by Frank Redman
I didn’t know I had a famous uncle until recently because he and my mother despised each other. Uncle Joe said each year he would send money for Christmas. On one of those occasions when talking to Mom, who was probably high, she told him he didn’t send enough. He discovered Mom and Allister were using the cash for drugs. He stopped funding their habit. She cut him off.
After that, my parents were poor by choice, spending everything they had on drugs.
Drugs will make you do anything. I mean anything. Even selling your kids. Or killing them.
I’ve seen it.
When no longer a “child of the state” and instead on my own, I stumbled upon a book written by Uncle Joe and that lead to me finding him after searching on the Internet. He didn’t know I was the only one in my family still alive.
Now I live in the aforementioned apartment. He has a very nice house. I could live in one of the rooms in the main house, but we both recognize I need space.
I also don’t have a free ride, nor would I want it. I’ve seen what money does to people. To some, money itself is an addiction. To others, it’s a means to fulfill addictions. I don’t want the temptation of having everything given to me and to never have to work for anything.
So, I work as a computer repair technician at Buy City, which enables me to pay rent and buy Heinz ketchup, among other life-sustaining necessities. I also do some IT stuff on the side, like ethical hacker stuff.
Don’t laugh, ethical hacking is big business. I’m not at the level where it’s big business for me, mind you, but there are some consultants and consulting firms who have major influence with, minor entities like the New York Stock Exchange or the Pentagon.
An ethical hacker is employed by the US government, for example, to attempt to hack into a sector of the government’s network environment. If the hacker succeeds, he or she can then assist the government’s IT personnel to secure the vulnerability. It’s the good guys trying to rob the bank before the bad guys get the cash. Only, the good guys leave all the money behind if they successfully break in.
At my level, I’m mostly hired to do things like hack into residential wireless networks and then close security holes, so that cheap neighbors can’t piggyback on my clients’ Internet connectivity.
The tech job is fun because it gives me an opportunity to fix people’s computer problems. I can’t fix people, so this is an outlet. Plus, I don’t have to talk much to them. Customers engage the customer-service reps at the counter, who then get a rundown of the technical difficulties the computer, or customer, is experiencing. But don’t call them reps. At Buy City, they are called hostesses, or hosts, as the case may be. Said hostess (my preferred gender) then enlightens me on what I, the PC butler, must service.
At least I don’t have to wear a tux. Just a business-casual uniform, which consists of black slacks, a long-sleeved bright-blue dress shirt, and a matching black-and-blue diagonally-striped tie.
The computer job also keeps me away from animals. I’ve yet to see a Doberman bring in his Macbook.
Being December, the store was decked out in holiday cheer. Boughs of holly were all over the place, not just the halls. Garland wrapped the columns, giant wreaths hung from the ceiling, Christmas lights danced everywhere. Every department had its own tree. Items offered by that department were displayed as unwrapped gifts underneath. Christmas cheer was in the air! Buy, buy, buy!
Though the decorations were excessive, the place did look festive, and there was an excitement that only Christmas could bring. Some of the hosts and hostesses wore elf hats, with lots of smiles to go around.
And, excellent music danced in our ears. Frank Sinatra sang “Silver Bells,” Dean Martin crooned “I’ve Got My Love to Keep Me Warm,” even some slightly off-key Sammy Jr.
I’m a Rat Pack devotee.
On this particular Thursday, decked out in my business casualesqueness (sans elf hat), Jenny, my favorite hostess of the preferred gender, approached me stating, “Nicholas Broxton wants to speak with you.”
I don’t talk to customers unless there is a need to get clarification on a specific issue. The hosts/hostesses are all computer savvy, so the need seldom occurs. We don’t wear nametags nor do we provide our names to customers, even when asked. There are many reasons for this. So if someone knows one of our names, it’s because he or she knows us.
Mr. Broxton was one of my clients.
The man was rich, a multi-millionaire, rich, and intimidating, though unintentionally—the intimidating part, that is. I’m sure the rich part was intentional. He had a very strong presence and commanded attention just by walking into a room. Deep bass voice, square-ish face, exquisitely cropped salt-and-heavy pepper-hair. (I’d never seen even a single hair out of place, whereas my hair does a decent impression of a feather duster). His vivid green eyes were the color of a ten thousand dollar bill. I know. I’d seen one. Mr. Broxton showed me. Salmon P. Chase is on the front. The George Washington variety is a faded green. I’ve actually seen a few of those.
I was shocked to hear Mr. Broxton entered the store. Even with the name Buy City, the establishment’s target customers were upscale. We joked the store should instead be called Extravagant City, EC for short. But I guess that really doesn’t mesh well with buyer psychology. “Oh, I simply love those shoes! Where did you get them?” “Aren’t they just divine? I got them on clearance at Extravagant City!”
But despite the upscale image, Buy City resided far below Mr. Broxton’s tastes. We may be fancy for a department store, but the Avenue des Champs-Élysées we were not.
“Thanks, Jenny. Um, you look nice today.”
She looked down at her clothes, or uniform, which consisted of a pleated black skirt and a blouse the same color blue as my dress shirt. “Ellie, I look like this every day at EC.”
“Uh, then you look nice every day.”
She laughed. “Your pickup lines need work.”
Jenny was right, she’s premiumware whereas I’m shareware. That’s geekspeak for I didn’t have a chance.
Her eyes looked like chocolate. Her silky hair owned a reddish brown color and flowed to the middle of her back. When she turned, the reddish strands glistened in the light, creating a shimmering reflection as if the strands were from some exotic waterfall on an alien planet.
Let’s just say she was beautiful. Breathtaking. And I was infatuated. Yet, despite her beauty, that singular characteristic was not the cause of my infatuation. Oh, it helped, certainly. But her inner beauty pinched my heart. I’m being serious. Her grace, her vitality, her musical laugh… She could have easily shunned me, ridiculed my existence. But she always treated me with kindness, treated me like I was somebody.
Other people might not give me the time of day. But Jenny would say, “Three o’clock.” Assuming it was three o’clock when I asked.
“You’d better not keep that man waiting. He’s important.”
I found myself staring at her and quickly averted my eyes just as I noticed a perceptive smile flash across her face, felt my cheeks heat up, and started to walk away when her last sentence finally registered. “You know him?”
She shook her head. “Not really, no. But I know who he is. He and my dad sometimes collaborate on derivative financial products for the stock market.
Huh?
And right after that singular thought of profound ignorance, I realized, as I marveled at her chocolate eyes, inner beauty, and timekeeping skills, I was ignorant about much of Jenny’s life outside the walls of the Big EC. I mean, we talked about life and stuff, but not about her life. Nor mine, for that matter.
I studied the ceiling for a beat, then looked back at Jenny. “Let’s pretend like I don’t know what that means.”
A different version of a perceptive smile flashed. She has a lot of these perceptive smiles, at least when talking to me. About seventeen. I’ve catalogued them. But new versions appear weekly.
She said, “I’ll explain it to you sometime.”
I
walked through the thick purple drapes that created both a physical and visible barrier from customers behind the u-shaped counter. Yes, purple drapes. Not plastic strip curtains. We weren’t the Geek Squad (no offense to my geek brethren).
To protect customer privacy, we never worked on a computer in view of other customers. Plus, every once in a while someone was stupid enough to drop off a computer with child porn on it. Always because of a virus, they say. Go figure. We couldn’t let other customers see that, obviously. Or ourselves. When discovered, we stopped work immediately and notified the police. These offending customers didn’t get the privilege of protected privacy. After the police investigated the material on the computer, we called the customer saying the computer work was complete and ready for pick up. The officer then greeted the customer in one of the manager’s offices and the perp got to wear shiny bracelets on the way to the backseat of a police cruiser. I think these perverts should also get the opportunity of a brain massage provided by a 2000-watt microwave. I’ll let imagination take over from there.
Customers were never allowed behind the scenes in what we named the Room of Sovereignty. Sadly, I’m not a king and I didn’t have a chair resembling a throne. I had a barstool. Twenty-four-hour surveillance ensured we kept customers out and that we also didn’t do anything that would be frowned upon, like stealing or looking at pics on computers.
Mr. Broxton wore a silver Brioni suit that matched his hair and a blue dress shirt. I wouldn’t have known to call it a Brioni, except he once told me that’s all he wore. It’s supposed to be fancier than Giorgio Armani. Target is fancy for me. At least our similarly colored shirts made me feel honored.
“Nice shirt,” he said as I walked up to the counter.
I nodded thanks.
He said, “Please visit with me over here,” as he motioned to a spot a few yards beyond the counter where no customers mingled.
He was visibly upset. Though, to the untrained eye, he might have looked as if he had just gained a paltry million in financial trading, instead of a million-two. But to me, since I’d never seen him upset, period… I swallowed. And followed.
Panic struck me as I first thought something bad must have happened to my uncle. Mr. Broxton and Uncle Joe were close friends. He liked my uncle’s books and was kind enough to buy several to hand out to friends and associates. Maybe I overreacted, but my uncle was it—all I had left. No other family.
“My apologies for interrupting you at work. I went to your apartment. Your uncle said you were here.”
Whew. “It’s all right, sir, you don’t have to apologize. But you could have just called my cell.” I wanted to add something like, ‘I can’t believe you’d be caught dead in here,’ but I refrained. Sometimes I do actually possess a little tact.
“I need to discuss a situation with you that is too sensitive for a cellphone. It is also too sensitive to discuss here,” he said, swinging his left arm out slightly and glancing around.
I knew something big was up, obviously, or Mr. Broxton wouldn’t have been standing in front of me. But what could be such a big deal that made him scared to talk on the phone? And what the heck could I do about it?
I swallowed again as my mouth went dry, again.
“Will your schedule permit you to assist me tonight after your workday is complete?”
I almost laughed as I quickly counted my after-work social commitments and got all the way up to zero. “Yes, sir, of course. What time would you like me to be at your house?”
“Is eight o’clock agreeable?”
My shift ended at 6:00. That would give me plenty of time to eat and attempt to calm my nerves, so that I wouldn’t make a fool of myself in front of Mr. Broxton. “I’ll be there at eight o’clock, sir.”
“I will make sure Tyler is in the backyard.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Mr. Broxton nodded. “He’s a good dog, you know. He won’t hurt you.”
I smiled faintly.
“Thank you, Elijah.” He looked at his Patek Philippe watch (I once asked about the brand) and said, “I have an important appointment to keep. Have a good day.” He nodded, pierced my eyes with his, then turned and walked briskly to the store’s front doors, glancing furtively left and right as he went.
I turned and walked slowly to the Room of Sovereignty. And wondered what I was getting myself into.
Chapter Four
At a pace fit for a turtle, I drove my ‘78 cobalt blue Chevy Nova, the Beast, to my apartment.
It has a Holley Double Pumper four-barrel carburetor, distributor curve kit, high energy electronic ignition, a Level 10 Bulletproof performance transmission, high-nickel content racing block with bored heads, and wide tires. I didn’t know what any of that meant except the wide tires. A friend who’s a hotrod nut helped me pick out the car. He said it had go-fast parts. I like go-fast parts.
Acquiring the Beast was also the first significant purchase I had ever made, and I worked for every dollar it cost. I love that car.
I drove slowly because mammoth grey-black storm clouds advanced across the sky like aircraft carriers heading for battle. Cannons fired huge bolts of lightning. Thunder cracked so loud that I tried to cover my ears each time it fractured the sky, but I was always a split second too late. The clouds brought a premature nightfall. Waves of rain beat down on the car, which was manufactured before the dawn of intermittent wipers.
Allister often sat in the living room while sharpening a large knife with a leather strop so we could all hear it. He tried to intimidate us, and it worked. The sound of wiper blades vibrating on the windshield reminds me of that fear, so in light rains, I manually move the wiper switch: On, Off, On, Off. During this storm, however, they weren’t fast enough to keep up.
With the wipers on High, the rapid swoosh-swoosh-swoosh-swoosh of the blades sounded as if I had journeyed inside the heart of a giant chasing his tormented prey.
The longer I drove, the more anxious I got.
The heartbeat wipers seemed to take on a sinister sound, a dead-dead-dead-dead omen of doom.
I parked the Beast in the cold garage next to my uncle’s Range Rover. The heavy dampness made it feel even colder than the 38° it was supposed to be. I shivered as I stepped out of the car.
Before going to my apartment, I walked through the main house, calling for my uncle. I’m embarrassed to admit it, but I wanted to give him a hug. I needed that brief moment of security, knowing he was all right.
From the garage I went through the kitchen to the dining room, living room, library, and then the media room. I went to the master bedroom, and peeked into some other rooms along the way. He wasn’t home. Yet a part of me wanted to keep exploring. I envisioned my dead uncle chopped up into four-inch sections, neatly placed in rows like dominos.
I have a vivid imagination. Good for a writer, bad for peace of mind.
After fighting the urge to run from room-to-room, I manned up and went back out to the garage to climb the stairs to my apartment. I chose the interior stairs over the exterior. If I had to go outside to get to my place, my feather-duster hair would look more like a used mop.
For dinner, I decided on grilled cheese sandwiches with Campbell’s tomato soup. I make a mean grilled cheese that I’m sure would win any Iron Chef competition if they could entice me enough to share my talent on the show.
I stretched out on my bed for a minute and stared at the ceiling.
My cave isn’t much, but it’s home. My home.
Unlike my rejection of Uncle Joe’s invitation to stay in the main house, I did accept furniture donations. I’m not proud of this; it wasn’t a petition from the Elijah Raven Hands-Out Foundation. But I had to admit, having a bed is nice. I’ve spent many bone-flattening, sleepless nights on concrete-hard floors.
The furniture donation included a cherry wood four-poster bed, matching night stands and dresser, a brown wing-back chair, two cherry wood bookshelves, and a three-foot high wooden representation of Albert Einstein,
in which he’s holding a stack of books that opens to a not-so-secret compartment. Inside the compartment is a racquetball within a glass case, a memorial to a lost friend. A small table and matching chairs sit just outside my galley kitchen. A stone fireplace faced my door on the opposite side of the room.
I had a hunch Uncle Joe decided to remodel as an excuse to help me acquire more items than what fit in my backpack.
I don’t have any pets, but I actually like animals. Yet because of my “gift,” I stay away from them, as if I would get leprosy just by eye contact.
Well, I do have one pet: a rock named Rocky. He’s house broken, always smiling, didn’t eat much, and never tried to project thoughts to me.
For cover, when asked why I have a problem with animals, I tell people I have zoophobia. That is the actual name of the phobia meaning fear of animals. Since dogs communicate with me more than other animals, if a dog is around, I claim to have acute cynophobia—fear of dogs.
I have some ugly scars on my left arm, which I show as evidence for the reason of my phobias, fabricating a vicious dog attack. In truth, the scars were a souvenir from the time Allister beat me with a hacksaw when I was ten. He was so enraged that he just picked up the closest thing to him at the time. I’m lucky he didn’t grab a baseball bat.
Or an axe.
That’s the day my best friend, Billy, saved my life and died.
I wear long sleeves to hide the scars, which make me look a bit odd in the summer. It’s easy at work thanks to the long-sleeved dress shirts.
Sometimes, I feel the scars act as an early warning system. A portent of danger. It’s bizarre, but they seem to burn slightly when there’s a looming threat or hazard.
Maybe it’s some form of compensation from God for the disfigurement and pain. But I have a hard time accepting that theory, as there are so many who have suffered far worse than scarring. They deserve more from God than I do.
