcase in my hand and tried to imagine my meeting here later tonight. I didn’t know what I had been so worried about. I pictured a full moon glistening on the water, and an old man tipping his hat to me. We exchange pleasantries, I give him the case, and he says thank you, it’s a big help.
The accountant and I reached the base of the lighthouse. We stared up at it for some time, and then walked around to the front to lean our backs against the warm bricks. The sun slipped away, but an exquisite blend of cirrus clouds remained.
“This is nice,” I said. She took a pair of clip-on shades from her purse and made a show of placing them over her glasses.
“Yes, a perfect place for blackmail and bribery.” I laughed.
“How about some dinner?”
Back on main street, we walked past a few closed restaurants before finding a pub. The day crowd was already starting to thin, and the place was quiet except for David Bowie. “Fame” played while the host seated us in a dim green booth, and it was “Changes” by the time we ordered burgers and beer. The server took our menus and left us in the quiet after the shuffle. I poked at the briefcase under the table with my shoe.
“Thanks for coming with me,” I said. She looked away, fiddling with her silverware.
“Well, I wanted to come,” she said.
“Sorry if I seemed kind of uptight earlier.”
“I teased you too much about crime and whatever.” The server returned with a beer for each of us. I took a big sip.
“I wonder what’s really in this case,” I said. She accidentally dropped a fork on the floor, but didn’t stoop to get it.
“Could be anything,” she said.
“At first I thought money, but now I’m leaning toward something even more mundane. Totally innocuous.”
“Sort of,” she said. I set down my drink.
“Sort of?” She crossed her arms on the table and rested her chin on them.
“I opened the case,” she said.
“What?” I instinctively reached for the case and tried to open it. It wouldn’t budge. “But it’s locked!”
“Bobby pin,” she said. Wow, a regular Nancy Drew.
“On the train?”
“Yeah, in the bathroom.”
“And that worked?” She shrugged.
“There’s some pretty sad locks out there. I’d say our CEO can’t be too worried about it if he chose that briefcase.”
“What’s inside?” I said.
“May I?” She took a bobby pin from her purse. It was already twisted out of shape. I hesitated, but slid the briefcase across the table. She had it open almost instantly, partially cracked toward her. Now she was smiling again. “Ready?” She faked turning it around a couple times.
The server approached our table with two giant burgers. She closed the briefcase and we scrambled to make room for the plates. She asked for ketchup, and waited with the case in her lap until the server came back with it. I drummed my fingers on the table.
“Okay, ready?” she said again. She pushed her plate forward and held up the briefcase, revealing its contents.
There were two rectangles cut into a hard foam that filled the case, providing a snug home for two cassette tapes: one green, one yellow. Each was held in place by a velcro strap. It had been a long time since I had even seen a cassette. They looked tiny in the large case.
She looked at me for a reaction. I shook my head, leaned back and crossed my arms.
“Not what I was expecting,” I said.
“I know,” she said, giddy again. “But I bet it’s some kind of blackmail. Don’t you want to,” she leaned forward, “listen to them?”
I didn’t, but as we ate she pushed the point over and over. After another beer, my resistance was waning. I tried my most obvious objection.
“Look, we’ve got less than two hours. Where are we going to find a cassette player?” She turned to the server, who had just brought the check.
“My friend and I found a couple of cassettes in some of his family’s old junk and we want to see what’s on them. Do you know anywhere in Luna Pier we could find a player?”
He shrugged. “My car’s got one if you want to wait a minute. We’re closing early.” I couldn’t believe it. In for a penny, in for a pound.
We sat at the bar and had another drink on the house while we waited. “Nice people,” she said. I stared at the colorful strand of Christmas lights weaving through the liquor shelves. A loud rushing sound filled up the bar. I thought the air had kicked on, but the bartender pointed to the ceiling.
“Rain,” he said.
In a few more minutes, the server reappeared with coat and keys in hand. He led us out a side door and a gust of wind slammed it behind us. There was a wild mix of hot and cold air, but the raindrops were consistently icy. I was in shock after the beautiful pier walk and calm bar scene.
“Can you believe this?” she shouted over the noise.
“It’s not uncommon here,” the server said. “Spring storms.” He led us to a gray Honda Accord. Rusty, a 90s model. I used to drive a similar car. He took the driver’s seat and ushered us inside. I slid into the backseat. It was quieter when the last door thumped shut, but not by much. The accountant reached back for the briefcase. I handed it to her, and she eagerly shoved the yellow cassette into the console.
Static. We turned the volume knob every which way, waiting eagerly for any sound. We waited for five minutes. Still nothing. Mundane business content would have been one kind of disappointment, but silence was worse. After another five minutes, the server started the engine.
“I’m headed to a bar down the road to weather this thing, but you kids do what you like.” He drove a couple minutes while we continued to fiddle with the tapes, and then he made to leave.
“You aren’t worried we’ll steal your car?” she asked. The server looked us over.
“No,” he said, and went inside the bar.
We spent the better part of an hour playing through both sides of each tape, fast forwarding and rewinding over and over again, but found nothing. We even wondered if the player was broken, but a Michael Jackson cassette from the driver's side door shattered that theory with “Man in the Mirror.”
We sat listening to the song. “Well this sucks,” she said. Rain still battered the car. The heat was on and I felt sleepy. I stared at the console’s little green lights.
“It’s almost eleven,” I said. She ejected the green cassette and velcroed both back into the briefcase.
“Your time to shine.” She locked the case and passed it to me. “We need to get back to the pier. Want to steal his car?” I hoped she was joking.
“No,” I said. “It’s still a short walk.” I reached into my bag. “Have a poncho.”
A short way down the sidewalk, I regretted not asking the server for a lift to the beach. Ten minutes in the rain proved our ponchos worthless. Water streaked down our necks, sleeves, and pant legs. My shoes were completely waterlogged. Dim orange street lights lit our path through sheets of rain.
It was another ten minutes before we made it to the beach. I couldn’t see the water, but the roar of the waves was unmistakable. We stopped at the base of the ramp onto the pier. The string of lights along the catwalk marked a straight line into the abyss. A brilliant beam of green cut through the darkness.
“Think he’ll take a rain check?” I shouted.
“What makes you think it’s a he?” she shouted back. I laughed. We stood staring for a moment, our legs planted wide against the wind.
“Change of plans,” she said. “I'm coming with you.” I didn’t protest.
iv. left or right
We plodded along the concrete pier, staying in the center underneath the catwalk and its lights. I couldn’t help but wish we had a way onto it. One last practical use of the thing. We went from one steel post to the next, pausing now and then to check on each other. The spray smacked our faces in irregular fits. The catwalk provided no shelter from the rain, which may as well have been falling sideways.
I looked ahead into what seemed like an endless path, doubtful anyone could be out there. We heard a giant wave hit the side of the pier, and soon felt water rushing over our feet. We stopped and braced ourselves for a moment. I gripped a post with one hand and the briefcase with the other. “You okay?” I shouted ahead at her. But I couldn’t even hear what she shouted back.
We finally reached the bend in the pier. Halfway. The lights flickered. Ahead of me, she turned back and her mouth gaped open. “What?” I shouted. I followed her gaze and looked over my shoulder just in time to see the town lights flash unevenly and then extinguish in unison. We could see nothing but the green flash from the lighthouse. Another roar from a big wave, and a torrent of water sucked at my legs. I staggered and reached both hands out blindly for the next post. They came up empty and I fell to the concrete. I pushed up from my hands and knees and tried to stand. I couldn’t feel the briefcase anywhere. A burst of lightning illuminated everything for a split second, and as the thunder crashed hard overhead I memorized what I had seen: the black case resting over a gap between the pier and one of the large boulders. I measured the distance in my mind as I scrambled down the slope to the lower shelf, and swept the cement carefully with both hands. Got it.
I sat down for a moment and took the backpack off, digging out the flashlight. She was by my side now. “Let’s stick closer together,” she said. We held hands, with the briefcase in my left and the flashlight in her right. We tried to stay in the center, but the occasional bolt of lightning was more useful than the flashlight. It was difficult to track our progress. The spray was constant, and the water flowing over our feet disoriented us. Glimpses of green from the lighthouse kept us going.
I was staring at my shoes when she gasped beside me. "What now?" I said. She pointed forward. Red light glowed from the base of the lighthouse. It was an open doorway, with the silhouette of a man.
Even though we could now see our destination, it felt like ages before we made it to the door. And there we stood, shaking and saturated with icy water, facing an old man comfortably dry inside the doorway. His large sideburns tangled with his bushy beard, the portrait of a civil war general. He stood with arms crossed over his white wool sweater, a pipe in one hand.
“Left or right?” he finally asked. I stared at him blankly. The accountant leaned over to my ear.
“Down,” she reminded me.
“Down,” I said loudly.
“And who’s this?” said the man gruffly. I looked at her and thought.
“Moral support,” I said.
“Well come in, the both of you.” He stepped aside and waved his pipe indoors. The metal door shut with a deep boom behind us, immediately muffling all sound from the storm. The room was small and round, and to my surprise, was fashioned like a tiny studio apartment, full of ikea lamps and fake plants. I was astonished to see a wood stove crackling pleasantly in the corner of a small kitchenette. I recalled the lighthouse exterior and wondered where the smoke went. The red industrial light glowing above the entry was the only nautical thing about the place. I spied the base of a spiral staircase through a door on the right. We dripped all over a large welcome mat while the man shuffled across the room to the stove. “Tea?” He held up a copper kettle.
“Sure,” said the accountant. He set the kettle on the stove and opened a cupboard underneath, pulling out a basket of tea boxes. Soon he was running through a selection of your typical blacks and greens.
“Anything herbal?” she asked.
“Lots,” he said, launching into another list. He seemed to relish the naming of each one.
“Ginger peach for me,” she said.
“Excellent choice. And for you?”
“Anything’s fine,” I said. This earned a judging glare, but he deliberated on my behalf before settling on Darjeeling.
Once the water boiled we sat at a small kitchen table, hands wrapped around steaming mugs. The old man sat down to join us, bending his back with a groan. “Now, the briefcase,” he said. I passed it across the table and he produced a small key. He opened it and held up the cassettes, examining each closely. I waited patiently while the wood stove crackled, hoping for some explanation. He said nothing.
“Do you live here?” ventured the accountant.
“Sometimes,” he said. “I’m the keeper.”
“A lighthouse keeper?” I asked.
“Sort of.”
“You didn’t lose power here?” said the accountant.
“Generator,” he said. He set the cassettes on the table. “Listen, I appreciate you keeping our appointment under these adverse conditions. But I need to ask one more thing of you.”
“Okay,” I said cautiously.
“This storm has my rheumatism acting up. Back hurts. Joints are haywire. I need you to take these the rest of the way.” He patted the cassettes.
“The weather is pretty bad,” I said. We had shed our ponchos, but were still conjuring a small lake in his kitchen. “Could we wait it out?”
“No need,” he said. He stood, groaning again, and then walked to the center of the room. He kicked aside a small rug, revealing a round hatch in the floor. “Open that for me, boy.” I left my tea at the table and obliged. The door was heavy, and creaked open slowly. There was a small chute with a ladder inside, going straight down as far as I could see. Red light poured out from the hatch into the room. The ikea lamps and plants suddenly felt like a facade with this portal to hell underneath.
“You want me to go down there?” I said. He nodded. “What for?”
“There are many who would seal this door forever.” The keeper closed his eyes and sighed. “Those who would exonerate us from all responsibility. To be blameless.”
I looked at the accountant. She shrugged. The keeper continued his strange reverie. “But that sort of freedom has indifference at its core.” He opened his eyes and looked at me. “You must go deep within, and choose.” I stood awkwardly above the ladder, unsure what to make of this added assignment.
“My boss,” I started. “He had me bring you–”
“Your boss did a brave thing in crossing the firm,” the keeper interrupted. “For your own safety I can tell you no more.” I again looked to the accountant, who was sipping ginger peach and clearly loving every minute of the show.
“Now,” he said. “Take these down with you.” He slipped the cassettes into my pocket. “At the bottom you will select one. Whichever tape you don’t choose, drop into the river. Don’t stay too long or you will starve.” The cryptic instructions were too much.
“There’s a river down there?” I said. The keeper only nodded. “Which tape should I choose?”
“The choice is yours.”
“Why me, then?” I said.
“My rheumatism,” the keeper reminded me, rubbing his shoulder. Sure, that explained it.
“You want to come?” I asked the accountant. She shook her head.
“I’m claustrophobic,” she said. Oh, come on.
“It’s something you’ll have to do alone regardless,” the keeper said.
“But I’m… claustrophobic too,” I stammered.
“Your boss risked much to make this possible,” the keeper said. “Come now, get on with it.” The accountant cupped a hand to one side of her mouth.
“Yeah, get on with it!” she called. Peanut gallery moral support. I bent to the peer pressure and stuck one leg down to the first metal rung.
“It’s safe?” I said.
“Quite safe,” he said. “Just don’t stay too long.”
“You won’t close this hatch on me?”
“No.” I descended a few more rungs. The accountant started laughing.
“What?” I said.
“You’re halfway through the floor of a lighthouse living room,” she said. I tried to laugh, but it came out fake. I kept climbing down until my head was through the hatch. And then further. After about a minute down the metal tube I looked up to check my progress. I could see the small hole above with two heads leaning over it.
“Bye forever,” she called down. Her voice echoed far past me.
“Ha ha,” I shouted back. I kept climbing. Every so often I passed one of the red industrial lights. By now I was completely submerged in the color red. It felt like my eyes had narrowed their spectrum to this single hue. I started counting rungs but stopped when I broke fifty. I didn’t want to think about it.
A tiny metal tube. A perfect repetition of rungs and lights, nothing to mark the distance I had descended. The only sound was my rubber sneakers squeaking on the metal rungs. Everything was metal. I tasted metal. I had joked about being claustrophobic, but I was starting to wonder if I had ever been in a tight space before. Or maybe this was a fear of heights. I suddenly remembered snorkeling over a coral reef as a child. Preoccupied with a school of fish, I had drifted just past the edge of the reef, and was shocked to discover a vertical drop into the black abyss. I floated there for a moment, shivering in a current of cold water before swimming back to the reef as fast as I could. A fear of infinity.
My arms were starting to feel cramped and tired when I felt a slight breeze from below. It was cool but humid, reminding me of our sunset walk. I began to hear a rushing sound. Soon I could see non-red light below me.
It was a relief when my feet touched the ground. The metal tube had ended in a narrow passage of damp rock. It looked like a natural cave that had been carved at and expanded. I imagined the lighthouse and deep waters far above me, and irrationally felt the roof would cave in any second. I shuddered.
I touched my pocket and felt the cassettes before starting down the winding hall. Incandescent bulbs were strung along the ceiling, just a foot above my head. The cool breeze felt calming, reassuring. It wasn’t long before the passage ended in a small cave.
Directly before my feet was a small creek flowing rapidly through the room from left to right. It appeared and disappeared through slits at the base of the walls. There were large round stepping stones across the creek, and then a large woven red rug in the middle of the room. On the far side, there was something like a giant stereo system that took up the entire wall. I could see knobs and cables, 8-tracks and turntables, speakers and subwoofers. And of course, a cassette player. The machine was a monstrosity. Excessively complex, in a Rube Goldberg fashion. But it looked like it could play anything.
I used the stepping stones and crossed the river. In the center of the rug, I paused and took the cassettes out of my pocket. Green and yellow. And empty, so far as I knew.
Was this some kind of trick? I looked at the two cassettes and tried to think up a pros and cons list between green and yellow. Nothing.
The white noise of the little river was pleasant. I sat down on the red rug and thought about the day. Any clues to make sense of the journey here, or the significance of this choice. I closed my eyes. Green: dentist’s chair. Heineken bottle. Budding trees. Yellow: The accountant’s skirt. Lighthouse sunset.
What possible bearing could that have on these two cassettes? And the supposed bravery of my boss in sending them here. Which one would he want me to choose? Everything only seemed more muddled. I sprawled out on the rug and tried to lay out some facts.
I worked in the marketing department at the firm. Accounting says the books don’t add up. The firm was under scrutiny for corruption. Monopoly, or something. Nervous boss wants me to deliver a briefcase to the Luna Pier lighthouse. Old man in the lighthouse says I must choose a cassette. Yeah, crystal clear.
Suddenly I felt extremely tired. The rush of water filled my mind. I saw a brown ceiling tile. Water damage, I thought. Should I call maintenance? Pros: be a hero, save the office. Cons: I wasn’t one for the limelight. Everyone was gathered around the water cooler, pointing at me. I watched the entire story of fame and collapse unfold like a musician’s biopic.
I shook my head and sat up with the sour taste of sleep in my mouth. This was ridiculous. I should obviously call maintenance and place a work order. I didn’t want water dripping through my office ceiling. I looked around me and saw the two cassettes on the rug. My eyes landed on the yellow tape.
A flash of memory. Autumn leaves, October light filtering through them. Player 3 on N64. I stood and picked up the yellow cassette, and pushed it into the giant machine.
After a few beats of silence, the music started playing. It started small and then the bass kicked in, beautifully mixed and filling the cave. A rich swell of sound that drowned out the river. I felt prickles on my skin, a reverberation in my bones. It was perfect. It was a memory. It was what I wanted to listen to at the dentist. “The words that you could not find,” she sang.
I listened from start to finish, mesmerized. The final notes faded out and the sound of the river slowly returned. Suddenly I remembered the keeper’s instruction: drop the unchosen tape into the river. I picked up the green cassette and held it out over the fast moving water. I stood there with my arm stretched out. Maybe there was hidden music on this one as well? The tape was a crushing presence and the river a magnetic void. A flash of memory to emerald waters and misty mountains. A sweater with a mallard duck on it.
I stood there for a long time. I didn’t know how long. But then, I dropped the tape. It was immediately caught up in the flow and swept out under the cave wall, gone forever.
After that I left the cave and walked back through the rocky passageway to the ladder. I climbed, bathed in the red light. It seemed a little faster on the way up. The circle of light overhead grew larger until finally, I was lifting myself out of the hole. I stood up and looked around the room.
The mugs of tea sat cold on the kitchen table and the wood stove had burned down to coals. Two ponchos on the floor. The accountant and keeper were gone. I walked over to the entry door, paused, and then gave it a shove.
The light outside immediately blinded me. I stumbled out onto the pier with one hand over my face, astonished morning had come so soon. My eyes adjusted and I could see the beach far down the pier. The water was calm and the sky an early blue gray, with the sun beaming out from over land. I walked past a few morning fishermen camped out with coolers and folding chairs.
As I neared the beach, I could see someone sitting in the sand. It was the accountant. She jumped up and waved. “You made it,” she shouted. I descended the cement ramp. She had already sat back down and picked up a cup. “Coffee?” she asked. I collapsed into the sand beside her and greedily accepted. It was cold, but invigorating.
“So, what happened down there?” She elbowed me.
“To be honest, I’m not really sure.”
“That’s okay, you can tell me all about it on the trip back.”
“What about you?”
“Another cup of tea. The keeper told me a story about navigating a ship through a hurricane and I fell asleep on the couch. It was nice.”
“You didn’t keep vigil for me? Ready to call the fire department at a moment’s notice?”
“The fire department?” She laughed. I laid back in the sand, which was still wet from the night’s storm.
“Thanks for the coffee,” I said. “I’m starving though.”
“There’s a breakfast place just up the road that the keeper recommended.”
“What about notifying the press or whatever? Think we have a story?”
“You tell me,” she said. “All I got was a cup of tea and a bedtime story.”
“I don’t know.” I propped myself onto my elbows and took another sip of coffee. “I think we played our part.” It was all I could think of to say.
“Well Monday morning I’ll still be snooping around the accounting office.”
“Fair enough.” I took my time finishing the cold coffee.
A story:
Galavanting 'round the wood
Eric found a group of men
Neatly standing in a row
Cutting flowers at the stem,
Yo.