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Since Mary’s hanging up on me is nothing new, it doesn’t faze me one bit. In fact, I chuckle out loud. Pouring myself another small shot of whiskey, I then go to the Google Play store and find the app for the Ring Doorbell System. Clicking on the app, I start the installation process. It asks me for my address, phone number, email address, and of course, a credit card number. Reaching into my back pocket, I pull out my wallet and unfold it.
I stare at the empty space that’s supposed to contain cash. But the little pockets that hold the many credit and debit cards are filled to the breaking point.
“Pick a card, any card,” I whisper to myself while the dry wood burning in the wood stove snaps, crackles, and pops.
Instead of the Capital One card which is about to fall off the maxed-out cliff of no return, once my locks and Ring Doorbell System are installed, I’ll pull out my KeyBank credit-debit card. Maybe by the time I get my first bill, a decent royalty payment will have come through and I will have some casheshe in the bank to pay it, along with all the other bills hanging over my head like health insurance, dental insurance, cable/internet (even though I don’t have a TV), and let’s not forget Netflix, Amazon Prime, and of course, the monthly gym dues.
Ah, the life of the freelance writer. You’re free to do anything you want, whenever you want to. But you don’t get paid as frequently as the nine-to-five slave. That means you’re just as much a slave when it comes to the bills that weigh you down like a ball-and-chain. And have I mentioned the hundreds of thousands I’ve blown on women like Laura who robbed me blind? But as usual, I digress.
I complete the Ring information request and press send, hoping I got everything right and that the card won’t be denied. When it tells me my information has been successfully submitted, I breathe a deep sigh of relief. Thank God for small miracles.
Gazing at the laptop screen. I look at the name Jennifer. In my head, I see her silhouette. Her long hair, her shapely body, and what seems like an attractive face, even if I can’t possibly make out the details. I place my fingers on the keys and begin to type where I left off previously:
The writing studio is chilly this late Fall morning. No, that’s not right. It’s downright cold and uninviting like an invisible enemy is sharing the small space along with me, just waiting to pounce on me and begin cutting me into a thousand little pieces so that I suffer terrible pain, dread, and agony before the Lord finally takes me. But then, I’m not sure there is a God.
It’s the first full paragraph I’ve written in over a month. Maybe two months. For some reason, it makes me feel exhausted, as if I didn’t just write the words using my imagination. It’s more like I had to chisel them out of pure granite using a heavy hammer and a solid metal chisel. But at least they are words and good words at that. I read them over, once, twice, tweaking the grammar a little, and a comma and a period here and there.
My phone chimes. I’ll be damned if my heart doesn’t elevate. I know it’s entirely crazy of me, but I’m hoping against hope that it’s Jennifer. She broke into my house, invaded my space, and now I’m about to pay God knows how much for new security, and yet I’m hoping it’s her. Even the cop is warning me about her. The cop is open to me filing a legal complaint against Jennifer, whoever she is. But a big part of me wants to hear from her again. Why don’t I just admit the truth? It’s because of her that I’m writing again.
I pick up the phone. I see the number that belongs to Jennifer. It’s another text. I press on it.
Looking forward to our coffee date. I’m already dressed. Three o’clock can’t come soon enough. Love you Martin.
I read the text two or three times before I come up with a response in my brain. Maybe Jennifer is responsible for getting my writing mojo back, or at least a part of it anyway (I have no idea if this story is going to pan out past the paragraph I’ve already written or not), but what I’ve got to keep in mind is reality. That is, she could be a crazy lady. A nut. Perhaps even a dangerous nut. By all rights, I should tell the cop about our coffee date. She should at least be there incognito, just in case Jennifer has something planned for me. Something like an abduction.
What if she’s not working alone? What if she’s working with other people? Working with men. Big, strong men intent on doing some serious harm to me, not to get anything out of me like money. But just for the mere sake of inflicting pain. People are mostly good, but some are filled with pure evil.
I text, Yes, see you at three when we will talk. Then something else dawns on me. She only sent me a silhouette for a photo. How will I know you? What will you be wearing?
While I wait for her response, I get up and add another log to the fire. Then, as I’m sitting back down behind the desk, another text arrives.
I’ll be wearing nothing under my clothing. LOL. Just joking with you. You don’t need to recognize me since I will recognize you Martin.
Okay, once more I’m creeped out. But then, I can’t exactly blame her. My website and countless articles and videos that show my image are available all over the internet. I could tell her not to text me anymore, but the bad person who lives inside me tells me not to.
“This woman might be dangerous, but she is pure gold when it comes to tearing down the brick wall that is your writer’s block,” I say to myself.
“You make a good point,” I add, this time aloud.
Shifting my hands to the laptop keyboard, I type:
Plot Notes to Self: agree to meet Jennifer for coffee. You want to talk things out with her. Where did she get a key to my home? She’s working with a team of criminals. They abduct the writer and torture him, not for money, but for sick pleasure. The writer must find a way to stay alive and escape. He can then enact his revenge on the sick crew.
The plot is forming in my head. I can only hope that it remains fiction and isn’t about to happen for real. A knock on the studio door.
“Mr. Jordan,” Dan Smith calls out. “Hope I’m not disturbing you, but we’re finished with the job.”
“Come on in, Dan,” I say. “That didn’t take long.”
But when I glance at my watch, I see that he and his son have been here a full hour and a half. It’s already going on two o’clock in the afternoon. I’ve been so into the Jennifer story that I completely forgot to eat lunch.
The door opens and a smiling Dan steps inside. He’s holding a clipboard that contains an invoice for services rendered and materials provided. Or so I can only assume. He approaches the front of the desk and hands it to me.
“The damage,” he says. “But I will say that your little farmhouse is as secure as Fort Knox now.”
I see the price. $1,500 and change. I feel my stomach go tight. Once more pulling out my wallet, I decide to hand him my Capital One credit card, after all. I try to plant a smile on my face. I’m a famous writer after all. I’m supposed to be rich. He pulls out his cell phone from his carpenter’s tool belt. It’s got one of those electronic things on it that allows you to swipe your credit card. He does it. I wait and recite a silent Hail Mary. When he grins and hands me back the card, I know that the good Lord is looking down on me. Either the Capital One card wasn’t as close to being maxed out as I thought, or they saw their way fit to give me a cash advance.
“Did you install the Ring app?” he asks.
“I did,” I say picking up my phone and going to the app.
I turn the phone around and show him the screen.
“Mind if I see your phone for a sec?” he says.
“Be my guest,” I say handing it over.
He types in several commands, nods, and gives me back my phone.
“You’re all set, Mr. Jordan,” he says, tearing off my receipt. “You’re all synched in with the Ring system. By the way, you have the new model with infrared capabilities which allows for night vision.”
“That’s reassuring,” I say. “Night vision and a .45. Should make a for a lethal combination should anyone try to intrude again.”
“Exactly,” he says. “You’ll find all the extra information you need to know about the Ring systems on your receipt.”
“Shouldn’t you be giving me new keys to the locks?” I ask.
“Keys,” he says like a question. “Keys are so nineteen nineties. The locks are operated by keycodes or PINs. Yours are there on the sheet, but you can change them to anything you want. Just follow the instructions.”
“Gotcha,” I say. “You’re right. Fort Knox, farmhouse style.”
Then, offering me a smile, Mr. Smith the Locksmith says, “You have a good day. Hope you’re writing something good so I can read it on the beach next summer.”
“I am,” I say even if it’s a partial lie.
“What’s it called?” he says.
I think it over for a long beat.
“Jennifer,” I say. “It’s a working title.”
“I like it the way it is,” he says.
Turning, he makes for the door. When he walks out, closing the door behind him, I can only wonder if he truly will be reading a novel I wrote called Jennifer come next summer. A chill washes over me because I also wonder if I’ll even be alive.