Last updated on December 9, 2022
If you’ve found this, it means that I’m in trouble and it’s because of my job.
When I was in college, I answered an add in a local free newspaper. It looked honestly too good to be true. “Small Tasks, six figures. Call the number to apply.” I was behind on a car payment and working in a 7-11 third shift, so I figured what would be the worst that could happen?
I called the number. I was interviewed by a nice lady who never told me her name, just asked me a bunch of questions that made no real sense.
- Was I a smoker?
- Did I have my own car?
- What’s a TV show I’d wipe from history.
- Did I have any chronic health conditions?
- Did I live alone?
- Was I a virgin?
- Did I like dogs?
- Did you have any food allergies?
- When was the last time I cried?
- What’s your favorite mixer for cocktails?
- Are the batteries in your smoke alarm still good?
I got annoyed at first, since some of those were kind of personal, but then it just started being funny. I looked around to see if I was on camera. The lady never stopped smiling, never stopped being polite. Finally, she said, “Thank you. We’ll be contacting you shortly.”
“I didn’t give you my number or address or anything.”
“Oh, we have that already. Good day, Anthony.”
It dawned on me that I’d never told her my name. I chalked it up to caller ID and then left.
A week later, I got a letter. It said I had the job. I’d tested well. I’d be asked to do small tasks around town and as long as I did them, I would be paid. I’d be contacted by mail. If I was going to be out of town for more than two days, I had to contact them at a number and leave a message.
My first task was in that letter. It was to take out my garbage and make sure that it wasn’t messy.
I shook my head, but what was there to lose? Garbage day was still two days away, but the bin was full so, sure. I did it.
That Friday, I got my first paycheck. I still wasn’t sure this wasn’t a joke. The number seemed too high. Still, I went and cashed it, ready to dash at the first sign they thought it was counterfeit. It wasn’t.
I got another check the next Friday. I called my old boss and quit right then. Then, I kept getting checks each week. I got my next assignment almost a month later: go to the store, buy one dozen eggs, bring them home and prepare two of them however I wanted, then eat them.
I did it.
I also got a dog. I washed my car. I went dancing. I ate an ice cream from a street cart. I bet on a horse. I sawed the leg off of a chair. I bought a copy of the collected works of Shakespeare. I ran naked in my backyard. I thrifted a couch. I wrote bad poetry and read it at a local open mic night.
Sometimes it would be days. Sometimes, hours. Or months. The longest was three and a half years. Every week the checks came. Every instruction was followed.
I moved. I called them. They verified my new address. I hadn’t told them what it was.
It was about eight years into this weirdness that I was looking out of my condo’s bay window and I saw what looked like someone in a long black coat and hat looking six stories up at me. It was just a second, but when I saw him, he looked down and hurried away.
I kept doing my job, but I also kept a lookout. I didn’t see that guy again, but I did see another person, a woman, in a similar outfit watching me drink from a public water fountain. I kept watch and four times out of five, I’d see someone following me.
I got curious. By this time, I was set for life. I’d made good investments and good use of my copious free time. The worst they could do was fire me, I thought. So the next time I spotted one of them. I counted to ten and then I followed them. It wasn’t hard; they weren’t clever.
I tried to slow down, I was gaining on them too fast. They ducked down an alley and I stood at the edge. The acoustics of the alley made voices boom. I heard them say, “Test 412 completed; baseline decoded 78 percent. Still harmless.”
I snapped my head around the corner to see who they were talking to. I didn’t see anyone. What I did see was them getting into the back seat of a long, black sedan. I also saw two things… tentacles? Tails? Coming from under the coat. And I saw their eyes. They saw mine, too. We locked onto each other for what seemed like ten minutes but couldn’t have been more than a breath.
Then they got in the car and left.
There was a termination notice in my mailbox when I got home along with a final check.
A few days later, I opened the door and a young lady sang “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star” at me. She then said, “Um… okay, bye.”
When she turned, I saw an envelope sticking out her back pocket. It looked like the hundreds I’d gotten before.
That’s why I don’t sleep so good any more. I just lay there and think about that thing my observer said.
Baseline decoded 78 percent.
What happens when they get to 100?
Author’s Note: This story came about like the ones in my collection Second Hand Madness; a prompt from the Reddit sub, r/writingprompt. I’ve edited it a little.
I don’t know if I’d do another collection like that, but then again… maybe.
Be First to Comment