Cryptic Messages
by Rod Raglin
|
Table of Contents parts: 1, 2, 3 |
part 1
My boss pokes his head into my tiny office and slaps a piece of paper on my desk. “I keep getting this email, Ernie. Since it obviously has something to do with you, I tried to forward it, but it keeps bouncing back. So, I printed it out.”
I pick up the printed sheet.
Please remind Stanley Ernest Blunt of his meeting this Thursday, August 8, at 10:37 a.m. precisely at 5460 Industrial Way.
“Someone you met on a dating app, Ernie?”
“A what?” I can feel my cheeks burning. “Mr. Gruber, I have no idea—”
“Be careful, kid. Lots of weirdos on the Internet.”
I scrunch up the paper, toss it in the litter basket and try to go back to completing the profit and loss statement for the end of the month, but I can’t concentrate. For nearly two weeks, I’ve been receiving cryptic messages in my email, texts on my cell phone as well as computer-generated voices all reminding me of a meeting that I don’t know anything about.
At first, I ignored them as you ignore spam about inheriting a fortune from some distant relative. Then I tried to trace who was sending them, but that didn’t work, and neither did blocking on either device.
An Internet search of the address indicates it’s a structure ubiquitous in the area; a non-descript two-story commercial building with a door at the side that leads to offices upstairs. Despite an awning for a hydroponic equipment supplier on the main floor, the building appears to be vacant. A sign at the front of the property announces it’s for lease, sale or redevelopment.
The messages have been becoming more frequent as the date grows closer, but this was the first one that’s been sent to a third party. The harassment is escalating. Why?
An hour later, I have another visitor.
“Coming for lunch with us, Ernie?” Maureen, the receptionist, has taken it upon herself to get a group together for lunch every Wednesday. I always decline, yet she keeps asking.
“Thanks, but I’ve got to get the month’s end finished.”
“You know what they say about all work...” She smiles.
I like Maureen. I like all my co-workers; I just feel uncomfortable in crowds. I’m not too good at one-on-one either. Lunch at some restaurant would also be expensive, and I still have half of my tuna sub from dinner in my backpack.
I save and close Excel, then open “apartments for rent” on Craigslist. Gruber’s Pastries, where I work, has relocated to Burnaby, a suburb of Vancouver. Moving closer to work will not only save me a transit zone fare but rents are far more affordable. I’m scrolling through the listings hoping to find an inexpensive studio apartment when my eyes come to rest on another message embedded among the APARTMENTS FOR RENT.
Stanley Ernest Blunt, this is a reminder of your meeting this Thursday, August 8, at 10:37 a.m. precisely at 5460 Industrial Way.
I slap my laptop closed. No one knows I’m looking for a new apartment, not even my mother, especially not my mother. I open the computer and refresh the page, but the message has disappeared. Did I imagine it? Am I suffering from some kind of psychosis? Then again, I hadn’t imagined Mr. Gruber this morning. Or had I? I search the wastepaper basket for the crumpled message. I can’t find it.
I work late that evening to finish the month’s end. I like being in the bakery alone, especially during this late summer heat wave. My studio apartment faces south and, by the afternoon, it’s like a sauna. Opening the patio doors provides some relief, but then I have to deal with the traffic noise on Knight Street, a six-lane thoroughfare that funnels eighteen-wheelers to the Port of Vancouver.
I close the door to my tiny office on the mezzanine and look down at the bakery floor. Gruber’s Pastries produces quality desserts for restaurants and chain stores and is rapidly expanding. The recent move to an industrial park has doubled our space, and we’ve had to occupy it even as lease improvements are being completed.
Repaving the rooftop parking lot is the last of them and needs to be done before the fall rains begin. The work began yesterday and at times the noise and vibration of heavy equipment above my head remind me of my home and make it difficult to concentrate.
As I head for the exit, the nightline begins to ring. I ignore it knowing it will be automatically answered, but it isn’t. It keeps ringing. Has Maureen forgotten to put on the answering machine? I walk across the factory floor and into the small reception area at the front. The large clock on the wall above the desk reads 6:30 p.m., two and a half hours after closing. The phone sounds shriller with each ring. I go behind the reception desk and pick it up.
“Gruber’s Pastries, I’m sorry we’re—”
“Stanley Ernest Blunt,” a computer-generated voice says, “this is a reminder of your meeting this Thursday, August 8, at 10:37 a.m. precisely, at 5460 Industrial Way.”
The message cuts off. There’s a dial tone, then beeping. I check call display on the telephone. It’s blank.
I lock up and walk the block and a half to the SkyTrain, the elevated rapid transit line that will deliver me to a station within walking distance of my apartment. Once on board, I take a window seat for the twenty-minute ride.
I pull out a library copy of Rising Tiger and am so immersed in the heroics of Scot Harvath, Brad Thor’s courageous and charismatic protagonist, I don’t realize the train is slowing down. I look out the window and, on a pilon that supports the parallel track, vibrant graffiti three feet high shouts,
REMINDER!
Stanley Ernest Blunt.
Meeting Thursday, August 8, 10:37 a.m.
PRECISELY!
At 5460 Industrial Way.
“Do you see that!”
“Huh?” The young man sitting next to me takes out his earbuds.
“That graffiti message!” I point to the giant incandescent letters sprayed on the cement pillar just as the train starts to accelerate.
“What about it?”
“What does it say?”
“It looks like “something, something motherfucker.”
“Not that one, the one before it.”
“Sorry.” My seatmate reinserts his earbuds.
For the rest of the short trip, I keep looking for more signs, but none appear.
I stop at the sub sandwich shop next to the SkyTrain station. I don’t cook. If it weren’t for my addiction to Hawkin’s Cheesies, the cupboards would be empty. The only thing in the refrigerator are cans of Dr. Pepper I drink to wash down the Cheesies. That and ancient condiment packets from take-out.
“Ernie, my man.” Huey’s the closest thing I have to a friend. He owns the shop and I see him every evening when I order my dinner/lunch sandwich.
“Hi, Huey, what’s the special today?”
“Let’s see. How about the Deli Delite?”
“That’s it?”
“Well, you could always pay regular price and have your choice of twenty-nine fresh and delicious—”
“Okay, I’ll take the Deli Delite.”
Huey gives me a deep discount if I choose a sandwich with fillings that won’t make it another day, and on a not-so-fresh bun. The Deli Delite is one of his least popular, so I have it quite frequently. Sometimes the cold cuts taste a bit sour.
“Got your bag, Ernie?”
I retrieve the used paper bag from my backpack and pass it across the counter. It’s fifteen cents for a bag. Having my own saves money, and the environment.
The sun has yet to disappear, and the temperature hasn’t backed off. Walking home on the other side of the street will at least provide some shade. Once on the other side, I notice a homeless person propped up against the wall holding up a sign. I assume it’s asking for spare change but as I get closer, I can see that isn’t the message.
“Hey! Where did you get that sign?”
“Can you spare a few bucks, sir?” he rasps. “I was robbed of my disability cheque.”
I lean over and shout in his face. “That sign! Who told you to write that on your sign?”
The guy turns his sign over and checks it like he doesn’t know what I’m talking about. Then, he looks up, brushes the greasy matted hair from his rheumy eyes and says, “Five bucks and I’ll tell you.” He smiles revealing yellow teeth.
“Forget it.”
Halfway to my apartment, I decide it’s worth five dollars to find out who told him to write the same message that has now appeared not only on my devices but in the classifieds and as graffiti. As I run back to the corner, I’m thinking maybe he’ll take three bucks, after all, it’s better than nothing, but I don’t have the opportunity to negotiate. He’s gone.
I arrive home just in time to call Mom. As I wait for her to answer I drop my sandwich on the dinged coffee table, grab a Dr. Pepper from the fridge and collapse on the lumpy loveseat.
“Ernest, dear, how nice of you to call.”
“I call you every day, Mom.”
“Do you? Well, I really appreciate it. How was work at the bank?”
“I’m an investment banker, Mom. I don’t work at a bank. I have my own firm,” I unwrapped the sandwich and examine the contents while cradling the phone under my chin.
“Well, as long as you’re doing what makes you happy, dear.”
“How was your day, Mom?”
“Wonderful! We went on a bus trip to one of the malls and had lunch in the food court.”
“Which mall, Mom? Metrotown?” The salami has a greenish tinge, but no odour. I reassemble it and take a bite.
“Maybe.”
“It wasn’t too hot for you?” I pick up the ice-cold can and place it against my forehead, then the back of my neck.
“I only noticed it when we walked from the bus to the mall. I actually asked them to turn the air conditioning down in my apartment. Too chilly. How are you coping, dear?”
“The trading floor is a bit uncomfortable, but the Porsche has air conditioning, of course, and there’s a nice breeze up here in the penthouse.” I pop the tab on the soft drink and take a swig. “Are you comfortable there, Mom, making friends, enjoying yourself?”
“Oh yes! Tomorrow there’s bingo and a sing-along.”
“Food’s good?”
“Oh, Ernest! There’s too much. I’ve saved you some of the cookies and a banana from snack time.”
“Thanks, Mom. Maybe eat the banana. By the way, have you had any calls or messages from someone trying to contact me?”
“No, dear. You mean like an old high school chum?”
“It’s okay, just checking.” At least Mom hasn’t been involved. But then, would she remember an anonymous call or message?
“I’ll be by for my visit on Sunday,” I say. “Maybe we can go for a walk if it’s not too hot.”
“That would be wonderful, Ernest!”
“Okay, Mom. I’ll call you tomorrow same time and see you Sunday.”
“Ernie?”
“Yes, Mom?”
“Are you sure you can afford this place? It must be awfully expensive.”
“Mom, please, don’t worry. I’m making so much money I don’t even notice it. Today, I closed a deal that will pay out nearly a quarter million.”
“Who’d have thought you’d do so well with just a community college certificate in bookkeeping? I’m so proud of you, son.”
“I’ve only got you to thank for it.”
“I love you, Ernest.”
“Love you back, Mom.”
* * *
Dinner done; I open my laptop to see if any of my clients have contacted me. During tax season, I moonlighted for Budget Tax and Accounting doing returns. The byzantine workings of Revenue Canada intrigue me, and if I can find a way to save a client some money it makes me feel good. Sort of like I’m David getting one over on Goliath.
People were impressed, and a few asked if they could deal directly with me without having to go through the company. The ethical question made me pause, but only for a second. Word spread, and now I have a thriving little side gig which, with my salary at the bakery is just enough to live and pay for Mom’s care at Amica Senior Lifestyles, but barely.
After two hours of crunching more numbers, I’m struggling to stay awake. I strip down to my underwear, pull out the sofa bed and climb under the single sheet. I pick up Rising Tiger intent on finishing the chapter.
I dream of becoming a forensic accountant, exposing the corruption of multi-national corporations that exploit women and children in Third World countries. Not quite Scott Harvath, but still a crusader for good in the world.
* * *
Up at six, it’s a quick shower, shave, get dressed and hit the pavement for a brisk walk to the station. The smell of coffee wafting from Starbucks is tempting, but not at three dollars for my preferred grandé dark when I can drink the brew at work for free. A transit bus passes, the full side panel proclaiming an updated version of the message:
REMINDER! Stanley Ernest Blunt. YOUR MEETING IS TODAY!
Thursday, August 8, 10:37 a.m. PRECISELY!
AT 5460 INDUSTRIAL WAY
I look at the people walking in the street, standing at the intersection. No one is taking notice.
That’s what I should do. Ignore the messages. They’re not real. Nothing will happen if I don’t attend the meeting. There is no meeting. I need to face down this, this... insanity?
I’m swept along with the crowd into the station, my anxiety building with every step. The address of the meeting is two blocks from the bakery in Burnaby. Maybe I shouldn’t go to work? I can’t attend the meeting if I’m nowhere near the location.
I stop on the stairs leading up to the platform. “No, I’m not attending!” I shout.
“Hey!”
“Watch out!”
People jostle by me. The train is pulling in.
“Excuse me.”
“Get the hell out of the way!”
The train pulls out. I’m still on the platform. What have I done? A feeling of dread envelopes me, accompanied by pressure building inside my head like it might explode. I feel sick to my stomach.
The platform’s public address chimes.
Attention! Stanley Ernest Blunt. If you catch the next train, you will be late for work but still available for your meeting today, August 8, at 10:37 a.m. precisely, at 5460 Industrial Way.
The next train arrives. I get on and immediately feel better.
Copyright © 2023 by Rod Raglin
