A Different Life

A crisp, bright morning it was, as the sun shone through the penthouse windows and danced around the office of our esteemed author. Samson raised his eyes to peak over the monitor and paused for a moment to witness it. The life he had created, colliding with a phenomenon he had known forever. ‘Everyone in the world has seen the sun rise’ he thought, and jotted it down.

“CALL ME. On the liiine, you can call me any-anytime. CALL ME”

Samson jumped at the sudden interruption and then quickly started to dance just a little to his “cleverly” chosen ringtone. His closest colleagues always have something to say about his corny taste, but he loves to be the butt of the joke if it can get someone laughing. However in this case, he paused and furrowed his brow in confusion upon reading “ANONYMOUS” on his caller ID. Naturally, he sent it to voicemail but only a moment later, his catchy number began to play again.

“Hello?”, he answered.

“Sammy? Am I speaking with Samson?” It was a woman’s voice he would recognize whether the sun was coming up or going down.

“Why are you calling me, and why is your number showing up as ‘anonymous’? Is this a burner or something? Did you get that from one of your ‘employers’?” His sarcastic tone was rude even if one was just passing by. The sun became too harsh as it turned from pink, to gold, to a bright white. Samson got up and pulled the curtains shut.

“Sam, I don’t have a lot of time to talk so I could really use just a small amount of patience from you. I won’t waste your time.” She continued with no pause, “I’m sick. Well, I’m dying really- I’ve been sick for a long time but it’s finally caught up. I want you to know, the life I have gotten myself into was not chosen, but given to me. I didn’t want it to be this way.” She sighed as if she could hear Samson’s eyes rolling to the back of his head. “I know you don’t understand but you will soon. I had to call to warn you.”

“Warn me?” Samson snapped. “You want to warn me now? You spend 18 years of my life throwing me into situations I was not capable of handling- situations I certainly was not ‘WARNED’ about, and now you want to call and give me some motherly advice?!” He was almost screaming at this point.

“Sam calm down! I am dying, did you not hear that?”

Samson paused because in fact, for a moment, he didn’t hear it. ‘Dying of what?’, he wouldn’t ask her though. “Well I am sorry to hear that”, he said softer now but still cold. He could hear a sniffle and a few hopeless breaths before she responded.

“I just wanted to say goodbye, and be careful” and then a loud whooshing sound came over the speaker. Samson pulled the phone away from his ear for a moment in shock and then brought it back to hear what was happening.

“Mom? What was that, what’s happening?”

“I know you’ll miss me baby boy.”

The noise that came next was curious and haunting. First the distinct sound of a train, and then a multitude of voices chattering together with increasing volume. A scream from afar. Then, nothing.

Samson squeezed his eyes shut as his phone fell from his hands and landed on the rug in his office. After picking up his phone and inspecting it for cracks, his mind raced through a million things that might have happened, but no answer satisfied the knowledge he already had. He knew not to go to the police- they were absolutely never the answer as he has learned through years of his mother’s slow corruption. Chills ran down his body as he came to several grim conclusions.

BANG. Mid-thought, Samson jumped so hard his feet almost came off the ground. The clatter came from his front door, although he wasn’t expecting anyone this early in the morning. With every step towards the entryway, his heartbeat grew louder. Looking through the peephole, he saw not a single person standing there. ‘Ok Sam- chill the eff out’, he thought as he shook his shoulders loose, and he opened the door.

Sitting on the welcome mat was a black duffle bag that looked fully stuffed with something, but there were no notes or travel tags on it. He stared at it for a few minutes, just standing in his doorway wondering if it was a bomb or a body, and in the same breath wondering why it would be placed on his doorstep. He finally came to enough sense to realize he looked more suspicious than the bag at that point.

“Ok”, he said aloud, “It’s just a bag”. He kicked it very gently inside without picking it up, and it slid across the laminated hardwood floors of his New York apartment. Without allowing himself anymore thought, he opened it.

Samson was a relatively successful writer at this point in his life, and in true artistic fashion, he carried with him a small Moleskine notebook that he would jot down his thoughts and anything that made him feel, think, or laugh. Every creative mind has their favorite brand, and this happened to be his because of a particular notebook his grandfather gave him at the age of 15, just before he took his own life. It was the same size and material, but engraved was an image of a mallet that seemed to be on its way downward toward an unsuspecting railroad spike.

As he slid the zipper back, a little black notebook, identical to the one from his childhood, rested upon a black trash bag. Samson’s hand quickly retreated, and shook slightly as he mustered the courage to pick it up. After examining the exterior of this notebook for only a moment, his intrigue swayed to the corner of his eye. It certainly didn’t smell like a body. He peeled back the top layer of the bag. Fresh green stacks of bills that smelled worse to him than a corpse would.

“This is not happening”, he said aloud.

Through all of the years he spent in college and internships, in the bars at night with his friends and colleagues, in the dorm rooms and apartments he laid his head to rest in, he had tried with all of his might to forget the pain this menacing paper had caused his family. The room was spinning now.

There was a soft knock at the door, much quieter than the noise the bag had made. Samson broke his gaze on the contents of the bag and got up suddenly, relieved to be distracted, but dreading the next step. He walked across the floor and opened the door slowly, without peering through the peephole. A large fellow, about 6’5, towered over him at his own threshold.

“Can I come in, Samson?” , he asked in a stoic almost concerned tone. Samson ushered him in without a word. Rick made his way toward the bag and blocked the light coming through the living room window, casting a shadow over the dark bag. “Did you count it?” he asked.

“I can’t take this, Rick. You know I can’t do this- I don’t want to be a part of this!”

“Ha! I know you’re rich now kid, but that’s not really your $20,000 yet”, he scoffed. Rick waited for Samson to settle down and asked, “Do you know what happened to her?”

Samson finally met Rick’s gaze and his face turned white. Tears began to haze his vision and he found the nearest chair to plop down into. He knew exactly what happened just moments before, and recognized what his fate would look like eventually. He knew that his mother wasn’t telling the whole truth when she claimed his grandfather simply jumped off the Brooklyn bridge.

“This society has rules you need to learn now, my boy. This bag will be yours if you do what I say, and only that. This is your book now too, so keep it safe always and you’ll get to pass it down to your kin.”

“I wouldn’t wish this life on any child, Rick. I’d take my own before that happens”, Samson replied as he sunk lower into his chair.

Rick cocked the side of his mouth and shook his head, “Then we have a train to catch son”.