Original story below, but you can find a revamped version in my collection "The Joke's on Me: and six other twisted stories of absurdity and regret", available on Amazon!
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I had a little side business, just something that turned my hobby into cold hard cash. I had a real part-time job, but the stream trickling from this one wasn’t too shabby and it was a lucrative way to flex my creative muscle.
It was simple: You’d send me a name, number, date, phrase, or anything you found worthy and I’d create a unique design based off of it. Only you knew what it stood for (and me, of course).
It incorporated all the letters and/or numbers and I could make them immediately identifiable, vaguely indicative, or heavily coded, as per your request. By coded, I mean something ridiculous and fun, depending on my imagination and any particular theme you had in mind. There was no logic to the method and no two designs were coded the same way.
I’d done requests for anniversaries, birthdays, graduations, baby showers, and more, and my clients loved it when I told them how their custom-made design was coded. It was like they had a pretty little secret no one else knew.
I usually received requests via email, but today I was sitting in the university library, waiting for a client who insisted we meet in person. It wasn’t an odd request, some people just weren’t computer literate. He also requested I book Private Study Room #2, one of the older rooms with a classic chalkboard and no fancy technology.
I’d been sitting inside for five minutes, playing on my phone, when the door squeaked open and a weary, middle-aged man peeked in.
“Neil?”
I put my phone down. “Yes. You must be Abner?”
The man nodded and took a furtive glance outside before he entered the room, closed the door, and set a chair in front of it. He began inspecting his surroundings, and I tried to ignore his paranoid mannerisms as I pulled out my sketchpad.
“Alright. So, what would you like to immortalize?” I joked.
“Before we begin, please turn off your mobile and any electronics you may have.”
I sighed. Great, one of these wackos. I showed him my phone and turned it off in front of him. “I don’t have other electronics on me. So, what do you want me to design?”
He sat down across from me, pulling out a folded envelope from inside his jacket. “It’s written in here. I don’t know what it is.”
“Okay …” I said as I reached for it.
He didn’t hand it over. “Make sure it’s difficult to decipher.”
My fingers twitched with impatience. “Sure thing."
He still didn’t relinquish it. “You can read your designs, correct?”
I retracted my hand. “Yes. Look, if that’s a problem and you don’t want to do this, it’s cool.”
I made to stand up, but Abner said, “No, no, that’s good. Stay. I want you to draw it here.”
I gave him an exasperated sigh. “Look, pal, I’ve got a class in an hour and these take me three hours minimum, much longer if you want it ‘difficult to decipher’. I’ll have it ready for you by tomorrow.”
“No, I need it done now, immediately. I’ll pay you ten times your fee for the rush order.”
It was hard to say no to money.
“It won’t be my best work,” I said as I sat back down.
He nodded and slid the envelope to me. “Don’t show me what’s written on it. Don’t take photos. Don’t say it out loud. Keep everything discrete.”
“No problem, pal. Just let me concentrate.”
I took the envelope and tore it open, only to find it empty. I gave Abner a quizzical frown, and he gave me an encouraging nod in return. I scrutinized the inside of the envelope and found a thin ribbon of paper right along the bottom crease. I took it out. It had an eight-digit number typed on it. I shrugged, I’d done numbers before.
I sketched out a general outline, coding the numbers the best way I could while trying to keep the design pleasing to look at. I still had a reputation to uphold. After forty-five minutes, I’d created my final design, signed it, and slid it over to Abner, who’d been observing me from across the table the entire time.
“You can read this, correct?” he asked as he inspected my work.
“Yes.”
He unceremoniously shoved my design in his jacket. “Please place the strip of paper back in the envelope and give it to me.”
I followed his directions, and he stuffed the envelope in his pocket before he threw a stack of money across the table. I reached for it, and I flinched when he grabbed my wrist.
I tried to pull away as I growled in offense, “Hey! What— ...” I looked up and saw his eyes boring into mine with such gravity that I stopped talking.
“If anyone asks about the design, tell them it’s for my grandmother’s birthday,” he said with surprising sternness. “Gertrude, March 23, 1907.”
Wow, this guy was more paranoid than I thought.
“Look, pal, the design is yours. It doesn’t even exist in my portfolio. No one is going to ask me anything, okay?”
He pulled out a small strip of paper and slid it to me. It had two words written on it in neat, tiny print.
spike seven
I shot him a baffled look as he whispered, “Only if someone gives you this phrase do you tell them what the design really says.” He folded the strip and popped it into his mouth, swallowing it. “For everyone else, it’s Gertrude’s birthday, March 23, 1907. Can you remember that?”
“Yes. Ancient Granny Gertrude, March 23, 1907. Got it.”
“Promise me you’ll never tell anyone the real number without the phrase.” He tightened his grip on my wrist. “Promise me.”
“Ow, what’s with the drama, pal?” I said, trying to shake him off. “I promise, okay?”
With that, he let go of my hand, thanked me, and exited the study room, leaving me a little bewildered, a little irritated, and a little richer.
…
It was finals season and I was cramming like usual down at the library. All of the cubicles were taken, so I had no choice but to share a four-seater table with a trio of obnoxious students. After a few hours, they left, but I didn’t get to enjoy my solitude before others took their place. I tried to ignore them, but they made it difficult as one of them spoke up.
“Are you Neil?”
I turned towards the person to my left. He wasn’t a student. He didn’t look like a professor either. He was giving off a shady door-to-door salesman vibe.
“One of many,” I replied. “Who are you?”
“We’re friends of Abner’s,” he said, gesturing to the two other shady salesmen occupying my table. “We believe you knew him?”
It’d been a few months since I met Abner, but his name and mannerisms were hard to forget. He was an edgy fellow and, if these were his friends, I could see why.
I put on an expression of deep thought. “I do some art stuff on the side, he may’ve been a client.”
The man pulled out a piece of paper from his shirt pocket and unfolded it, revealing Abner’s design. “Art like this?”
“Right, yea.”
“Abner gave us this. It’s really something. You’ve got talent.”
“Thanks. If you want your own, it’ll have to wait until after finals. I’m swamped.” I handed him one of my business cards. “You can email me and we can go from there.”
I turned back to my book, hoping they’d take the hint, but they remained sitting. The man to my left slid Abner’s design over the page I was reading and I looked at him in exasperation.
“What does this say?” he asked.
“Look, pal, I’m trying to study here. I’ve got a final tomorrow.”
“Your website says you know what each of your designs says.”
“Right, and I tell the clients how to read them." I shoved the design to the side. "So, ask Abner if you want to know."
“Abner unfortunately passed away.”
I turned to him in surprise. “Oh, I’m sorry. My condolences.”
“Accepted. It’s the reason we’re coming to you. We believe he left something important in this design for us. It would mean a lot if you interpreted it.”
Uncertainty coated my mind as Abner’s paranoia became understandable. What was the code word? Spike seven? These guys didn’t say it, so they got the birthday instead. I rifled through my mind, looking for the trick I used to remember the name and date Abner gave me.
“I don’t know how important a birthdate is, but it’s his grandmother’s birthday,” I said, buying myself time.
“What is it?”
I sighed, irritated. “I’ve been cramming a billion terms over the past few hours, I’d be lucky if I remembered my own name.”
“The design is right here, just read it for us,” The man said, a smirk dancing on his lips. “You don’t need your memory for that, do you?”
I snatched the design with a grumpy scowl and pretended to study it. “Gertrude.” I announced, mentally sighing in relief that I remembered. The name was enough to draw out the rest of Abner’s lie. “March 23, 1907. There, are you happy?”
The man smiled as he took the paper from me. “Thank you, Neil. Good luck on your exams.”
The three men left, and I shook away the discomfort as I returned to my book.
…
Finals were over and summer was making everything humid and sticky. Thankfully, my tedious part-time job was indoors, where I sorted and filed documents until my shift was up. When noon hit, I shuffled along with the herd of white collars to the nearby coffee shop and grabbed myself some lunch.
On the way back to the office, while holding a can of iced tea and scarfing down a tuna melt, I felt a firm hold on my elbow. I jumped and pulled back, dropping my sandwich as I grabbed the offending hand and tried to pry it off. It was unrelenting, and it belonged to a formidable man in a nice suit. His other hand shifted his jacket to the side, discreetly revealing a gun.
“Neil, come with me, let’s not make a scene.”
I looked up at him in confusion. “Who are you? How do you know me?”
“Come with me and we’ll tell you.”
He pulled on my arm and I planted my feet on the ground as I turned to the horde of pedestrians for help. All were blind to my distress as they passed around us like we were a boulder in the middle of a stream, preoccupied with either getting lunch, getting back to work, or getting as intimate as possible with their phones.
“Neil, let’s not make a scene,” the man repeated with another inconspicuous flash of his gun. “We just want to talk.”
Afraid that “making a scene” would result in collateral damage, I let him lead me down an alley towards an ominous corner, regretting my compliance with every step. There, parked in the shade, was a black limousine with tinted windows.
The formidable man opened the door and gestured inside with one hand while his other rested on his gun. Not having much of a choice, I got in, and he slid in right after, sandwiching me between himself and another muscular, suited man to my left. I clutched my iced tea in both hands as I looked at the dignified, middle-aged lady sitting across from me.
“Hello, Neil,” she said with a pleasant smile. “We’re sorry to interrupt your lunch break. This shouldn’t take more than a few seconds.” She pulled out Abner’s cursed design. “If you could decipher this, we’d be much obliged.”
I was starting to rue the day I met Abner. I didn’t want to drag this conversation on any longer than it needed to be.
I pretended to scrutinize the paper before saying, “It’s a birthd—”
“The truth, please.”
I was taken aback by her accusation, despite it being warranted. “That’s what the client told me. His grandmother’s birthday. Gertrude. March 23, 1907.”
“I don’t doubt Abner told you to say that, but I want to know what’s really hidden here,” the lady said.
I tried to hide my nervous gulp. She seemed a lot more informed than the shady door-to-door salesmen.
“Look, lady, all I know is that it’s his grandmother’s birthday. If he had something hidden in the date, he didn’t tell me.”
“Neil,” she said with insincere concern, “Abner did you a disservice, getting you involved in his schemes. He wasn’t a good man. He intercepted something that was meant for us. An eight-digit number.” A satisfied smile curled her lips. “I can see you know what I’m talking about.”
I cursed my candid expressions. “No, I’m just surprised he wasn’t a good man. He was a bit high-strung, but he didn’t seem bad.”
“People aren’t always what they seem, but I knew Abner, and I know he told you to keep the number a secret and I know he told you not to give it to anyone unless they had a code word,” she said, startling me. “I do respect that you’re honoring your client’s wishes, but you should understand that Abner wasn’t of sound mind. The number is very important and we need to know it.”
“I’m sorry, but I can’t help you,” I said. “I don’t know anything about that. Maybe he gave the number to some other person.”
I shrank back as the lady reached over, plucked my iced tea out of my hands, and placed it in one of the limousine’s many cup holders. She then attempted to hand me the paper, but I kept my fists clenched against my legs. She wasn’t discouraged and placed the design on my lap.
“Neil, forget whatever boogeyman stories Abner told you about us. We’re the good guys.” She reached into her bag, pulled out a fat envelope, and showed me the contents. “Consider this our appreciation for your assistance.”
It was really hard to say no to money, especially that kind of money, but I held my ground for the sake of my integrity.
“Look, lady, Abner didn’t tell me anything about you. He was just a client and he didn’t talk much. He wanted his granny’s birthdate. We exchanged a few words. I gave him the design. He paid me. That’s it.”
“Neil, let’s not make things harder for the both of us.”
She nodded towards the formidable man, and he brandished his gun.
I knew Abner was adamant that I not reveal the number to anyone without the secret phrase, but he failed to mention that it could cost me my life. I definitely wasn’t willing to die over a promise I made to a deceased, paranoid client who may or may not have been a good guy.
“Fine! Okay,” I said as I snatched the paper off my lap.
The lady smiled and leaned back, observing me as I scrutinized my artwork. It took me a while, but I managed to make out all eight numbers and their order. My mind nudged me, reminding me promises should not be broken. I nudged it back, reminding it my life was on the line. My foolhardiness nudged us both, suggesting I make up a number.
So, I did.
To my dismay, the lady made a call right away and relayed the phony number to the recipient on the other end. I tried to hold an earnest expression as I rolled the paper and placed it in one of the empty cup holders.
The lady hung up, pursing her lips the way my mother did when she found out I’d gone and done something exceptionally stupid. Sweat dripped down my back as I struggled to maintain my façade of innocence, the dense smell of cologne and leather inside the stuffy limousine making me queasy.
She picked up the paper, unrolled it, and presented it to me again. “Neil, I’m afraid that number is incorrect. I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt that you may have misread your work. Try again. We can’t afford another mistake.”
“That’s the number he gave me,” I insisted, backing up my lie as I looked into her eyes with what I hoped was sincerity.
I jumped when the man to my left spoke up. “Let me talk to him alone,” he said, his deep voice measured and foreboding.
The lady didn’t even take a second to deliberate his offer. “Don’t make a mess, Bruno,” she blithely warned as she handed him the paper and began sliding towards the exit.
Okay, I was ready to accept my cowardice and spill the secret. “N—”
My surrender was interrupted by one of my grunts as Bruno punched me in the stomach. I curled into myself, croaking, and the formidable man and the lady ignored me as they exited the limousine. The formidable man slammed the door shut and stood in front of it, giving my attacker and me inescapable privacy.
I scooted away from Bruno, fully prepared to save him the effort once I stopped wheezing and found my voice. Before I could say a word, though, I flinched as he placed his hand over my mouth and brought a finger to his in a silent “shh”. This was the exact opposite of what I thought they wanted, but I gave him a shaky nod and he retracted his hand.
He shifted in his seat to face me, removed his jacket, and rolled up his sleeves, revealing sinewy arms that could crush me like an autumn leaf. I recoiled when he reached into his pocket, but instead of a weapon, he pulled out a pen. I watched, perplexed, as he wrote something on his arm while speaking to me.
“This is your last chance to tell us the number before things get ugly,” he threatened as he tilted his arm to show me what he wrote.
limo bugged. don’t talk. spike 7
My eyes grew wide and my mouth hung agape. He pointed to the “spike 7”, a questioning look in his eyes. I nodded in recognition, and he nodded back and began writing something else.
say: I told you what I know
“I…I told you wh-what I know,” I complied.
I jumped and released an embarrassing squawk as he pounded his fist against the side of the limousine. He then handed me the pen, pointed to his right arm, and mimed a writing gesture, all while rattling off a mélange of terrifying threats to no one in particular.
I had no idea why we were exchanging information this way, but I wasn’t about to question Bruno’s methods. He did give me the secret phrase, that was what Abner wanted, so I scrawled the eight-digit number on his giant forearm.
Bruno nodded and took the pen from me, writing as he growled yet another threat, “With one twist, I can have your hand reduced to splinters.”
pain beg cry
I obliged, putting on the best damn show of my life as I begged him to spare me, cried out in pain, and littered my performance with disgraceful mewling as I tried to procure tears. While I was striving for my Oscar nomination, he was busy writing a different eight-digit number on his arm. He then preceded it with one word.
say
I continued my act as I pretended to break, and I divulged the new number. Bruno nodded, rolled down his sleeves, and donned his jacket before he reached over and folded my arms in a manner appropriate to how you’d support an injured hand. I nodded and cradled my limb, the show wasn’t over yet.
He knocked on the window to inform everyone the interrogation was over, but it was obvious the lady was listening in on everything as she already had her phone to her ear and a triumphant smile on her face. After she hung up, she slid back inside the limousine, but the formidable man remained standing outside the open door.
“I’m sorry we had to go through these extremes, Neil,” she said, “but I’m glad you came through for us in the end. We’re the good guys here, we hope there are no hard feelings.”
She tossed the fat envelope to Bruno, who shoved it into the pocket of my pants before he pushed me towards the door.
“Don’t forget your iced tea,” the lady said with a complacent smile.
“Keep it,” I muttered as I jumped out of the limousine and scampered away, cradling my uninjured arm and not looking back.
That was the moment I decided I’d had enough of my side business.
The End
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(Read on for a Behind the Scenes)