| |
A foggy separation from reality envelops Peter as he leaves the hospital. He can’t decide if he’s ready for the plan to move forward. He still isn’t sure if he’ll give all the prizes away without incident, or if something deep in his DNA will snap.
He doesn’t have to murder anyone. The prize winner is a kid. Every kid needs a mom. It doesn’t matter if he likes them or not, he will give them something nice. Once his obligation is complete, they can all move on with their lives.
The whole drive back to his apartment goes by in a blur. He tries to shake the off-kilter feeling of his father’s reaction to the appointment booking. The joy in Oliver’s eyes made life seem suddenly complete. Peter’s spent twenty years trying to convince himself he didn’t need his father, but now that he’s within arm’s reach, he can’t imagine going back to the blandness of living without him.
Peter backs into his assigned parking space. He hauls things out of the apartment, filling the rear of his car with video games, guitars, model kits, and collectable toys. The trunk fills more quickly than he expects it to. Soon, he’s packing prizes in the rear and front passenger seats. Somehow, he gets it all to fit, along with a new thrift-store laptop and a dummy UPC scanner he ordered online. Peter tucks his fake Alphabet Apes poster in a gap behind his seat and strings his lanyard around his neck.
“It’s now or never,” he mutters as he crams himself in the car.
The collapsed feet of a child-sized art easel poke him in the ribs. He does his best to ignore the stabbing wooden legs as he turns the wheel, starting his journey toward the Beaverton office complex. Traffic slows as he merges onto Highway 217 and he drums the steering wheel impatiently.
Every once in a while, he glimpses people on the highway eyeballing his overloaded car. He cringes with worry that they’ll figure out he’s up to something. Despite his efforts to ignore the fear that they know he’s an imposter, he’s nervous someone will realize he’s driving around town with a sedan packed with toys to use as bait for a serial killer’s social experiment.
If they figure that out, they’ll think he’s a terrible person. He isn’t though. He’s just a guy who wants to help people, even if the way he’s going about it is a little out of the ordinary.
He fights his hysteria the entire way. No one stops him. Not a single person swerves as they pick up their cell phone to call the cops. Nothing happens at all, except that it starts to drizzle and Peter has to turn his wipers on.
It’s only the second time Peter’s been by the office building. He drove by when he first got the address list from the rental company. Now, he’s struck by how much it looks like a stock photo on the internet. Hedges in the landscape are perfectly groomed. The giant gold building numbers gleam between the second and third floors. The entire scene is spotless. Not a single candy wrapper flutters across the sidewalk. It’s as pristine as one of those Street of Dreams homes no one’s ever lived in. Constructed just for the sake of being beautiful.
Heading into the building with his arms loaded with stuff, Peter struggles with the front doors. He enters the lobby where a young man sits behind the reception desk. He’s dressed for business in a tailored suit and a narrow necktie. His swooping hairstyle makes Peter wonder where his hair begins and ends. He flips his head to the side as if he’s about to have a seizure, but Peter realizes he’s just trying to get the wild hair out of his eyes without touching it with his hands.
“Can I help you?”
“Yes. I’m Ted from Alphabet Apes. I’ve got a conference room booked from one to four this afternoon.” Peter props an armload of stuff on the desk while he fishes a business card out of his pocket.
The mass of hair slides in front of the receptionist’s face when he leans down to look at his appointment book. He tries to move it with a couple flicks of his head. It doesn’t work. He gives in, pushing the mass out of his field of vision with his hand. Peter fights the building urge to suggest he see a barber. A male barber. One who never went to beauty school and fixes every hair emergency with a sharp set of clippers.
“I have a conference room for you on the third floor.” He jots down the room number on a scrap of paper with the hand he isn’t using to hold his hair up. He glances at Peter and nods at the stuff in his arms. “Do you have more to unload?”
“I do,” Peter says with a dip of his chin.
The hair bounces atop the receptionist’s head as he spins around in his chair. “I’ll show you where the service carts are.”
It takes six trips to get his car unloaded. Once he’s moved the last bundle, the room Peter’s in looks like a strip mall threw up in it. Piles of retail therapy crowd every available surface. He’s glad he got one of the bigger meeting spaces and makes a mental note to always ask for a room this size.
He checks the time. There’s still a half hour before Jesse and Tracey show up. He sorts items into categories, turning each corner of the room into its own department. He separates out electronics, arts and crafts, music, and puts everything else on the conference table. The table overflows with a mishmash of crap Peter never imagined existed. Astronaut ice cream, Mr. Potato Head riding a dinosaur, and stuffed Siamese cats that look indignant right out of the box.
“Kids these days,” Peter says.
The last thing to do is hang the banner he had printed. He’s forgotten tape, pushpins, or anything else that might help hang a strip of vinyl on the stark white walls. He leans across the massive conference table, pushing the Furbies aside so he can reach the angular intercom propped up like a decorative centerpiece. He presses a button and the voice of the swirly haired receptionist answers.
“Sanchez. Front desk. May I help you?”
“Hey, Sanchez. Ted in room 309. You wouldn’t have any thumbtacks or tape, would you? I’ve got to hang this banner—”
Sanchez cuts him off. “Please, do not use any devices that will leave permanent marks on the wall. No duct tape, push pins, glue or other semi-permanent adhesives.”
Peter clears his throat. “Right. None of those. I’ve got to hang this banner, though. Any suggestions?”
“Removable poster tape is in the drawer under the whiteboard,” Sanchez answers, his voice less lively than his hair pretends to be.
At the edge of the room, fancy cabinetry encases a large whiteboard. Peter opens drawers filled with ballpoint pens, pads of paper and finally, a single, almost empty, roll of double-sided tape. “Got it. Thanks!”
There’s no reply, and Peter realizes Sanchez already hung up.
He’s standing on a wheeled chair when the intercom lets out a long, low beep. Peter’s hands are over his head. He presses the banner against the wall and realizes he hasn’t taken the second layer off the tape to reveal the adhesive. He looks under his armpit, back toward the intercom. “Hello?” he asks, his voice muffled under his arm. The intercom beeps again and he realizes he’s got to press a button to answer the stupid thing. He lets the banner go. The vinyl scrapes against the wall as it falls, draping itself over toys on the table below.
The chair shifts on its wheels as he scrambles down. He loses his balance, falling ass over teakettle. Somehow, he catches himself on the corner of the whiteboard cabinet before crashing to the floor. The intercom beeps again.
Getting his feet on solid ground, Peter stretches across the table to push the flashing red button. His breath is unsteady, heart pounding against his ribcage. He’s about to tear into Sanchez for trying to kill him. “What?”
“Mr. Willard, your two o’clock has arrived,” the receptionist announces.
Peter looks at the banner. “Give me ten minutes, then send them up. Tell them I’m wrapping up with another customer.”
The chair goes back to the wall and Peter climbs it, careful to stay balanced so the wheels don’t take off on him again. He pulls the tab off the adhesive and smacks the vinyl against the wall. It holds, and once he’s gingerly climbed down again, he looks back to find Alphabet Apes hanging almost level.
He wheels the chair to the table and hits the space bar on his laptop, bringing it to life. He has the scanner gun set up beside it. The device doesn’t work, but it makes a convincing beeping sound when Peter passes it over the barcodes. As long as he keeps anyone from looking at the laptop screen, they’ll never know it’s announcing a reader error.
Peter pulls up a spreadsheet with headers labelled Name, Date, and Location of Purchase. It has the same Alphabet Apes logo in the upper left corner that appears on his badge and business card. The whole setup looks almost legitimate. He feels a boost of confidence. This might work.
There’s a knock at the door. Peter springs from his seat to open it, but it swings wide before he gets there. Jesse is short, wiry, and has eyes the size of saucers. He gawks at the loot piled around the room. Peter can’t help but smile. A tall, curvy woman arrives in the hall behind the teenager. She seems irritated and her mood doesn’t lighten when she finds the kid blocking her path.
“Get in, or get out.” She pushes Jesse to the side and forces her way into the room.
“You must be Tracey.” Peter extends his hand in greeting.
“Mmm hmm.” Tracey turns her back on him, looking to her son. “Are you going to give him the box, or what?”
Jesse swings a knapsack off his boney shoulder and pulls a box of cereal out of it. “I’m J. That’s my mom. I told her to bring ID like you said. Here’s my box. Do I get to pick a prize?” He stops his rapid-fire speech and takes a deep breath. “This is so cool.”
Peter chuckles at his enthusiasm. “It is cool. Here’s how it works. I head over to my laptop and scan your box. It’ll tell me what you’ve won. Then, we’ll do a little paperwork and the two of you will be on your way.” He winks at Tracey.
“You sure this won’t take long?” She shuffles her feet and looks longingly at the chairs surrounding the table.
“Not at all. But please, pull up a seat.” Peter bends slightly, coming eye-to-eye with Jesse. “Want me to give you a tour of the goods?”
“Fuck yeah!” Jesse jumps up on his tiptoes and does a little dance. His jeans dangle from his narrow hips and swish like a hula skirt as he moves.
“Jesse!” Tracey screeches. “Language.”
The teenager melts to the ground. “Sorry. I mean, yes, sir. That sounds great.”
Leaning into Jesse, Peter whispers, “Well then, fuck being quick. Let’s take a nice, long look.”
His eyes sparkle. Jesse’s grin spreads so wide, Peter thinks he’ll crack his ears. They turn to the piles of goodies. The pair peruses the miscellaneous items first, and Peter’s comforted when Jesse finds it all as confusing as he does. They move on to the mountain of music stuff and the kid practically drools over a bright red electric guitar in the center of the display. He reaches toward it and lets his fingers hover over the strings. Tracey clears her throat, and he pulls his hand back.
“Pretty, isn’t it?” Peter smiles.
Jesse nods emphatically, and Peter uncovers the base of the guitar from the pile. He picks it up gingerly and hands it to the kid. He can see Jesse’s heartbeat throbbing in the side of his neck. His fingers tremble when he takes it. He holds it close to his body as though it were a newborn baby.
“Odds are, it won’t happen,” Tracey announces. Her statement has all the warmth and comfort of a giant pile of dog shit.
Her son slumps his shoulders and hands the guitar to Peter with a morose expression.
“Let’s see what else there is.” Peter puts the guitar back and they move through art supplies and on to electronics. He leaves Jesse fiddling with a video game controller. “So, Tracey, how about we look at that box?”
He picks the Alphabet Apes package up. It’s lighter than he expects. He flips the top open to find it empty. There isn’t even a plastic liner inside.
“We didn’t know if you had to keep it,” Tracey explains, tucking a clump of her fiery curls into a high ponytail.
Peter taps the spacebar on the laptop as he sits down. “I need to see your identification, Tracey.”
She digs around her gigantic purse. It’s the color of baby vomit and is big enough to carry half a cart of groceries. She produces a smaller purse from within its depths, and from that pulls out a wallet. She flips the wallet open to a lengthy line of plastic cards and pushes the mass across the table. Her ID is locked behind a plastic screen, pressed so deep in the surrounding leather that she’d need a pair of scissors to get it out again.
“Thank you, Mrs. Deere.” Peter smiles politely as he looks the wallet over.
“Miss Deere,” she corrects. She smiles for the first time since she arrived. She taps the table with acrylic fingernails. “Never married.”
“I apologize for the assumption.” He shoots her a polite smile, then gets ready to enter her information in the spreadsheet. “Tracey, where did you purchase this box of cereal?”
“I got it at the grocery store off Cedar Hills Boulevard.” She opens her cavernous purse again. “Do you need the receipt?”
“No, thank you. Just need to know the general area for our head office.” Peter fills in the blanks on his form. He looks at the box. The home-made sticker gleams from the lower left corner. He steals a look at Jesse. The teenager is holding a beginner painter’s set, but is staring longingly at the electric guitar across the room. Peter scans the box and the computer beeps.
Jesse jumps, and Tracey leans forward. Peter grins. “Well, would you look at that...”
The room is silent as he heads directly toward the guitar. The energy in the room shifts as he nears it, and he struggles to keep a straight face. Tracey groans when he touches the smooth red lacquer. Jesse gulps in air and Peter thinks he might start crying. There’s a collective sigh as Peter shifts the instrument off to the side.
He digs in the swag below the guitar stand. He finds what he’s looking for and hands it over. Jesse looks disappointed and turns the small white envelope over in his hands a couple times. “What is it?”
“A gift certificate for music lessons,” Peter answers quietly.
Jesse’s eyes widen, unnaturally large on the kid’s narrow face. His eyebrows knit together. He trembles a moment before giving in to his excitement and dancing in place. Peter looks over at Tracey, who looks even more disappointed than Jesse had a moment ago.
“Music lessons?” Tracey sinks in her chair.
“Yes.” Peter turns to look at her straight-on. He puts his hands down on the table and leans forward. It’s fitting they’re in a conference room because he means business. “This certificate entitles J to five music lessons in the instrument of his choice. The locations are printed on the back, but the one closest to you is up on Cascade Avenue. Prizes are not transferrable or refundable.”
“So, the lessons won’t be at home?” Tracey waves her son over. She takes the envelope from him, opens it, and reads the certificate.
“No. They’ll be right in the music store, so the sound won’t bother you.” Peter doesn’t trouble himself with hiding his smug grin.
“Oh, it’s not me.” Her hand goes to her chest defensively. “Honestly, it’s the neighbors. We live in an apartment. We’re on our last legs with management.”
When she hands the envelope back to Jesse, he raises it to his face and says, “Oh. My. God. I’m getting guitar lessons.” His lips quiver and he whispers a repeating, “Ohmygod ohmygod ohmygod...”
After returning Tracey’s wallet, Peter offers the empty cereal box. She pushes it back, but Jesse snaps out of his trance and snatches it. Both Peter and Tracey look at him. Jesse’s so happy his pale skin practically glows.
“I’m keeping it. I want to remember this forever!”
Peter congratulates the kid. Jesse resumes his excited shuffle and dance. Soon, the awkward teen and his mother head down the hallway toward the elevator. Peter eyeballs the mass of stuff he has to re-pack to take home. It’s raining again, which is a bother since he wants to keep everything looking new. The whole fiasco is a giant pain in the ass.
He remembers the look on Jesse’s face when he found out he was getting music lessons. He decides it’s worth the effort.