by D. K. Greene
The person entering the room is not the man Peter envisioned Glen to be. He imagined he’d be big. Encumbered in a fitted suit with a high-dollar stick planted firmly up his ass. While the guy crossing the threshold is definitely big, it’s not in the steroid enhanced gym-addicted way he’d expected.
Glen’s belly spills over stained sweatpants. His plaid shirt can only button halfway down his gut and the tails wave in front of him like peasants announcing their coming king. He scratches his wiry beard as he stands just inside the door, taking in the display. He peers over the smudged yellow lenses of his glasses and grunts what Peter supposes is his version of, “Hello,” then eases himself the rest of the way into the room.
He causes a minor avalanche when he passes a side table loaded with art supplies. He doesn’t seem to notice the tumbling paintbrushes in his wake, just fights his way into the chair at the end of the conference table.
“You must be Glen.” Peter extends a hand in greeting.
Glen waves noncommittally at the gesture. “Yeah, that’s me. I don’t shake hands. Measles.”
Recoiling unconsciously, Peter wipes his hand on the front of his jacket. “You have Measles?”
“No. And I don’t intend to catch them, neither,” Glen grumbles.
Peter smiles, only because he doesn’t know what else to do. They look at each other in silence until Peter remembers his script. “Welcome to the Alphabet Apes Portland prize center. Thank you for coming. I know it was an inconvenience, but I’m glad you made it.”
“I had to borrow a car. I would have taken the bus, but you didn’t tell me how big the prize would be.” Glen eyeballs the cherry colored electric guitar that remains the centerpiece of the music section. Peter promises himself that Glen will not walk away with it.
“Well, I’m glad to hear you could work that out. I’m ready to scan your box for you. Then we can figure out what you’ve won.” Peter busies himself with waking the laptop up while he waits for Glen to produce the package. The man doesn’t move. He doesn’t even speak. Just sits there scratching at something under the table.
Peter hopes it’s his knee, but he’s fairly sure it’s not. “Glen?”
“Yeah?” His gaze shifts from a pile of artfully arranged gift cards.
“Did you bring the cereal box with you?” Peter’s thumb twitches against the laptop, accidentally highlighting an entire row of data on the spreadsheet.
Breathing heavily, Glen both slouches in the chair and looks at Peter with a brazenly false expression of innocence. “I forgot it.”
The butterflies that have been flitting around in Peter’s stomach die. They boil in a rising lake of acid. “It’s one of two things you need to claim your prize.”
“I brought a receipt. That’s good enough.” Glen extracts a stained and crumpled strip of paper from a pocket below his waistline. He clenches it in his hand, balling the wad up tight to make it easier to toss at Peter’s laptop.
“Except, it’s not.” Peter pokes at a loose corner of the receipt with a pen until it rolls far enough away that he can’t smell the sweat soaked into the paper.
“Are you serious? It’s proof of purchase,” Glen blusters. His cheeks redden and his skin seems to swell under Peter’s gaze.
“I appreciate that you’ve purchased our cereal in the past, Glen. But we only mark certain boxes as winners. Scanning the package itself is how I figure out what you’ve won.”
“Obviously, I have a winning box. I called you.” The thick hair around his mouth droops over his defiant grimace.
Peter considers the logic, but sticks to his script. Everyone else has brought their box with them. This guy can’t bend the rules to fit his scruffy convenience. “I understand that you called, but the prize code is on the box. I can’t match you with your prize without it.”
Glen snorts. Drool escapes the corner of his mouth and gets caught in his beard. “I knew this was a scam.”
Fighting to keep his voice even, Peter resists the urge to lash out. “This is not a scam, Glen. You bring in the box. I scan the box. I take a quick look at your ID, and you walk away with a prize. I explained this on the phone.”
Heaving himself out of the chair, Glen steadies himself against the table. He teeters his way around the far side of the room where he stops to finger video game cases. “You didn’t explain anything. Just said to come get my prize.”
Peter clenches his jaw. He told this asshole what to bring. He’s told everyone the same thing. “I can’t just let you take a prize. I’m sure it will disappoint your kids, but if you’d like, we can reschedule for another day. If you come back with the box, I’m sure we can get this sorted out. I have a spot open Tuesday afternoon, if that works for you.”
A grumble of objection shoves its way out of Glen’s thick sinuses. “What kids?”
“Aren’t you picking up the prize for your kids?” Peter asks as Glen shakes his head. Offering another out, Peter suggests, “Niece or nephew?”
“No. I ain’t got kids. This prize is for me. I bought the cereal.” He moves over to the fiery red guitar and strums the strings clumsily. It shifts on its stand and he manhandles the neck while he straightens it. “This stuff is wasted on kids, anyway.”
“Our customers prefer this quality of prize for their kids over the cheap gimmicks our competitors dole out.” Peter grits his teeth behind his smile. He gestures to his open calendar. “So, will Tuesday work for you?”
“None of this shit is branded,” Glen complains as he moves to a stack of tablets and shuffles through them.
“Excuse me?” A blank expression washes away any visible traces of Peter’s frustration.
“Branding. People online want branded swag. Alphabet Apes cups and shirts. Shit like that. Where’s the logo?”
“I’m sorry,” Peter says as he shudders with confusion. “Did you say people online?”
Glen turns around, knocking over the tablets he was just thumbing through. He lifts his shoulders a quarter inch in what is possibly the least comforting gesture Peter’s ever seen. “A guy’s got to take advantage of every opportunity. Branded merch pulls top dollar, ‘specially when it’s rare. This being a regional contest?” He puckers under his moustache to let out a low whistle. “That’s rare as it gets. People back east would go ape-shit over stuff released exclusively in Oregon.”
When Peter doesn’t chuckle with him, Glen turns serious. “I’m saving up for an on-screen used Daryl Dixon crossbow. It’ll round out the archery section of my cinematic weaponry collection.”
Peter does his best to look interested. “Sounds fascinating. Maybe you can tell me more about it when you come back with your box.”
“Tuesday... Think you’ll have any branded prizes then?” Glen looks over the goods surrounding him as if he’s checking to make sure he didn’t miss something important.
His jaw is so tight, Peter can barely form words. “I’ll see what I can pull together.”
Forty-Six
Peter doubts Glen will show up on Tuesday. If he somehow gets his hands on a box, he’ll be damned if that waste of a human will walk away with a prize. He stands in his living room and stares at the dwindling heap. In the grand scheme of things, the toys and games are insignificant to someone like Glen. But they mean the world to the families Peter’s been meeting. He won’t let the deadbeat rob the people of their happiness.
He considers not showing for the appointment himself. Peter could call the other winners he’s booked that day and tell them he’s switched offices. It would take some effort. He imagines Glen arriving at an empty building. He can almost see the crimson discoloration of his skin, starting under his beard and creeping up his puffy cheeks. He’d be furious.
The thought makes Peter smile.
Glen wouldn’t let him get away with it, though. He’s a guy who’d get mad enough to look up Alphabet Apes’ genuine contact information. He’d call and demand his prize. They wouldn’t know what he’s talking about. He’d push on them u
ntil they investigate.
Maybe the news would cover it. But it wouldn’t be a story calling Peter a philanthropic hero. A family might step forward and describe how they won. A nosey reporter like Elsie could find a fake prize box still sitting in some store. It’d probably be one of the two high-end grocers he seeded. People who shop in those places worry about food dyes and chemicals. He imagines only a few of the colorful cereal boxes have been purchased from either store.
Alphabet Apes will pull the boxes if they find out about them. There will be no more phone calls. No more winners. No more smiles.
If all that unfolds, Glen won’t only be taking prizes away from kids. He’ll be stealing Peter’s happiness. The prize giveaway is the only thing he’s ever been good at. It’s the only thing that brings him joy on a continuing basis.
Although the contest is fake, the pleasure on both sides of the table is real. The entire scheme has shifted into something Peter never expected it to be. It’s a joyous gathering of families and friends in which Peter gets to make a small wish come true. The effort of hauling the stuff around town, setting appointments with strangers, and crawling out of bed in the middle of the night to mark more cereal boxes is being repaid with the possibility of changing someone’s life for the better. Giving them opportunities that, as a kid, Peter could have only wished for.
His mind turns to Jesse, who by now has surely had a couple guitar lessons. Peter’s confident he loves them, and soon he’ll be playing along with songs he hears on the radio. He’s old enough to get the itch to start a band with some friends. Maybe they’ll be good together and get a few gigs. It isn’t unheard of for Portland musicians to get enough of a following to go on tour. Maybe he’ll get signed by a big label and make a dent in the music world.
Peter can’t let someone like Glen take away Jesse’s opportunity to play guitar. He can’t let a jerk like him ruin his chance to connect with people who will one day become painters or video game designers. Their entire futures may hinge on these brief encounters. They need the magic of the moment to remain intact.
Making a difference in their lives is a need Peter has no other way to fill. He has to get Glen to crawl back into whatever hole he came out of.
Peter’s abrupt bursts of breath build in frequency. He can’t tell where one ends, and another begins. His vision blurs. The floor tilts beneath him. He realizes he’s hyperventilating. Reaching forward, he grabs at the air, searching for something to support himself with. There’s nothing. His arms flail. He stumbles forward for what feels like half a mile until he finds the edge of the couch.
He heaves himself over the davenport’s arm and lands on the cushions in a crumpled heap. Ears ringing and chest contracting, his thoughts muddle together. He’s dying. Glen is ruining everything; killing Peter, and he doesn’t even know it.
Clutching his chest, Peter looks at the clock on the wall. Three-seventeen in the afternoon. He doesn’t think his rasping breaths can come any shorter, but when he thinks about how shallow and quick they are, the panic grips him even tighter. Then, it seems, his breath disappears completely.
Darkness creeps along the edge of his vision. He feels himself passing into the mist beyond the veil. He can’t go, not yet. He has too much left to live for.
Peter fumbles around for his phone. He finds it and though he can’t figure out how to unlock it, the emergency dialing screen comes to life. His fingers fumble as he dials 9-1-1. A woman answers, but her voice sounds like it’s underwater. He can’t understand her. He shouts over her warbling speech. He thinks he tells her his address, though he isn’t sure about that either.
Then it all goes dark.
Forty-Seven
When consciousness finally returns to Peter, a small light pierces the vision of one eye. A gloved thumb holds Peter’s eyelid open for a second. The hand lets it go and lifts the other eyelid.
“Hello, there,” a soothing male voice says. “What’s your name?”
“Henry Roberts.”
“Are you sure?” The man looks over his shoulder. “Hey, Mike. What’s his wallet say again?”
Peter realizes his mistake. “No, wait. Henry’s my friend. I’m Peter Wilson.”
“That matches,” the EMT holding the wallet says.
“Good. How are you feeling today, Mister Wilson?” The man looks away. Peter can feel pressure bearing down on his bicep. The EMT stares at a monitor, calculating.
“I don’t know,” Peter admits. His breathing is steady, but his entire torso is in a clenching pain that makes him feel like he’s being crushed under the weight of the officers at the prison again.
“We got a call you needed help. Dispatch said you might be having a heart attack.” The restraint abates, and the EMT removes a blood pressure cuff from Peter’s arm.
“Am I dying?” He wiggles his fingers and toes, mentally cataloging the sensation of each live digit.
“Not today.” He grasps Peter near the wrist and looks to his watch, counting. A moment later he answers, “Your heart’s fine. Good blood pressure, strong pulse. You probably had a panic attack.”
Peter rubs his eyes with his newly released hand. “It felt like a heart attack.”
“That’s what most people think, the first time a bad one happens. We can take you to the emergency room if you want a second opinion, but they’ll probably just charge you fourteen-hundred bucks to tell you the same thing.” He helps Peter move to a sitting position. The medic’s biceps flex under his button-down, and Peter’s even more aware of how inadequate he feels.
“I trust your judgement,” Peter says. He remains sitting on the floor as he watches the medical team pack up their gear.
“Get some rest. Read a book and relax awhile. You’ll be fine,” Mike says. “If you have another attack, call your doctor. They’ve got great meds that can help.”
“Add a bit of counseling, and you’ll come out the other side a new man,” the guy with the concrete biceps says. He squats beside Peter and looks him over. “Do you want us to call someone to come hang out with you for a while?”
Peter shakes his head. A few minutes later, the pair let themselves out. They must have turned on the overhead light. It glares down on him like a spotlight in the otherwise dim apartment. Pale yellow fingers leach through the cracks between the blinds in the window from a nearby lamppost and paint stripes on the carpet.
Head pounding, Peter’s aching body screams it’s thirsty. At least that means he’s still alive.
When he shifts to his hands and knees, his clothes cling to him. He feels like he’s run a marathon. Although his clothes were clean when he went down, now they hold the clammy stench of an intense sweat. It takes a couple tries to get his feet under him, but he finally makes his way to the bathroom. He needs a shower and some medicine to relax his tense muscles and pounding head.
He starts the water and pops a couple pills while he waits for the temperature to even out. He undresses and stands in front of the mirror. He’s felt vibrant and alive the last couple weeks, but now his reflection is blotchy. He looks older than he did this morning. After being arm-to-arm with the fit medic, he looks thin. Noodly, even.
The water stings when he steps in the tub. He adjusts the heat until it’s bearable and stands under the showerhead until the ringing in his ears is drowned out by the hiss of running water. The steam soothes his burning lungs. Peter stares absently at the rack hanging from the showerhead. There isn’t much else in the tub’s surround to pay attention to. Soap, body wash, shampoo, and a disposable razor fill the small chrome basket. Peter’s tired brain reads the back of the body wash bottle for no reason other than that it sits at eye level.
The instructions are the same on practically every body care product he’s ever seen. He wonders why they bother printing them at all. Get wet. Apply product. Scrub and rinse. Repeat if you feel you need to. Move on with your day if you don’t.
His lazy gaze moves across the ingredients. Methylisothiazolinone. Methylchloroisoth
iazolinone. Cocamidopropyl Betaine. Oxidized Polyethylene. Sodium Laureth Sulfate. Sodium Benzoate. Sodium Hydroxide. Ferric Ammonium Ferrocyanide.
Peter’s brain screeches to a halt. He grabs the bottle and traces his finger over the printed label. Adrenaline pulses under his skin as his eyes focus. Ferric Ammonium Ferrocyanide.
He shuts the water off and leaves the bathroom with the plastic bottle in hand. He drips water all over the apartment as he retrieves his laptop. He pulls it from its case and props it open on the coffee table as he sits on the couch. He types a question into the browser’s search bar.
Is Ferric Ammonium Ferrocyanide the same as cyanide?
Clicking the second link on the page reveals a lengthy article. He starts reading.
Ferric Ammonium Ferrocyanide is a common colorant in bath and beauty products. It produces blue or yellow coloring, depending on the addition of other reactive compounds. It’s closely related to Ferric Ferrocyanide, commonly referred to as “Prussian Blue” in cosmetics, though it’s not the same chemical. It belongs to a class of inorganic cyanides. If inhaled or ingested, immediately transport the affected person to a hospital for medical treatment.
There’s cyanide in the soap. Peter chuckles. No wonder they don’t want you drinking the stuff.
As he leans back on the couch, his snicker blossoms into a full-on laugh. He can’t believe it. Cyanide in his apartment. The laughter overwhelms him, the contracting muscles forcing him to double over. Tears pool in his eyes and trickle down his cheeks. They probably drop off his chin onto his naked knees, but he’s still so wet from the shower, he doesn’t feel them fall. A whoop of excitement escapes his chest and all the tension around his ribcage from the panic attack slips away.
Glen may try to screw up Peter’s world, but he knows just what to do to make sure he doesn’t succeed.
