| |
The morning light is dim as Peter sits out front of Jeanne’s office. It’s seven forty-five, and he knows the receptionist won’t unlock the front door until eight. There’s a smattering of cars in the lot and he entertains himself by trying to guess which one is Jeanne’s.
He settles on a flashy Mini Cooper that has splashes of bright paint up the sides and a giant set of pink fuzzy dice hanging from the rearview mirror. A spoiler stands above the rear hatch and the fenders flare to emphasize the compact car’s curves.
It would be just like Jeanne to have a showy car that’s sensible on the budget.
The analog clock on Peter’s dashboard ticks away until the minute hand passes the top of the hour. It’s three minutes past when the mousey receptionist finally turns the lock in the glass double doors. She pushes the handle to make sure the door swings freely.
Despite his normal penchant for names, he has to concentrate to remember hers. He thinks it’s Cheryl. Or Sherry. Or Carrie. Or Carlie.
He taps on his steering wheel as he waits for her to settle at her desk before he gets out of the car. She’s busy typing by the time Peter reaches the lobby. She’s pretty in a generic office worker kind of way.
Her monitor is tilted sideways. He steals a look at her social media post before she notices him. She’s putting up a picture of a beautiful casserole, obviously cooked by someone else. The colors are too bright, and the dish glistens unnaturally, as studio props do. He’s never understood women’s desire to share such ordinary fantasies with one another. Whenever he gets the urge to check on a lady’s profile online, he finds recipes she’ll never make, projects she’ll never start, and dream homes she’ll never live in.
The receptionist tabs over to her scheduling program and looks up. “Hello, Mister Wilson. Can I help you?”
“Hey, Cher.” Peter waits for her to tell him that isn’t her name, but she just stares at him. “I had an appointment yesterday with Doctor Richards and I spaced it.”
“Mmm hmm. Are you wanting to reschedule?” She tabs back to the social media page and reaches for the enter key. She can’t seem to help finishing her post.
“If it wouldn’t be too much trouble. I know she keeps a strict schedule. I feel terrible for messing it up.”
The unexceptional receptionist drops her head as she pulls up Jeanne’s schedule. Her hazel eyes glaze over as the muscle memory of the program takes over. Peter rambles a long and detailed apology, overflowing with excuses for why he missed the appointment. The young woman tightens her lips, and he hears a muted yawn fighting to escape her throat. Peter shuts up.
He suddenly doesn’t care that he’s forgotten her name.
“She has a slot open at four o’clock today, if you’re available.” She looks at Peter with a disinterested smile. “We keep that time open for delinquents and wackos like you.”
Peter’s glad he’s coherent enough to understand she’s joking. Her delivery is so dry, he wonders what would happen if he were a little crazier. He’s pretty sure it’s a joke that shouldn’t be told around mentally deficient people.
“That’s fine,” Peter answers.
She hands him an appointment card and goes back to her computer, instantly oblivious to him. He heads to the car. He gets in and turns the engine over. There’s nearly eight hours to fill before he can see Jeanne. He may as well make the time productive. He pulls out of the lot and drives toward the river, doing his best to not get pissed off at the congestion piled along Sandy Boulevard.
Despite the assholes who can’t figure out how to drive in the foggy drizzle, Peter finds himself at an office supply store on Martin Luther King Boulevard in just a few minutes.
Peter grabs a stack of five-dollar bills from his glove compartment and pulls on a baseball cap. He slaps himself in the face to shock his nerves, and reminds himself he’s not doing anything wrong. Just picking up supplies so he knows what it feels like to have them. Peter pulls the hat’s brim lower over his face and shoves the cash in his pocket.
A beefy guy approaches as he wanders down the cell phone aisle in the center of the store. “Hey there, friend. Can I help you?”
Peter casts a sideways glance at the clerk and shrugs. He moves closer, exuding more confidence in a few steps than Peter’s had his entire life. His khaki pants and polo shirt are topped off with a crooked nametag that has most of its letters worn off. His uniform is so generic he could work at any of the big box stores. Peter wonders if he stops off at Target on his way home from work, if people assume he works there, too.
“I need a phone.” The words come out emotionless, though Peter’s ears ring and his stomach twists itself in a knot.
He thinks the sales guy smiles, but it’s hard to tell under his sculpted mustache. Peter is distracted by the side-show facial hair, and can almost smell the testosterone pouring off the carefully coiffed bristles.
“Well, you’ve got a lot of options. What kind of setup you looking for?” Sales guy leans casually against the shelf and drags his fingers over the keys of a sleek, silver model.
“I’m not sure. Something I can pay cash for, I guess.” Peter shoves his hand in his pocket, unconsciously handling the bundle of fives.
“We’ve got lots of prepaid options these days. Carriers have finally taken notice of people who don’t want the hassle of a contract. You can get phones with texting, Wi-Fi, mobile data, all the stuff you’re used to with a standard smartphone. Here, look at this guy.” He hands Peter the phone he’s been molesting. Peter doesn’t take it.
“I don’t really need all that. I just want to have a phone number someone can call.”
The mustache quivers and a twinkle gleams in the salesman’s eye. “Ah, something discreet.”
Peter nods, unsure of what to say.
“Hey, man, I’ve been there. It’s hard keeping a little someone on the side when they keep calling you. You’ve got to explain to your wife who this new number belongs to when it pops up on the bill. It’s only a matter of time before she figures out Stan from work is really Stacy from Hooters and everything goes tits up.” The mustache falls momentarily, and he rests his hand on Peter’s shoulder in a show of solidarity.
“Bitches,” Peter mumbles.
The mustache rolls along the clerk’s cheeks as he laughs. “I know, right? Let’s get you set up. What you want is something you can carry and drop. Look at this guy, here.” He moves to the far end of the aisle and tosses Peter a little black phone the size of a deck of cards. “It’s got a slide-out keyboard in case you decide you want to text. Plus, a decent track pad for getting into the menu to clear your history in a hurry. Best of all, you can come into any of our stores and buy one of these minute cards to load when you need to. No statements popping up in your mailbox.”
“When I’m done with it, I can just throw it away?” The phone is light, made of a cheap plastic that Peter worries will crack if he squeezes too tight.
Sober eyes contemplate Peter. Mustache Man was lighthearted when talking about adultery, but now he looks like he might hit something. “It’s plastic and metal, man. Recycle.”
Peter fixes an unblinking gaze on the clerk to keep his eyes from rolling to the ceiling. “Sure, I’ll recycle it.” When the employee’s shoulders relax, he asks, “Will the phone number stay the same while I’m using it?”
“As long as it’s loaded with minutes, the number’s yours.”
“I’ll take it.” Peter hands the demo back to the salesman.
He follows the clerk to a kiosk near the back edge of the store. It’s equipped with a register, but looks like it’s only used on the rare occasion the store’s overrun by customers. The salesman takes care of the entire transaction, including making up a false address, name, and birth date for the activation. “That way,” he explains, “if your wife sees it, you can say you found it on the sidewalk. If she gets snoopy enough to call the company, the information looks legit.”
They shake hands as they part ways. The bushy-haired clerk seems happy to be a silent partner in Peter’s conspiracy, but he doesn’t know the consequences of his help. Peter decides it’s good he’s only going through the motions of this murder experiment. If he were to hurt anyone, the clerk would have blood on his hands.
Ollie always says most men are stupid, and will do whatever you want if you ask the right way. Peter’s starting to believe him.
Peter’s real cell phone feels heavy as he pulls it from his pocket to do a web search. He wants to see if there are any payphones left in Portland. He’s surprised to find one listed just up the road. He drives in that direction, eager to ring up the prepaid phone to test it.
When he arrives, he’s greeted with a call box coated in the filth of a thousand unwashed hands. The whole booth is in rough shape and he counts himself lucky the box still has a receiver. Peter’s not willing to touch it. He decides it’ll be good enough to call the line to see if it rings.
He gets as close as necessary to make out the number stamped on the payphone’s label and dials it into the prepaid phone. Half a second later the handset springs to life, screaming out at the world that someone has remembered it exists.
The rings peal into the frigid air a dozen times before Peter hangs up. The phone falls silent on its hook, once again a forgotten fixture, useful only to kids hanging up band posters, illicit women leaving calling cards, and families hanging ads for lost kittens.
Cord limp, the handset is cold and dead in its cradle.
Peter knows just how it feels.