Some people offer themselves to get the job done for the right price. Finding that job is tough. Getting the right price is tough, too. Putting the two together? Great! But them comes the toughest part, finding out what you have to do for that right price…
The little green man would have been at home on the cover of any 1950s-era pulp science fiction novel. The three digits of its left hand ordered the loose papers which had occupied the desk for the entire 20 minutes the meeting had lasted.
“I guess that’s about it, unless you have any other questions.”
The voice was a tremolo sound reminiscent of someone attempting to talk through a kazoo. The sound was not as bad as the smell of Chinese cooking.
For the hundredth time, the man sitting opposite looked for any indication that this was a test, or that some television personality was going to step out from behind a screen and let him off the hook.
Finally, he gave up and decided to play along. “Just one thing.”
The little green man leaned forward.
“What does this job pay?”
“I am sorry. I forget, sometimes, the need you humans have for compensation. I have been authorized by my employer to offer the standard compensation of your weight in gold for each month of service.”
He quickly did the math in his head. 180 pounds, 16 ounces to the pound, 1080 ounces. Though he didn’t know exactly, gold was at least 400 dollars an ounce.
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
The figure of over a million dollars a month flashed into his head.
“I don’t understand what you mean?”
“A joke. The whole thing is a joke.”
“I assure you, neither my employer nor I have the time or inclination to joke.”
What the hell, it couldn’t get any worse. He had already wasted an entire afternoon coming down to the building on the bus.
“I’ll take it,” he said.
The little green man’s face filled with what the man chose to call an expression of happiness, but could have as likely been a case of the vapors.
“I want my first month’s pay up front. You can deposit it in my bank account.” He took a small pad of paper and copied a routing number down, and slid it across the desk.
“It will be in the account by tomorrow morning. You can step on the scale on your way out.” The little green man stood up and bowed his head slightly. “Let me be the first to welcome you to Transdimensional Incorporated. You can expect an assignment by courier within a week.”
Through the front office, on the scale, and out the front door, he waited for the let-off to the practical joke. It never came.
#
What came the next day was a phone call from the bank, wondering if he was sure that he wanted to have more money in his account than was covered by FDIC insurance. Including the $16.14 that was already in the account, he had a balance of $954,616.14.
Two days later, a red envelope appeared under his door. It changed color as he picked it up. He wondered what sort of heat sensitive die had been used, because as he watched, the envelope changed from red to green in a dispersal pattern that radiated out from his hand.
When the color shift had completed the entire circuit of the envelope, the seal opened.
“Neat effect, that,” he said to the cat.
The sheet inside the envelope transitioned from transparent to translucent. Orange, glowing letters jumped from the page.
YOU HAVE BEEN ASSIGNED A DUTY WHICH WILL COMMENCE IN EXACTLY 24 HOURS 5 MINUTES AND 6 SECONDS.
The numbers counted downward.
The letter did more to convince him than the call from the bank. Still he wondered, just for the sake of argument, what type of job could pay that exorbitant sum of money. He realized he should prepare for anything, and there was no time like the present.
It was 7:00 A.M. on a Saturday. He wondered if weight in gold included time and a half for weekends.
There were very few memories left over from his days in the Boy Scouts, but they included the saying he remembered repeating over and over, “Be Prepared.” He took down an old canvas backpack, his good companion through summer adventures. Treasures long forgotten still filled the pockets.
He manually started the coffee pot that was set to drip at 9:00 A.M. on weekends and proceeded to take inventory.
His hand on the black phenolic handle of the fixed blade knife he had saved up his lawn-mowing money to purchase was like saying hello to an old friend. It was still as sharp as the day he put it away.
He looked at the brass marching compass his father had given him, another friend. The old notebook, stubs of pencil, two cravats and a first aid kit went next to the compass.
Closer inspection of the first aid kit gave him a place to start. Each of the packages of medicine he had prepared in his youth had become unusable with time. He salvaged the containers, walked into the hallway and locked his apartment door behind him.
#
“Hello, neighbor,” Mrs. Krovotin greeted him in the hallway and bent down to pick up her newspaper. “You’re up early for a weekend.”
“Couldn’t sleep on such a nice day,” he answered and took the garbage bag she held in her hand. She had been a project of his since her husband died three years ago. Now as always, it made him feel good to help her with some of her chores.
He made a mental note to try to figure out how to get her some of the money in the event something happened to him.
That was the thing, he had no idea what this envelope, big-headed green dude, loads of money business was about. This Transdimensional-whatever-it-was might just be an excuse to use him as a piece of ground round for an intergalactic buffet. He hadn’t seen a contract, and for all he knew, he was going to be exsanguinated the moment he showed up for work.
All he could do now was spend a lot of money.
He waited until his bank opened and walked inside.
Having never had the experience, he was surprised at how easy it was to withdraw $20,000 in cash.
He ducked into a stationery shop and purchased a small gift box, a dozen stamps, a Big Indian Chief writing tablet, and a half-dozen ballpoint pens. He applied too many stamps to the box, borrowed a thick black marker, and wrote Mrs. Krovotin’s name and address on the outside of the box.
He dropped the package in a mailbox in front of the diner, bought a donut and a cup of coffee, and proceeded to stare at the first blank page of the Big Indian. It took him three more cups to formulate a plan.
“In all the possible places in the world you could go,” he asked the waitress, “where do you think the worst would be?”
She filled his cup. “You mean besides working in this place?”
“Yes, besides this place.”
“I don’t know, maybe working up on one of those crab boats in Alaska.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s cold, and you can lose an arm or a leg in a second, and those boats go down all the time, but most importantly, there’s no place to run.”
He scratched “no place to run,” as she moved toward the end of the counter.
The words stuck in his mind.
He walked to the sporting goods store as a cure for the coffee shakes. The sole employee of Phil’s Camp and Golf, a young woman in a too-tight mini-skirt accepted a trip to South America as his excuse.
One by one, she picked up items and said, “very lightweight, but a bit expensive,” or “quite useful.”
He added each suggested item to the pile.
Soon, very lightweight combined to make the pack straps cut into his shoulders. Outside, he held off calling the cab when he saw the hand-painted sign across the street; Nasser’s Shooting Sports.
After Nasser finished his consult, his burden increased greatly. South America had changed to Alaska, and hitchhiking to hunting. He left with two pistols, a rifle, and a shotgun. Nasser was more than happy to arrange a cab.
#
The Orange numbers read 10 hours.
He felt silly about his new arsenal until he remembered the waitress’s remark.
“Nowhere to run,” he said to himself.
It was scary when on a boat fishing, but at least that was a known risk. When that clock clicked zero, he was going to step into the unknown.
He ordered a pepperoni pizza and sat down with the manuals from everything he purchased. When the pizza arrived, he knew that operating the stove the young woman with the nose ring had sold him was much harder than operating the firearms. He gave the delivery man a very large tip, and read while he ate.
#
He fell asleep in front of the TV and dreamed about someone trying to beat down his front door. When he pried his eyes open, the numbers read just over two hours. He identified Mrs. Krevotin’s voice, but not the meaning of her words.
He broke the daze of first awakening from sleep until he managed to make himself listen to her say something about a man.
“Slow down, Mrs. Krevotin,” he said.
“There is a man trying to break into the house,” she got the whole sentence out between excited breaths.
“I’ll go have a look,” he started for the door, then as an afterthought, slid the pistol he had left on the coffee table down into the pocket of his shorts.
Mrs. K. had, earlier in the month, tried to convince him the house was burning down when the super was only burning weeds in the backyard. Then, in the same week, swore the ghost of her dead son was trying to convey messages to her through the water pipes. The old girl was off her bird, but still his project.
He pulled a long-tailed shirt on to cover the gun, then investigated. He had always tried to be observant of the things around him, and even though he knew this was one of Mrs. K’s less lucid moments, he reminded himself to remain vigilant.
Behind the building, Mr. Jones, despite his weed burning, had let the lot grow wild. Anarchy and chaos had long ago usurped the neat rows of roses and walkways that Mrs. K’s husband had so meticulously managed before his death.
When he saw the broken window, he looked around for any sign of the kids who seemed the most likely suspects. With no evidence of either a Peeping Tom or kids, he returned to see if an offending baseball might have landed in the stairwell.
He searched for the baseball, then waited for Mrs. K’s close-set eyes to gaze out from behind the chain.
“Whoever it was is gone now, Mrs. K.”
He thought for a moment, then added, “I didn’t tell you that I got called out as a consultant this week on a project, so I am leaving this morning and won’t be back for a while. Would you mind bringing in my mail while I am gone?”
She nodded yes.
“I’ll leave a note for Mr. Jones to fix the window before I go.”
“Thanks for minding the craziness of an old lady,” she said and shut the door behind herself.
“Not too crazy to know exactly who you are,” he whispered and turned back to his own door.
He rushed as the weight of the pistol threatened to lower his shorts. The potential embarrassment was worth it, once he saw the man in a black suit sitting on his couch.
“No need to be alarmed,” the man said.
“Who the hell are you?” he parried, instantly wishing that he would have said something witty. A life of action and adventure, he realized, was harder than he assumed.
“That’s no concern of yours.”
“Do you think that it might be a concern of the bullet that I’m going to put in your head?” he said feeling somewhat vindicated.
“I am a representative of your government.”
The sound of it was funny. He had said your government. Not the government.
“I voted for the other guys,” he said.
“I’m here about this,” the man lifted the red envelope off the table.
1 HOUR 30 MINUTES.
“We have reason to believe that you are the victim of fraud,” the man said.
He wondered if the fraud accountant had the figures in the wrong column.
“If you come in and sit down, I’ll explain it to you.”
“Why don’t you go ahead and throw some form of identification over here,” he said.
A witticism didn’t come to mind.
The leather wallet hit the ground at his feet. He tried to look cool while retrieving the wallet, but settled on an ungraceful groping while the gun cut large figure eights in the air.
The ID, complete with smart card chip, looked real enough. He expected the logo to read FBI, or CIA, or even given his recent experiences, NASA. Surprisingly, it read USDA.
“Will you please put your gun on the table?”
“I don’t have a gun,” the man said.
“Then stand up and face the wall.”
“Why are you here?” he asked when he was finished patting down the man.
“Because of this. We have reason to believe you have been contacted by a foreign government. In fact,” he pointed to the envelope, “we know it.”
“When did the USDA become Homeland Security?”
“Trust me, the threat that you pose is every bit as serious as the one we face in the war on terror.”
“I don’t see myself as any kind of threat at all.”
“Have you ever heard of the zebra mussel?”
“I can’t say as I have.”
“It is a sea creature that came to our shorelines from Russia. It sits in the bottom of the ocean and filters out a lot of the plankton that other species, native species, need to live. Nasty thing, really. Great in Russia where it belongs, not so hot here where it is single-handedly killing a half-dozen species.”
“I still don’t see what that has to do with me.”
“The zebra mussel got here somehow. Most likely, it came in ballast tanks of ocean freighters.”
“What’s your point?”
“My point is that we’re watching whatever game you’re playing, and we’ll be here when your new friend leaves you. You’ve been warned.”
The agent stood up and collected his ID.
“What about my window?”
“We have a repairman on retainer.”
The thoughts of unauthorized wiretaps flashed through his mind.
“Don’t worry about it, I have my own guy.”
Fifteen minutes later, he stopped shaking. He had never been in trouble in his entire life, let alone been important enough to have a rock thrown through his window.
He called a repairman and a landscaper.
When the clock read all zeros, he picked up his duffel bag full of guns and his backpack. He waited for a door to another universe to open in his living room. When the taxi horn sounded in the alley, he felt let down.
The taxi didn’t grow wings, fly, or turn invisible. It did, however, make its way to the business district.
“Where are we headed?” he asked the cabbie.
“Two Twenty Four Lincoln, sir,” he said. “I was to give you this.”
He slid an envelope through a thin slit in the bulletproof Plexiglas. In his hands, the letters again appeared.
You have been awarded a contract as a courier. You will take receipt of and provide safe return of a package to the initiating station. You will not engage in any non-sanctioned activity during assignment.
Operation predicted completion: 3 days Earth standard. Success rate prediction: 22%.
The message dissolved with the smell of fresh cut grass.
“Help with your bags, sir?” the driver asked as he stopped the cab. He didn’t have the normal rushed look.
“I have them. What do I owe you?”
“Fare is paid, sir.”
“Thank you just the same,” he slid a $20 bill through the slot.
“Thank you, sir,” the driver said and roared away from the curb.
He walked up the steps of the small, out-of-place building.
The door to what he figured was a portal to another dimension opened. The inside, a greenhouse, seemed bigger than the building itself.
#
“Welcome. Mr.…” The old man with the pruning shears closed his eyes. “I am afraid that I don’t know your name. The contract sheet only had a number, 8886 as I recall.”
He set down his bags and spoke. “My name is…”
The man held up his hands. “Maybe it would be good for you and I to not get too acquainted. Eight eight…” his voice trailed off. “Perhaps I should call you Octavio. It does seem a bit more personal than 8886.”
“Octavio is fine, sir. What should I call you?”
“Mr. Pennyweight,” the man said. “Now, down to business.”
On a table among the flowers was a very expensive looking silver tea set. Mr. Pennyweight poured tea and offered biscuits covered with pure white powdered sugar.
“As you can see, my adventuring days are over. I’ve made in the past, shall we say, a few good friends. Among them is the employer of your recruiter.”
“So, what is the job?”
“Ah yes, the vulgarity of youth. I am sure that you and your video game-trained mind wants to get straight to it then.”
“I am sorry,” Octavio said.
“Don’t be. The impetuousness of youth was exactly why you were recruited.”
“What about the newspaper ad?”
“There were some additional investigations.”
“I saw the success rate for this mission was 22%”.
“Simply a number, shall we discuss the mission? I have arranged for you to travel some distance, at great speed, but if all goes well, you may be back tomorrow for lunch.”
“78% of the time, you mean.”
“There are many ways to fail, and only one way to succeed. You may die in transit, or fail to retrieve the specimen, both failures, but not both fatal.”
“Specimen?”
“Yes, a group of scientists have recently discovered a motive plant species. You will collect a specimen and return it to me.”
“A plant that walks?”
“You pass the vocabulary portion of the lesson. Now tell me what you have in the bags?”
Octavio placed each of the items on the workbench.
One by one, the old man looked at them and shook his head. He paid close attention to the firearms, picking up each one and holding it as if it was a key to the memories of his past.
“You will need none of this.”
There was an honest sadness in his voice. “I know your own kit is always better than one which is provided to you, but I must insist that you use the equipment the company provides. For the safety of the specimen. I will hold these things for your return.”
The motion of Octavio’s head nod made the room spin.
“You are feeling the effect of the soporific I put in your tea. When you wake, you will be in the last staging area before you go to collect the sample. Good luck.”
The words faded and he dreamed of falling.
#
Octavio was alone in a room with bare gray walls. A robotic arm that buzzed out from one of the walls and grew the face of the old man.
“Good day to you, Octavio. Forgive me for not asking how your trip went. I know that you have no idea.”
“Where am I?”
The IV lines that hung from his arm retracted into the wall.
He stood as the electrodes that covered his body followed the IV.
“You are at the destination for your assignment. Pay close attention to what you are about to see.”
A panoramic image replaced a wall.
“Out on the surface of the planet is our plant. Adults are approximately 3 feet tall and weigh 50 lbs. I need you to focus on the juveniles. They look quite different from the adults.”
The wall changed from the alien landscape to a close-up picture of two plants. The larger one looked like it could walk, but the smaller looked like something Mr. K might have planted in the back lot.
The voice continued. “In order to collect one of the juveniles, you will have to remove it from the soil where it has rooted. The adults are harmless if you don’t startle them. They secrete a warning pheromone that will induce stress in the youngster. Be as docile as possible.”
A locker popped open with the smell of fruit.
“The smell is a synthetic pheromone in the clothing. It will calm the juvenile. Your collection bucket and digging spade are all you need. Once out the door, proceed in the direction of the moon. You should come upon a colony of the plants in less than a half mile. Place the juvenile in the collection container and return. Any questions?”
He picked up the small shovel and the collection container and walked out onto the planet’s surface.
“Nowhere to run,” he said.
The question he didn’t ask was why didn’t they use the robotics to buzz out, dig up one of the samples and buzz back to the safety of the container?
He didn’t have long to ponder before the purpose of his coming to this place loomed against the light of the moon. He could see several of the plants standing around in a protective circle guarding the youngsters. Their posture was far from docile.
One of the largest of the plants violently plucked one of the juveniles out of the ground as if attacking another plant’s offspring. He knew he couldn’t understand the motives of an alien species, much less a plant, so he focused on the job. He calmly put his shovel to the side of one of the juveniles before he heard the rustling behind him.
He remembered the old man’s advice about docility. He slowly put his foot back on the shovel and leaned his weight into it.
The sharp pain in his side made him drop the shovel. His hand dropped to the pain then came up bloody. He saw a large sharp barb retract into the largest of the plants.
He started to run. The plants were motive, but couldn’t be fast. He didn’t stop until he saw one of the robotic arms emerge from the container. He was not awake long enough to learn what medical care they provided.
#
He dreamed of snippets of conversation filled with celebratory tones. He dreamed of falling.
The sound of men working in the backyard woke him. He looked out as the landscapers he had hired were offloading plants.
He absently scratched at the place he had been stung by the plant, then he looked at the bruising around a single, very small hole.
He heard a knock on his door.
“That wasn’t a very long trip,” Mrs. K. said. In one hand, she held a single day’s mail; in the other, he saw a food container that had been cracked to allow steam to escape from the lid.
He smelled the heavenly scent of Mrs. K’s split pea soup. She fished a spoon out of her apron and put it in front of him. He spooned the green goop into his mouth.
“You got in late last night,” she said.
“I don’t remember.”
“You start drinking again?” she asked.
“Not since the kidney scare,” he said.
“That’s good. I saw that man again. The one who broke the window. I think he is sleeping in his car across the street. Are you in trouble with debts?” she asked.
“Far from it, Mrs. K.” he said. “I think that I won the lottery. I’m just not feeling too well.”
“Maybe you should get some sleep. If you can, that is, with all that racket.”
She left him alone to finish his soup.
A telephone call told him his bank balance had doubled.
He had failed, hadn’t he?
In the mirror, he saw the puncture mark had scabbed over. The bruising had begun to radiate as far as he could see by craning his neck to the rear.
No doubt, the robotic arm saved his life.
The warm water would allow him to think. He had no idea what had just happened, and he knew the old man lied about the danger, but he had been in the dark and deceived before for a lot less money.
He decided to shut up and hang on for the ride, even if he wasn’t clear about what the ride entailed.
A sharp pain so deep that it felt as if it was coming in from the other side of his body chased his daydream of being rich out of his head. It was like someone had inserted a hot coal deep inside of him.
On his knees, he felt the entry wound react to his touch. He felt a quiver, then the sharp pain again, then blackness.
He woke to the ringing of the phone and cold water.
At least the pain was gone.
The source of the ringing was a mobile phone next to his bed.
“Hello.”
“No doubt by now, you have realized why it was that we couldn’t use robotics to make the collection.” It was Mr. Pennyweight.
“What the hell have you done to me?”
“Go to your bathroom and open the medicine chest. In the white bottle, there is a single day’s dose of resistance drugs. The plant embryo inside of you produces toxic byproducts. The third and fourth carriers died horrible deaths because of this. Take the pills now.”
“What the hell have you done to me?” he repeated, but not before he swallowed the pills. He immediately felt better—a placebo effect?
“Today and every day, you will get a new dose. If you do not do exactly as you are told, the medicine will not be delivered.”
“I need a doctor.”
“A doctor can do nothing, the seedling has rooted to your nervous system. You will be free in three weeks’ time, and a very rich man. You will feel the most pain in the shower, but you must shower three times per day. The plant gets its moisture from your skin. A list of instructions will come with the next dose of medicine, try to relax and don’t stray too far from home.”
Octavio ignored him, put on his jacket, and walked out the front door. He had wanted a cup of coffee so bad, he was drooling by the time the bell above the diner door rang.
The place was deserted.
“Missed you the last couple of days,” his waitress said.
“I was on a business trip, can I get a coffee?”
When she put the coffee down on the table in front of him, he glanced up through the steam into the street.
In the late model sedan on the curb was, tired eyed and unshaven, his friend from the USDA.
“Don’t you think that you would be more comfortable inside?” he yelled out the door.
The man said nothing.
“Let me buy you a coffee at least.”
The coffee turned into juice, a danish, and four more cups of coffee, black.
When the man looked human again, Octavio asked, “What more do you know about zebra mussels?”
“The zebra mussels don’t matter as much as the whole story,” the man said and ordered a second danish. “The point is that throughout our history as a country, stupid people without foresight have made some pretty bad decisions. Half of the endangered species in the world are endangered because of the introduction of some form of invasive species. Look at the Australian cane toad or leafy spurge. Every time someone tries to bring in a plant or animal to fix a problem, or for aesthetics, it is a potential disaster. That is where I come in.”
“So why the interest in me?”
The man hesitated, then spoke.
“You responded to an advertisement for consulting work. Do you have any idea who it was that you were consulting for?”
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
“Try me.”
“Little green men from space.”
“In my previous life, I was a biologist, so forgive me if I ask for something that is more taxonomically significant.”
“I spoke with one guy, he did have a green complexion and was small in stature.”
“Was he bipedal?”
“What?”
“Bipedal? Two-legged?”
“Five or three fingers to a hand?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Think about it, it is pretty important.”
“Three, I think, with pointed teeth and no ears.”
“Good, the answer is three fingers, Extratrifolus Gargantas, or as we like to call them, the Gargs. Some of them still think that they are pulling a fast one over on us, but the net is tightening. Generally, they are benign and attempt to steer clear of trouble, but this one is a rogue. I need to know what it asked you.”
“I had a meeting with him, he offered me a job, I told him I couldn’t meet his requirements.”
The old man’s comments about his need for the drugs were still fresh in his mind.
“What kind of job?”
“I didn’t ask. I thought the whole thing was a put-on. I half expected Allen Funt to pop out from behind a screen. The Garg is it, said he needed me for eight weeks. I said I had family commitments.”
“Where were you the last few days?”
“Look, I got an offer, I said no.”
Octavio understood he was trapped by the foresight of the people who had offered him the job. He had his carrot at the end of the stick, and the whip. Given his current financial situation, a $25,000 fine wouldn’t be too much to bear, and if he didn’t get the medicine, he would die.
#
He fell asleep in front of the TV.
The package under the door contained three laminated sheets of paper and a blister pack of pills which he swallowed one at a time.
He hoped, for a fleeting moment, they weren’t making him an addict, but tried to focus on keeping the pain away.
He read the sheets.
DON’T LEAVE THE IMMEDIATE AREA.
DON’T PANIC WHEN MOVEMENT IS SENSED IN THE AREA OF THE PUNCTURE.
DON’T PROBE.
DON’T BE ALARMED IF FLAGELLA IS OBSERVED PROTRUDING FROM THE HOLE.
“WHAT!?” Octavio exclaimed.
DO SHOWER THRICE DAILY.
DO EAT REGULARLY.
DO, MOST IMPORTANTLY, TAKE THE MEDICATION WHEN IT ARRIVES.
The list was a hard slap in the face that he was involved, and there was nothing that he could do.
Out the window, the USDA agent, more alert now, wore a look of unkempt wildness.
#
The living thing inside him grew.
First, one day passed, then another. It was a parade of rigor, a path of boredom. Every day, he ate, and showered, and slept, and looked out the window at the USDA man, and every day his stomach grew.
Each day, in the hour before the pills came, he paced and looked longingly at the thin black crack under the door.
His body began to swell as the tentacles extended further out the hole in his side. He arrived at the point where even the daily phone call to the automated bank balance phone line didn’t help.
In the darkness of the morning of the 21st day, he slept on his side in search of comfort. The pain came in cycles, at first an ache, then the thought of death by fire. He was lying on his side in front of the door when the last blister pack of pills came with a note and a small pouch.
APPLY CONTENTS THOROUGHLY TO PUNCTURE SITE
He took his pills and waited for a calm that never came.
He summoned all his courage, ripped open the packet, and spread a glowing green substance onto his wound. The opening stretched as the organism inside of him pushed its feelers up and out of the hole. He watched as a miniature replica of the very thing that attacked him unfolded itself.
He heard someone scream, and only when the screaming stopped did he realize that the voice had been his own. The realization lasted less than a second before he was engulfed in darkness.
#
The USDA man was standing over him holding a gun.
The door hung on a single hinge.
Paralyzed, he watched as the USDA man threw a bag up in the air in a well-practiced arc around the small plant.
“What will you do with it?” he asked the USDA man through the fog of the pain.
“Have you ever heard of the zebra mussel?” he asked, then pointed the gun squarely at the center of his forehead.
He could see the USDA man’s finger tighten on the trigger, but the bang he expected was interrupted by the sound of voices on the stairwell.
“Thanks for the donut,” the USDA man said and dove out the window.
#
Mrs. K. shook him into consciousness.
“Where did he go!” he yelled and found that there was no pain at all when he tried to stand.
“Where did who go?”
“The man who has been sitting outside of our building for the last few weeks, the man who was just here.”
“There was no man, dear.”
The wood frame on his door was not broken. It was as if what Mrs. K. said was true. He felt his side for a hole that wasn’t there.
In the bathroom, the empty blister packages that filled his trash were gone.
Out the back window, the trimmed trees and manicured garden broke the sense of a dream.
“Mrs. Krevotin?” he asked. “Did you get an envelope from me a few days back?”
“Yes. There was a message to not open it unless I hadn’t heard from you in two weeks. It is still in my china cabinet next to the porcelain dog you gave me on Mother’s Day.” She went to stand up.
“Stay put, hon. Let me make you a cup of tea. You can open that letter when you get home.”
He smiled at the thought of the big stack of bills and put his mind to small talk and fighting off the thanks that Mrs. K. gave him for having the repairs done, and dutifully. When Mrs. K. looked sleepy, he walked her back to her room, then called the memorized bank number fearing failure meant no money. He saw that he had been paid in full, with a bonus.
In his easy chair, alone with a beer, he waited for the nightly news, but was interrupted by a rustle of an envelope pushed under the door.
He opened it.
CONTRACT TERMINATED, BONUS AWARDED FOR SUCCESSFUL COMPLETION. PERFORMANCE EVALUATION EXCELLENT. QUALIFIED FOR ADDITIONAL CONTRACTS. PLEASE CONTACT OFFICE AT FIRST CONVENIENCE.
Scrawled in handwriting under the last line read…
Have you ever heard of the zebra mussel?
END
