Abducted Chapter Six: Philanthropy
From the novel I'm working on while I'm in school to keep working on my writing skills.
Chapter Six: Philanthropy
The hold music isn’t quite marimba, or even danceable, but pleasant enough I’m not going to hang up and call again. I’ve serious business and that means waiting. Even shuffling around the cold linoleum of the Walmart Gardening Center. For days and days Harvey has me manning it like as if it’s a punishment. Were it not for the fact of how few people go into gardening this late in the season I’d agree. Of course, there’s my lower back pain and the occasional customer needing miracle grow, or composting tips, and non-poisonous ice melt. The kind that won’t kill your feral little Pekinese you’ve named Ghost cause you’re so original.
Inspecting an indoor Monterosa Deliciosa, the old woman Charity, says, “ahh, this will make a wonderful addition.” Her ahh with delight is like those commercials where some average woman drinks a glass of orange juice “ahh.”
After an hour of hemming and hawing over color schemes, I already know Charity’s life story. Happens sometimes, but you know how I’m a good listener. Over Peace Lily’s, Zanzibar Gems, aloes, crotons, and Begonias she’s told me how her verbally and sexually abusive husband Larry suddenly died in his library Barcalounger from a hopefully painful heart attack. She found him lying there breathless, blue, and slunk with his usual cigar burning a hole through the armrest and his thigh.
She’d been a housewife for 50 years. No children. There weren’t even any neighborhood kids come by to mow the lawn ‘cause Larry would run them off with a chainsaw. No kidding, he’d even don a Leatherface mask he’d made of deer skin. Guy’d put down Charity’s old pup Chippy with a shotgun over a minor leg surgery that would have cost less than $500 to fix. Made her watch too.
After cremating her husband and flushing his ashes down the toilet, the leftover money from his planned extravagant funeral was all Charity’s. Now she’s converting that dusty old Montecristo smelling library into a sun and plant room where she’ll entertain guests and old friends Emily Post style. Even she’s got a carriage full of French doilies and plastic tea cups. She’s got Windex, Old English wood polish, Brawny paper towels, Swiffer, Roomba, and votive candles for the Mother Mary and St. Joseph. Might even she’ll look up her old high school flame and see if he’ll pop a Viagra to roger her roundly.
You go girl.
While Charity feels the delicate leaves of the Pilea Peperomioides, I’m doing my bi-annual donations. Since this morning, I’ve called the NAACP, Planned Parenthood, GLAAD, The Innocence Project, and amfAR to boot, then text mother all about it.
Over the phone, a disbelieving woman says, “Ma’am do I have this right? You’d like to donate $1,000,000 to Children’s Hospital Boston?”
To her I say, “yes, make sure it goes directly to help transitioning boys and girls with their hormone therapy.”
Charity looks up from her enchantment with a packet of goldenrod seeds and lets a bolt of curiosity work through her mouth and eyebrows, as if she had a few words about the trans community. Then realizing her brain, unclouded by Larry’s judgements, could have free thoughts, gives her nod of approval, and continues along the seed rack taking down several flavors of pumpkin.
Jeffrey texts: I’m nervous, dear. Aren’t you?
Tonight’s date night and since I woke up I’ve been sending Jeffrey photos of my warts to turn him off. Hasn’t once balked or said anything crude. Just polite, if mansplaining, advice to use diluted muriatic acid in an eye dropper once a week and they’ll fall off. Duh. Since I’d already shared my grossest features, he felt comfortable sharing his. Apparently, he gets hemorrhoids. Like big baddies that ruin his life for weeks at a time. Presently they’re calm. Everywhere around his house he keeps tucks medicated pads, and Preparation-H, and witch-hazel. Never thought he’d find another person so willing to share their medical history before meeting. Suits him just fine.
Jeez. I’ve failed to make myself unattractive.
Don’t go thinking I’m hopeful or anything. Just that things aren’t nearly as bad as I thought. I’m still red cheeked over the web cam shenanigans and I haven’t brought myself to respond to the bajillion messages from the SPG. Mallory’s the only one who has my actual phone number. Called twice and recorded a message. “Deary, you may return at your leisure. Everyone will understand and forget as we’ve experienced terrors far beyond the other night’s shenanigans.” Dunno if I’ll ever go back. They’ll be fine without me I’m sure. Also there are other groups.
On Charity’s head, a whicker gardening hat with the price tag dangling over her eyes, shades her face from the indoor technicolor neon.
Framing her visage with her hands, she asks, “what do you think?”
Tucking the phone under my chin, I reach out and adjust the hat so the arched brim allows her to see more clearly through her senior lenses. Then I tighten the strap under her chin and give her a thumbs up. Turning to a reflective metal rack, she appraises her likeness, and lets out another, “ahhh,” like a kid drinking water from a hose.
Every breath for her is a new one, fresh and without Padron smoke.
Treat yo-self woman.
I text Jeffrey: are you a virgin? Mother says you are and I don’t believe it.
Helping Charity scan item after item, I’m unsurprised at the exorbitant bill. But just after losing a husband a girl needs a few things I suppose. She needs makeup, floss, and toothpaste. She needs Oil of Olay, Epsom salt, chain saw oil, lime, loam, peat moss, shovel, and lye.
The girl on the phone asks, “do you have an account number with us?”
I say, “yes, it’s under Tabitha Graves. Account code 7-8-6-5-5-8-7-0. Password: YEET. All caps.”
Dipping down into the carriage and up again, putting item after item across the scanner, Charity smile-frowns at the bill. Undeterred she aggressively grits her teeth harder and harder as the price climes ever higher. Scanning the doilies, tea cups, and hat she’s says, “fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, you limp dicked buffoon,” breathlessly as she overdraws her account.
The girl on the phone says, “thank you for your donation. Your gift box will be mailed to you shortly.”
The gift is usually a cute pewter pendant or some other bauble.
I say, “Please mail the gift box to Victoria Graves at Golden Sunset Nursing Home Box 1287 Harwick Massachusetts, 01456. Thank you!”
I hang up. It’s hard work pissing mother off but someone’s gotta do it.
Jeffrey texts: Yes. Your mother is correct. I’m a virgin.
Jeffrey texts: Is that a dealbreaker?
I text: Not at all. You won’t be after tonight though.
I text: Is that a dealbreaker?
He doesn’t answer.
Stoic for nearly a minute, Charity’s gaping at the LCD display above the register. It reads, $2897.32. Like any old lady, she’s clutching her purse to her chest to protect it from nabbers and homeless people. In this case she’s the thief. Her lower lip trembling, she snaps open the little change pouch and with her knotty arthritic fingers. Manages to shuffle out the copper stinking 32 cents and set it on the counter. Putting the change pouch into her purse she takes out her wallet, unzips several pockets, takes out two 1’s and a 5 and lays them next to the change.
Diving in again, close to her chest, she takes out a wad of hundreds and counts them several times. She’s got only $600. Frowning she begins to take item after item off the counter, like to put them back. For all her bluster, all her distain for the man who killed her dog, and almost killed her soul, she’s suddenly deflated like a used gutter condom. Pausing for a second, as if a thought occurred to her that’d never occurred before had stabbed her frontal cortex, she puts all the items back on the counter, reaches into her purse, and takes out a dusty discover card with a crack down the center and hands it to me.
Across the card it reads Larry Standish.
She says, “the CIGAR card.”
Today is Charity’s first living day in almost 50 years.
Don’t think I’m an asshole for not offering to pay her bill. Since slapping Harvey in the face with my 9-inch knowledge dildo, the pitiful little man’s been watching me through the CCTV. Moving about the building, I’ve seen the cameras follow me close enough I’m reminded of back home in the big house. It’s not like I’m worried about being fired, more of what he can do to Jo-Jo or Yuri. He’s got Jo-jo stocking shelves, and Yuri in the constant unbridled fall cold gathering carts. Found out he’d called Subway corporate on Ruzan, and while she’d got a slap on the wrist, and a small fine from the franchise owner, it was enough I didn’t want to incur more of his wrath. When neckbeards are backed into a corner they tend to bite like ferocious little dogs to prove themselves.
Taking the card, I run it through the register. It works.
That Larry was an asshole, but man did he have good credit.
Jeffrey texts: I’m more than happy to accommodate you if need be. But we don’t have to do that.
I text: How old are you?
After an embarrassingly long time, in which a creepily smiling Charity puts away the magic card of her newly deceased husband back into her purse, leans over, and kisses my cheek, puts on her new farmers hat the way I showed her, then bids me adieu, and carts away, Jeffrey texts: 38.
He’s not a bad looking guy. Like for real. He’s educated, well spoken, 5 foot 9, holds a conversation with no red flags, is employed, drives a nice car, has a clean home from what I’ve seen in his texts, so what the fuck’s prevented him from getting his noodle wet on into his fourth decade of life? Weirdly I’m struck all over with reservation, not so much like before where I just want this to be either over or for him to call it off. But more like a question I don’t want the answer to.
I text: what’s your middle name?
He texts: Martin. Why?
I text: Jeffrey Martin Ketchum. It sounds so sweet.
Later, I could give the name to a few feelers for credit history, hospitalizations, birthplace, license number, plates, address, blood type, colleges attended, illegitimately fathered children, for now on the slight chance he’s been implicated in any crimes involving missing girls or boys for that matter, I google him on my phone.
While I wait for the results, from the walkie talky at my hip, Alishia from automotive squawks, “all employees are to meet in electronics for an emergency meeting in 15 minutes.”
It’s smack in the middle of my lunch break.
Fuck that.
First thing that pops up is Jeffrey’s LinkedIn. Works for my family’s company. Duh. Shaur Elementary. Brighton Boys Preparatory High School. His attended schools are shoulder shruggingly banal life accomplishments I’ve seen a thousand times. Dual majors at Harvard in Computer Science and Pre-Law. Harvard Law PhD. Notable charity work for Westington Foundation. Westington Foundation sounds familiar enough I dig a little deeper. My warts itch. Seen it in a few documents on random desks at the office. Spied it on several whiteboards at meetings I vaguely paid attention to. Putting in the search bar, “Westington Foundation,” I find it’s an unaffiliated think tank centered on genetics research implementation, AI implementation, with military ties, and a yearly endowment of over ten billion dollars. Dunno if you know, but that’s a fuck-ton of money for a think tank.
Jeffrey’s LinkedIn doesn’t say what he did for them.
Without waiting for my replacement, I lock out my register, and head for the Subway. I’ve every intention of buying my sandwich and eating it in my car. No need to ruffle Harvey’s feathers for a while. Without looking up once from my phone as I’ve the whole store mapped in my mind, I click every link associated with the Westington Foundation and read. On top of their charitable donations and research grants I find a host of the typical and atypical conspiratorial associations including cloning, mind control, mind mapping for AI cloud uploading, cross species interbreeding, virtual reality war simulation, hypnogogic word association, and sleep deprivation experimentation.
I stop at the pharmacy so’s Becky can slip me a bundle of condoms, spermicide, birth control, and Plan-B. I pay an exorbitant price to keep this prescription information from mother. As I’m counting the amount of times Jeffrey and I can fuck, I’m a minute noticing I’m being shook. Looking up there’s Yuri and Jo-jo standing in the Subway doorway. Both their faces are alight with indescribable joy. Embarrassedly I shuffle my goods behind my back.
Yuri, retreats his vampire cold hand from my shoulder, breathlessly says, “you have to go to electronics for the meeting. Now.”
Jo-jo nods, red faced and points to the back of the store.
I ask, “why? I’m about to eat.”
Yuri says, “just go. Trust me. You want to go.”
Over their shoulders, Ruzan wearing even her visor so as not to get in more trouble, eyes me, nods, says, “I’ll make your usual to be wait for you.”
A sigh, a nod, I follow the boys to electronics, where it seems the whole blue vested staff is waiting for whatever the tepid announcement is. I can’t hardly wait to hear about no overtime, no raises, or pricier health or dental insurance. These poor people have been beaten into submission, what was one more whack? Center of the crowd is Alisha counting heads.
Unnoticeable in the back I take a cursory glance at my phone. On the dreaded second page of google, under a tab that reads, “project broken spirit,” a preview of the website says, “little known associations of the Westington Foundation,” then a list with bullet points. “The Block. The Cart. The Retreat. The Post.”
The words The Retreat, make whole of my body itch, like remembering that type of alcohol you drank once that almost killed you.
There’s a hush and Alisha says, “as I’m sure you’re all aware Harvey has been terminated.”
I click the link. The website looks like it was made in 90’s HTML.
Over a starry background, the text in highlighter-mint reads, “If you’re here, you’ve reached the bottom of the barrel. Perhaps you’re looking for answers to a question you didn’t even know you were asking. Soon I’ll tell you what that question is. First, a little about me. My name is Magnanimous on every platform. I am undoxxable, untraceable, and unknowable. How I know the things I know I cannot say or I risk assassination. I’ve witnessed some of the most horrifying human experimentations since the Nazi’s. That being said, I’ve a story to tell. The reach of the Westington Foundation is far and woven into the societal fabric at every level. From the lowliest gas station attendant to the highest executives of fortune 500 companies. Beyond the Masons, Illuminati, Knights Templar, and behind even the deepest conspiracy theories, is the question that’s plagued scholars and philosophers since the moment humans left Africa 200,000 years ago.”
In the background, Alisha says, “corporate has put together a short list of people they’d like to be promoted to manager as a result of good teamwork. It will be put to a vote.”
Reading from her phone, Alicia says, “Nathan Licopoli.”
Nathan, a 6’8” goon who looks like Big Bird is taken aback, smiles, and shuffles his back length rat tail over his shoulder and twists it between his thumb and index.
Magnanimous reads, “That question of course for all of us is, “what is my purpose?” Right about now you’re scoffing. Don’t lie. You are. Seems silly to waste all that energy waiting to be surprised by a question you thought would be more profound, right? And here you have some random internet wierdo telling you something you already knew. But what if I told you the answer to the question is that we are a failed experiment run amuck and only maintained and curated by tenuous control. That if we ever left this darling little terrarium we call earth we’d destroy the fabric of the universe and bring its creators to their knees. We are viral, carcinogenic, pathogenic, walking, talking, living, breathing bags of disease.”
Alicia says, “Karen Johnson.”
Karen a mid-40’s chain smoker with a face like a loaf of bread fiddles with one of the many rings on her right hand, then looks down at her shoes.
Magnanimous reads, “ask yourself this; have you ever had the opportunity to better your life or yourself and the lives of others but denied yourself the pleasure of a better existence for some peripherally vague reason. Like a word on the tip of your tongue you can’t remember. Of course the superficial reason the frontal cortex always inevitably drudges up is, it’s too hard. Too hard to lose the weight, or take a second job, or meet new people, or have an extra marital tryst, ask out that girl or guy you like. All too hard and the underlying emotion is fear. Fear of risk. I’m here to tell you that fear is not natural. Not one bit. All of it is conditioning to prevent humanity from reaching the upper echelons of existence.”
Alicia says, “Paul Gomez.”
Paul, a recent high school graduate looks around, stunned like as if he wasn’t paying attention.
Magnanimous reads, “the conditioning has been drummed into you since your first breath. TV, Radio, Movies, Books, and Music. For those of you who’re crying the obviousness of this understand the first part of this page is not necessarily for you. I speak to the wealthy non-subordinates who in their enlightened complacency rebuff notions of control and imagine they are beyond the reach of the feral lower classes and even beyond the reach of the gods.”
Alishia says, “myself.”
Alishia takes a bow like an asshole.
Magnanimous says, “Imagine what sorts of domination would be required for those supercilious debutant and beautillion attendees to submit. Picture the type of rigorous leverage needed to force acquiescence to a higher power amongst the Ferrari driving, Cristal drinking, let-them-eat-cakers. Do you imagine ropes and lashes? The Catharine Wheel? Solitary confinement perhaps? What do you believe would break the will of someone who indeed has everything in the world? Below you will find the answers to these questions. What are The Block, The Cart, The Retreat, The Post? And what is my purpose?”
It reads, “To know more please fill out the box with your information.” Below this is a box to fill in my name, date of birth, and email address. I do this. In an email sent immediately, is a link offer for 35% off a Magnanimous’s book on Amazon titled, “What you didn’t want to know but just had to.” I click the link. There’s a back-cover blurb about Magnanimous’s anonymous contributions to “The Phantom Time Hypothesis,” and other famous conspiracy theories. The self-published book looks drab and constitutional like the warning labels on medications or the index of a text book. It has 403 reviews. All 5 stars. It’s $70.
Alishia says, “Tabitha Graves.”
I look up from the phone, say, “what?”