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To The Moon.

A little black book and twenty thousand dollars heading straight for the moon.

By Laura UrePublished 3 years ago 10 min read
1
To The Moon.
Photo by Sanni Sahil on Unsplash

She hauled her made-from-recyclable-materials tote back up onto her coffee table and collapsed on her pre-loved couch she’d never quite been able get that smell out of. Some like to eat their feelings, but Connie spent hers instead. After That-Bitch Jeff wrote her up arriving to the office only five minutes late a post-work splurge at the bookstore was warranted. Fortunately, or unfortunately, Con could never tell which, she was broke so the splurges were limited to the secondhand industry. She liked her books to appear worn anyway, it gives the illusion of being read.

Woolf. Wallace. Coates. Joyce. She listed them off as they were extracted from tote to table, purposely arranged as if they had just been thrown there indiscriminately. The Mills & Boon came next, left next her in preparation for bedtime. Lastly she held a small, black, leather-bound notebook. It had the mysterious duality of seeming brand new with crisp, untouched pages, while also being from another time where leather binding was commonplace and the heady scent of it associated directly with the art of words. Most importantly it serves the purpose of making herself more alluring, she planned on taking it to coffee shops to write poetry in for others to watch her. She made a mental note to watch some videos on how to write poetry before she went.

Lifting it close, she closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. It really was an excellent smell, perhaps it would inspire her first award-winning sonnet. Then when she opened them, to her surprise, a man in a tidy suit sat beside her. A strange man materializing inside your home would be a shock enough, but this one also happened to be blue.

“Hello Constance.”

After a string of curse words, thrown pottery goods, more cursing and an unfortunate incident involving some pepper spray, the blue man explained, while wiping his face vigorously with a spotty tea towel while Connie did the same, he was in fact a genie and here to change her life.

“But I don’t own any magic lamps?”

“Oh, that’s an old stereotype,” he explained, “They fell out of style centuries ago, really they are a little garish by modern standards. My station is in that lovely little book currently under that table right there.”

Connie grabbed the notebook and glared at it, unsure of what to do but glad there was something to blame for this.

“So let me guess, three wishes? No deaths, no lovers, no resurrections?”

The blue man sighed, “another old stereotype. It’s much too hard to quantify wishes, how can you put a price on becoming the King of France, or your arch nemesis being driven to insanity by a family of gerbils living in his walls that never let him rest? No, we’re really more about equity now. That’s the word straight from the corporate office. So we just give cash, enough to pay for all your wildest dreams to come true!”

“Cash?”

“Indeed! Unimaginable riches are now yours! What would you say to twenty thousand dollars!” he pronounced, extravagantly spreading his arms wide.

Connie frowned, “twenty thousand dollars? Well it would take a good dent out of my car loan, I suppose I wouldn’t say no.”

His face fell, “just a car loan? No, that’s not appropriate at all. What about a fleet of war ships, an impenetrable fortress, or your own private island where you can hunt men for sport?”

“What?”

“What? Anyway, my point is, twenty thousand dollars! Do something life changing, fly to the moon on a rocket ship!”

“I’ll need a lot more than twenty thousand dollars to get to the moon.”

“Oh,” he shrugged, “well perhaps we need to adjust for inflation. You ever heard of the Rockefeller’s? That was my last client, he seemed to do quite well with it. I’m terribly sorry but I don’t have the authorization to make any adjustments, but I’ll pass it onto our consumer relations team. If you were happy with the service you received today please press 1 on your number pad at the dial tone.”

With a loud bleep the blue man was gone, and the notebook had a slip of paper now poking out of the inside pocket. A cheque for twenty thousand dollars was in Connie’s hands. She sighed, not even a direct debt. She’d have to go to the bank tomorrow and then perhaps the moon, she thought with a small smile.

By Pavel Untilov on Unsplash

“Have you thought about investing at all?”, the twenty-something teller with the hundred-dollar haircut and off-the-rack suit asked her.

“That’s not really my thing, stocks seem complicated and I really would like to take a chunk out of my car loan if you can do that transfer here.”

“Well I can, but I won’t. Tell you what,” he grabbed the black notebook out of her hand, “here’s my number. Give me a call. I’m starting up something special with crypto and need investors and you seem like the right girl for me, as a business partner of course. We’re going to ride the crypto wave straight to the moon!” He laughed while he winked at her and handed back the notebook.

Connie stood on the curb outside the bank, staring at the first page with his number scrawled inside, his name was Paul and he had awful handwriting. She looked up to find the blue man back and smiling at her,

“So this is it right, this will change your life! What a nice chap, letting you in on the ground floor with no ulterior motive.”

“I really don’t know. It sounds like a risk, what if it doesn’t work out? And I’m quite sure he had more than business partners in mind when he gave me his number. You’re a bit oblivious, aren’t you?”

“I prefer obstinate myself.”

Amongst the city smells of car fumes, unsecured debt, and stale urine, the notebooks leathery cover reached her. Holding it close she closed her eyes and breathed deeply. Straight to the moon.

By Etienne Martin on Unsplash

Paul’s idea had been a good one. Constance clicked importantly through the 59th story penthouse they shared in impossibly uncomfortable high heels, but they gave her the right imagine. She stepped into the elevator and hit the 58th button, where their operating headquarters were located. What started out as the blue mans money and Paul’s laptop was now a scaled up operation with dozen’s of day-traders on staff, earning more money every day.

The doors slid open and Connie stepped out to rows of unremarkable computer banks. She put her hand inside her tailored suit jacket, which was so expensive it was the first inanimate object to be listed on several publications top 100 richest lists, to extract her black notebook.

She glanced through the pages as she searched for what she needed. A to-do list she wrote a long time ago read:

- Read Mrs. Dalloway

- Learn how to write poetry

- Call back Paul

Only the last in the list was ticked off. She sped through the archives of her success; the darkest secrets of men who thought they were powerful and women who were truly powerful were scribbled down alongside lists of baby names and wedding décor ideas. She twisted the large ring on her fourth finger, a gift from Paul and a testament to his devotion to her. Well she had paid but Paul had selected it especially for her. She was pretty sure he was there anyway.

Having found what she sought, she held a finger inside the notebook and turned to the young receptionist with a four-hundred-dollar haircut and his dad’s old suit,

“David, what time is it?”

“Nine oh four, to be precise Ms. Constance.”

“Thankyou David.”

With that the elevator doors slid open to reveal That-Bitch Jeff materializing behind him.

“Oh my god, Connie! What a surprise to see you, do you work here too? Today is my first day, wait until I tell Sara you’re here, do you remember her? We’re married now!” That-Bitch Jeff gushed in one breath, clearly thrown by first-day nerves coupled with Constance’s assuredly intimidating presence.

“Whose Connie? I don’t know her.” Constance suppressed her own laughter knowing just how funny she is, “I am the co-founder and manager of this operation and I am sorry to say I don’t think you will be a good fit here. Five minutes late on your first day is completely unacceptable.”

“But, what? I was told nine oh five start time, everyday!“ That-Bitch Jeff reeled.

“Nonsense. What kind of workday would start at nine oh five?” In fact his work day did start then, as she had instructed her hiring manager to tell him, but that was semantics.

“You’re fired. Please leave immediately before I have security escort you out.”

Jeff opened and closed his mouth, struggling to form a sentence to salvage the situation, then eventually hit the elevator button with his chin wresting on his chest in defeat.

Constance flipped open her little black notebook to a more recent to-do list:

- Hire That-Bitch Jeff

- Fire That-Bitch Jeff

Smiling as the smell of fresh ink permeated the air while she crossed off both, she breathed in and closed her eyes.

By Karen Uppal on Unsplash

Connie sat on the floor of the 58th in almost complete darkness, the light from the full moon is all she used to work by. The electricity still worked here, but it would attract too much attention to use it. Her fingers protested as she pried open another computer tower to extract the gold and other metals actually worth a damn, after the economic collapse sixty machines designed for day-trading were the only assets she was left with and she had to make do. Thanks to her there was the biggest crypto boom in history, followed by the collapse of the world bank and every other bank, a secret world government exposed, plus a poorly timed plague and to top it all off someone finally found Elvis. Now no one was willing to trade in any currency, much less crypto, so it came down to precious metals and barter goods to get by.

Paul had left not long after the fall citing seeing Elvis in a bedazzled tracksuit lounging at a bar off the west coast of Australia, a creamy cocktail in one hand and a soggy sandwich in the other, was just too much for him to process in the city. He was lactose intolerant and couldn’t stand the pips in strawberry jam, so Connie understood his distress. Last she heard he was shacked up with the heiress to a vape-pod manufacturer, a staggering fortune when even the corrosion of everything you once knew still couldn’t convince people to stop nagging about the dangers of tobacco. She was happy for him, theoretically.

She reached for her black notebook, still with his name and number on the front page. There was a conversion chart in there somewhere she needed. Toilet paper was a scare, treasured resource and came at a very high price but Connie was in desperate need of it. She was already five minutes late to meet No-Longer-A-Bitch Jeff to go to the market together but wanted to double check her own calculations. As she flicked through the pages full of her potential and dreams, along side recipes for sauerkraut and maps to the best satsuma sellers in a four-block radius, the familiar scent of leather and velvety paper hit her. She closed her eyes, inhaled deeply, and thought of every choice she made that bought her here. Straight to the moon.

By Juli Kosolapova on Unsplash

Connie opened her eyes to the blue man standing on the curb in front of her, the banks doors sliding closed behind her.

“So this is it right?” He repeated, “Straight to the moon!”

Connie’s left foot struck out and hit the blue man’s shin, as he fell she span on her heel and walked directly back through the glass doors.

“Fuck the moon.”

satire
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