A Simple Job

Maybe I was born doomed. Thrust into the world cold and scared. Searching for the comfort of my mother. I wanted to feel safe, secure, warm. Screaming into the void, there would be no solace to ease my tiny soul. My mother was gone. Dead? Abandoned? A mystery never to be solved and my heart would forever yearn to fill a missing piece. Crave to feel whole.

I would try to satiate the craving with reckless curiosity plus a dash of poor impulse control. I had to put my nose into everything. Try everything. Find out everything. Surely something would be able to fill the hole inside me; help me feel complete.

Nothing worked, though, and I was left with constant, nagging anxiety. It felt like static in my brain. Pressure in my chest. A sense of waiting for something that was on the verge of happening, but never does; like when you are put on hold, and your wait time never changes from three minutes until you are the next caller up. “I’ll just give it a couple more minutes.” You are sick of waiting, but you don’t want to lose your spot, and surely you will be up in a second. You just know as soon as you hang up, it would have been your turn, and you would have missed it. But, now you are stuck… waiting.

To make ends meet, and they barely met, I chose a profession of high stakes: profit or prison, or worse, if you cross the wrong person. People get hurt, but I needed to eat. Most of the “profit” went straight to booze. It helped numb the ache. The constant emptiness. I was desperate to feel anything other than anxiety picking and scratching at my brain. I had nothing to lose. Or, so I thought.

Of all the poor choices I made, the black-out drunk nights where I would wake up behind a filthy dumpster, or dangling off bridges for a rush, taking a job did not seem like it would have been one of them. Sure, it seemed sketchy, but sketchy was my world. Self-destruction was my life. When you are at the bottom of the barrel, you think you can go no lower… until the bottom drops out.

It was a risky job, which is why I took it in the first place. Basic, but high stakes. The ol’ switcheroo. I had built a reputation of excellence in sleight-of-hand in certain circles; or, to put it plainly, I was a pickpocket. A sneaky thief. As I said, I needed to eat, and the idea of working in an office made me want to vomit. What soul I had left I was not giving to some mind-sucking, lifeless corporation. Not that I was qualified anyways.

I was at my local watering hole, because nothing helps heal a wounded soul like the warm, liquid bandage of alcohol, on day three of a bender when Max sidled up to my stool at the bar. Toothpick hanging out of their mouth. Shaggy brown hair in need of a trim. They always wore these over-sized wire-rim sunglasses that, with their small face, made them look like a bug. A fly. Buzzing around and about to annoy me. Maybe there was a swatter behind the bar?

“What are you looking for?” Max asked as they buzzed to a stop beside me.

I turned my head slightly in their direction, but not yet making eye contact. I was still searching for that swatter. “Something to squash a pest,” I replied. My eyes flicked in their direction. “What do you want?”

“I got a job for you.” Their eyebrows furrowed; the insult was not lost on them.

A flash of hands toward their jacket pocket caught my eye. Life working the streets had taught me to never trust what may be hidden in there. It’s how you can get a knife to the gut. Just ask my friend, Gerry. I relaxed slightly when they pulled out a little black book. In an age of everything being online, Max must have been a purist for tradition. Maybe they found comfort in using paper. Maybe they were afraid of hackers getting the information. Maybe they were the devil collecting souls and they would write them down in their little black book, like in the Stephen King novel, Needful Things. Since they were probably about to offer me a job stealing from some poor sap, the latter seemed the more likely option.

“The job is simple.” Simple for Max as they weren’t the one risking their ass. “Your mark will be sitting outside of the coffee shop, BrewGood, at 2 PM. They will be wearing a charcoal suit, white shirt, and will be carrying a red satchel. The red satchel is what you will be switching out. It is a two-gallon, blood-red, leather satchel. You will be given one thousand dollars to find a suitable stand-in.” Max slid over an envelope. “You will NOT look into the satchel.” All but ensuring I was going to look in that satchel. “And you will bring it back here by 2:30 PM. I’ll be back. Easy peasy.” Max was motionless except to adjust his sunglasses.

Something was off. It did seem “easy peasy”. Was it too easy? Why was Max acting so formal? I couldn’t quite put my finger on it, but something fishy was going on.

“As far as compensation for your work, how much?” Max asked.

“I don’t understand,” I said. Something was definitely off. Max knows my standard fee.

“How much do you want for the job,” Max reiterated, picking at an invisible blemish on their sleeve.

“Twenty grand so I can retire,” I replied with thinly veiled sarcasm. A slight chill ran through me; I rubbed the goosebumps that had perked up all down my arms. The bar always was a drafty shithole.

“Done. You’ll get it when you get back.” Max marked off something in their little black book while turning and quickly walking towards the exit. Not even waiting for my response.

I scoffed. No fucking way. “See ya, Max,” was all I could muster to holler after them as they speed-walked away.

Suddenly, I could not shake the feeling of being watched. Max had just opened the door to leave, flooding the dark, dingy bar with light for a moment, and turning all us gargoyles to stone. As soon as the door snapped shut, the hairs on the back of my neck stood on end. My heart began to race, pulsing in my ears. Stay cool, baby, I thought, subtly taking a sip of my cheap whiskey and taking a quick scan of the room. My spidey-sense was screaming at me, but it was already 1 PM. I needed to hustle.

“I’ll be back, Lee!” I hollered across the bar, slapped a twenty-dollar bill down, and booked it out to my Volkswagen Rabbit. Damn, I loved that car; dark blue and beat up, but never died. The Rabbit hightailed it through bustling streets to the nearest designer store. Not a lot of time. It’s already 1:20 PM. And I still couldn’t shake the feeling of eyes on me. Probably just the store clerk. I didn’t exactly fit in with my Target jeans and shirt.

I found a suitable satchel, made my purchase, and sprinted back to the Rabbit. I needed time to stake out the coffee shop and get a feel for the mark. 1:35 pm. Cutting it close. Max better pay up for the stress. This last-minute shit drove me nuts. But, twenty grand. Twenty grand!

“Woo!” I screamed out the open window with my arm waving in the rushing of wind.

As I squealed around a corner, a sense of foreboding suddenly clouded my mind. Pushing out the gleeful feelings previously occupying the space. Eyes on me, again. I glanced in the review mirror but saw nothing. Of course, I didn’t. The sunny light outside the windows seemed to dim. Adrenaline started to pump throughout my body. Every sense was on high alert; my body was vibrating from overstimulation. I tried to brush it off. Probably just amped for the job.

Heart still racing, I sped up. I turned my head to fully inspect the back seat when a horn started blaring. I swerved back into my lane with no time to spare. My car rattled as the truck rushed by me; truck-driver flipping me a well-deserved bird as they went.

A bit of good fortune there was an open parking spot half a block from the coffee shop. I looked at the clock: 1:47 PM. I took a few big breaths in a vain attempt to calm my nerves as I walked through the door and found a seat on the patio. The air felt thick and seemed to wiggle, like the hot air right above a grill. Keep it together, I told myself. And there they were - the mark. Charcoal suit and all. I ordered a coffee from the server and paid upfront; can’t be waiting around after the switch.

I had pulled this kind of job a hundred times, but I felt shaky. The surges of adrenaline were making me hyped, then nauseous, then tired, on repeat. And cold; I shivered even though the sun was out, and it was a beautiful, warm day. I eyed my mark through my mirror-lensed sunglasses, waited for them to run inside to use the restroom, and made my move. Easy peasy. I was back in my car by 2:10 PM. Plenty of time to get back to the bar to meet Max.

As I parked outside of the bar, I eyed the satchel. Max said don’t look inside. The urge to give it a peek was overwhelming. Ignoring the weird vibes I had been having all day, I reached over and pulled the satchel into my lap. I felt a heaviness in my chest and on my shoulders. A small breeze puffed above my left ear, making my hair tickle my neck. I shuddered, checked the back seat one more time, and clicked open the latch.

Of all the risky shit… I thought as blood began to run down my nose. I felt calm now. The adrenaline was gone. All used up. The nagging feeling, which had haunted me my whole life, wasn’t there anymore. No more waiting to be the next caller. Doomed from birth. I knew it. I noticed the sky had grown dark. How did it get dark so fast? The feeling of being watched once again.

Max tapped on the hood of my car with their little black book and wagged his finger at me. Was that Max? Their skin looked scaly and pale. I hadn’t noticed in the dimly lit bar, especially since the sunglasses obscured most of their face. Max’s body seemed to bulge and retract in a syncopated manner. My head ached, like my brain was being squeezed. My eyelids were getting heavy.

“Naughty of you to look when you were warned not to do so.” The Max-like creature smiled a mouthful of daggers. “Your payment as we agreed.” They swapped out the satchel on my lap with cash through the still open window.

I swooned, my head drooping. As suffocating blackness washed over me, I wondered, What. The. Fuck…