Every day I go into the square room.
It’s approximately 10ft by 10ft, and devoid of any fixtures in the walls. It’s painted gray and feels as sterile as it smells. There’s a rectangular window in the center at the back. Facing away from the window is a plain wooden chair. In front of that chair is a square wooden table. On that table is a black touch tone phone with white buttons and a long thin landline that has taped its way down one of the table legs.
I come here every day to answer the phone.
Every. Single. Day.
And I have never missed a day since it became my job.
I arrive promptly at 8:59, and close my eyes as I wait outside the door. I try not to breathe in but I can smell the wood in front of my nose before I place my right hand on the knob to turn it. I can take 3 steps before the piston arm at the bottom swings the door shut behind me. I take another 2 steps before I go around the table. Where I then pull out the chair at half elbow, in order to sit down before the phone.
And then I wait for the phone to ring.
There’s no discriminate time, it could be 5 minutes after 9 o’clock or 5 hours. Sometimes the phone doesn’t ring until the last 19 minutes of my day. Sometimes it rings right away.
9:05 A.M. First Call
Me: Hello?
Caller: Is this Keith?
Me: This is he -pause- who is this?
Caller: I heard you were good with numbers.
Me: Sorry, I’m not accepting new clients right now.
Caller: I think you’ll want to hear this…
Me: Is this a sales call? Look, I don’t have time for this. It’s the end of the fiscal year and I’m swamped. Please don’t call me back. Goodbye.
I hung up the phone and proceeded to wait.
9:11 A.M. Second Call
Me: Hello?
Caller: That wasn’t very nice.
Me: You again?
Caller: Did you want to hear a story?
Me: Listen pal, lose this number before I file a complaint with the FTC.
I hung up the phone and the words echoed in the room when I say it, “What a freak.” As does the anger, which subsides soon after I’ve completed my verbal task. Before I once again sit back in my chair and wait.
9:28 A.M. Third Call
*ring* *ring* *ring*
I unplug the phone.
9:29 A.M. Fourth Call
*ring* *ring* *ring*
9:30 A.M. Fifth Call
Me: Hello, this is Keith.
Caller: A little girl once went on a trip with her father. She was sick but he didn’t believe her. So he made her walk up and down the steep streets and filthy alleyways until she fainted. When she woke up in the hospital, he pretended that nothing was wrong. He pretended that it wasn’t his fault, and even told her that, “This is what happens when you constantly fib.”
Me:
Me: W-what is this?
Caller: She had bronchitis, but because he was negligent, her illness spread and developed into pneumonia. Which is so sad because she loved to run. It felt as if she were flying when she ran. But the pneumonia was so horrible that it scarred both her lungs, and she could never run as fast again. And one day he found her crying, and she asked him, “Why daddy. Why did you take my wings.”
Caller: Do you know what he told her?
You weren’t that fast anyways.
Me: Who put you up to this. Who told you to call me? Huh? Answer me! Talk you FUCKING clown!
*click*
9:31 A.M. Sixth Call
Caller: Is this Keith?
Me: Listen here you mother fucker. I don’t know what kind of game you’re playing at but I don’t appreciate you wasting my god damned time. Do you hear me?
Caller: Are you ready to talk?
Me: Motherfucker. I’m telling you. Don’t call back here again!
I hung up the phone after counting to 30. It’s always 30 after this one.
9:32 A.M. 7th Call
Caller: Are you ready to listen to what I have to say? Or are you too busy? Perhaps another story? - the sound of the caller’s mouth spreading as he smiled, can be heard on the line.
Me: What the hell is wrong with you? Seriously? What the fuck is your problem?
Caller: The little girl once peed her bed. Then twice, then thrice. Then Four. Her father told her that was two times too more. So he dragged her out of bed, and dragged her to the shed, and tied her up instead.
Me: Who are you?
Me: Who put you up to this?
Me: Who did you talk to?
Caller: Are you ready to listen to what I have to say?
Caller: Or should I call back?
Me: Who told you!
Caller: Are you ready to listen?
Me: You listen to me you little shit. Tell me who put you up to this? The guys at Price?
Me: Pentel? Is this Jack Morgan?
Me: Answer me!
Me:
Me:
Me: Was it my daughter?
Caller: B-I-N-G-O, and Bingo was its name oh.
Me: What do you want?
Caller: It’s not about what I want.
Caller: It’s about what your daughter needs.
Me: Needs? Camilia?
Caller: Your daughter needs your help. If she wants to see her next birthday.
At his words, I could instantly feel my blood start to boil. The only time that damned girl ever called me was when she needed money or to get bailed out of some shit she somehow managed to find herself knee-deep in. She was going to be 18 in a few weeks, and I couldn’t wait to get rid of her.
Me: What the fuck did she do now?
Me: WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU DO CAMILIA?
Me: Can you hear me? Can she hear me?
Me: Give my daughter the phone.
Caller: I can’t do that.
Me: What the hell do you mean you can’t do that?
Me: Hello?
Me: Hello?
*click*
I sat back in my chair and waited. I took a couple deep breaths hoping for the next call to come, but wishing at the same time that it never would, as I waited. I even tried to meditate, but I knew that it wouldn’t matter, because from the moment that I’d pick up the phone, something unexplainable would take hold of me. It would stick these invisible needles into my skin, gouge my flesh as if it were dough. And I would be instantly filled with rage from memory.
10:15 A.M. 8th Call
Marjorie: Keith?
Me: What do you need now?
Marjorie: Cami’s in trouble.
Me: And why in the hell are you telling me?
Marjorie: You don’t understand…
Me: Every month. Every god damned month I pay you child support. The least you can do is keep tabs on her! What the. Fuck! am I paying you for if you aren’t going to do what I paid you for? Huh? Huh!
Marjorie: Keith - she cried - you don’t understand. Someone just called me and I. I, I couldn’t tell who it was. But, but they said that they’ve got Cami. Oh God Keith! - her voice trembled - They said they’ve kidnapped her! What are we going to do?
Me: Kidnapped? What the hell are you talking about!
Marjorie: Kidnapped! Keith! Someone kidnapped our baby! - her sobs can be heard on the other end - And they want 50 thousand dollars or else, or else they’ll hurt her!
For a second I waivered. My stomach drops. And a sour taste creeps into my mouth. For a pained instant, I feel like a bad father. And in a brief memory, I remember my daughter when she little and sweet, with light brown hair and daisies in her eyes. But like I said. These feelings were all fleeting.
Me: Fifty-thousand dollars?
Marojorie: -sobs- Yes. Oh God Keith. You have to do something. I’ll -pause- pay you back. I know you have the money. I’ll pay you back. I swear. -pause- We have to save our daughter.
I laughed.
Me: You know what’s funny Marjorie?
Marjorie: Funny? What Keith? What the hell are you talking about?
Me: What’s FUNNY Marjorie is that this sounds an awful lot like the exact amount that you need in order to qualify for that loan on the salon.
Marjorie: What? How did you…know that?
Me: Oh, I know a lot more than you think. Mar-jor-ie. And I know that without my checks coming in after Cami’s 18th birthday, you won’t be able to stay afloat unless you get this new thing of yours to kick off. How convenient is that? That our daughter suddenly gets kidnapped when you’re dead in the water. And the guy who kidnapped her just so happens to need exactly the amount to bail you out. Oh God Marge. This is low. This is fucking low. Even for you.
Marjorie: Keith! I fucking swear! It’s not what you think.
Marjorie: Don’t make this about us.
Me: Shut your fucking whore mouth! Don’t you use those words on me again. Not what I fucking think! Yeah fucking right!
Marjorie: Keith -she sobs- I’m telling you the truth.
Me: Then I’ll tell you what I always tell that slut daughter you raised. If you want people to believe you, then don’t tell fibs!
I hung up the phone and instantly my hands start shaking. It feels as if I’ve run a marathon and my body is struggling to stay alive. Every inch of me hurts as the anger simmers and I’m left with only my hands to cover myself. To hide…my shame.
12:22 A.M. 9th Call
Caller: Are you ready to make the exchange?
Me: You’re not getting a fucking cent from me. Do you hear me? And you tell that bitch ex-wife of mine to fuck herself because it’ll be a cold day in hell before she extorts me. The dumb bitch.
Caller: Do you need proof that I am serious?
Me: Fuck off you ragged cunt.
I hung up the phone and stared at the door. And waited for it to knock.
When it came, it came softly. Almost tired.
I opened it up and took the package from the courier.
It was a brown storage bag, which crinkled as the plastic inside crumbled under my grasp.
I opened it and got blasted by a cool of fresh air from the liquid nitrogen that bubbled inside.
From the bag, I’d pull something out. No bigger than a double A battery, completely frozen to the bone. And I would stare at it until the phone rang.
12:26 P.M. 10th Call
Caller: I suppose you received the finger?
Me: It could be anyone’s finger.
Caller: Would you like more proof?
I bit my tongue.
Me: What do you want?
Caller: You know what I want. Fifty-thousand dollars.
Me: Let’s say I had it. And I might not. What makes you think I actually believe you?
Caller: You have the finger.
Me: You think some frozen finger’s going to prove anything? That you’ll get my money with this cheap parlor trick? Let me talk to my daughter. Give her the phone. If she can confirm that it’s her. Maybe. Maybe I’ll get you your money.
Caller:
Me: That’s what I thought asshole.
And before I could hang up, I suddenly hear a woman sobbing on the other side. I can hear her shrieking as it sounded as if something was being dragged across the floor. Closer. And closer. Until it was right up to the phone. Right in my ear.
Caller2: Daddy?
The phone suddenly crackled on the other end.
Caller2: Daddy?
Me: Cami?
Cami: Daddy! I’m so scared! Please! Daddy! Please! Save me!
Me: Cami! Cami? Did he hurt you? Where are you? Did he hu-
Caller: I’m going to send you a bag. You’ll put the money inside. And then I’ll give you further instructions.
Me: You’re not going to do shit, you fucking trash. Let her go!
Caller: Fifty-thousand dollars, Keith.
Caller: Tick-tock. Tick-tock. Tick-tock.
*click*
Several minutes later another knock would come at my door. I’d open it and take from the courier a brown leather ransel. Which I’d throw into the corner, where it landed with a resounding thud. And I’d go to my desk and take my key from around my neck and turn the lock on the bottom drawer once. It would click. Then I’d turn it again. Another click. Before I pulled out the drawer to a sum of money that I didn’t bother to count. Only measured by the fact that it filled up the drawer completely.
I’d look at the money. Never taking it out. Before I closed the drawer. And waited.
12:45 P.M. 11th Call
Marjorie: Keith…I have to tell you something.
Me: Oh fuck. Please tell me this was you.
Me: Please tell me this is a joke.
Marjorie: It was me.
I let out a sigh of relief.
Me: Oh thank fucking god.
Marjorie:
Marjorie: But not anymore.
Me: What the hell are you talking about?
Marjorie: You were right.
Marjorie: I needed the money.
Me: You fucking bitch.
Marjorie: So I found a guy online.
Marjorie: He said that he’s been doing this since forever.
Marjorie: And that he knew what he was doing.
Marjorie: He said that he needed to take Cami to make it look real.
Me: You let a stranger from the internet take our daughter?
Me: YOU LET SOMEONE YOU DIDN’T KNOW TAKE OUR DAUGHTER!
Marjorie: -cries- I needed the money!
Marjorie: And, and I knew you wouldn’t have given it to me.
Me: Are you trying to say this is my fault?
Me: Don’t you fucking dare you god damned cunt!
Me: Call this off.
Marjorie: I can’t!
Me: Call this thing off right now.
Marjorie: I’m trying to tell you I can’t!
Me: You’re lying to me.
Me: Aren’t you?
Marjorie: I’m not! I swear!
Me: Is this even her finger?
Marjorie: He cut off her finger? Oh no - sobs - He cut off her finger!
Me: Marge I fucking swear-
Marjorie: Keith, no, please. Listen to me.
Marjorie: He’s fucking crazy!
Marjorie: And he won’t do what I say.
Marjorie: He said that we’re in it now. And we’ll have to see this whole thing through.
Marjorie: Please, Keith. There’s something wrong with him.
Marjorie: So please! Just give him the money!
Me:
Me: Let me get this straight.
Me: You hired someone to kidnap our daughter.
Me:
Me: For money.
Me: And now this nut job is making it real?
Marjorie: Please, you have to give him the money.
Me: I’m not going to give him a god damned cent!
Marjorie: He’s going to hurt her!
Me: No!
Marjorie: Please…
Me: Oh no, no no no. I’ve got something better planned.
Marjorie: What are you doing Keith? What are you going to do?
Me: I’m going to find that fucker.
Me: And then I’m going to kill him.
Me: And after I do. I’m going straight to the police and tell them what you did.
Marjorie: You’d gamble our daughter’s life?
Me: Me?
Me: Me?
Me: Me!
Me: Gamble with our daughters life?
Me: Oh that’s fucking rich you dumb fucking bitch!
*click*
1:05 P.M. 12th Call
Caller: Have you done as I asked?
Me: No.
Me: I don’t have it.
Me: The money. I don’t have it. You’ll need to give me some time.
The caller laughed. Except it wasn’t any kind of laughter I knew. It was dark and hollow, biting, as if his teeth were chattering instead. If he had hundreds of teeth.
Me: I’m telling you the truth!
Me: Listen, give me a few days - a gun shot could be heard in the background.
Me: No!
Me: NO!
Me: Did you shoot her?
Me: Did you shoot her!
Me: Please. Please, tell me that you didn’t kill her?
Caller: I didn’t shoot her.
Me: Oh thank god. Thank god.
Me: I’ll get you the money. I swear. Just tell me where to take it.
Caller: You’ll do exactly as I say.
Me: Exactly. I swear!
Caller: Good.
Caller: I want you to put the money in the bag, and leave everything there.
Caller: Nothing is to be missing.
Me: It’ll be exactly the amount you asked for. I swear.
Caller: Good.
Caller: Wait for my call.
Caller: Or else you’ll never even find her body.
Me: I’ll do it, I swear to you. I’ll do it. Please, just don’t hurt her!
*click*
I pushed myself away from the desk. And my feet started moving on their own. This is the part where my body always feels sluggish, and numb, and I teeter totter like a toddler first learning how to walk. I go to where I threw the bag and I pick it up.
And I take it back to my desk. And I look at my drawer. But I don’t open it. Instead I reach into my pocket and pull out my keys. On the key ring is a personal tracker. I unhook the tracker and then open the bag.
Inside the bag there’s already a glass jar filled with liquid, inside that liquid floats a long spiny thing with a knot of puke gray at its end. Attached to the spines are thin hanging tendrils, some so thin they resemble baby hairs. And even though it’s sealed, there’s a smell permeating through the jar. It’s rancid and difficult to bear, it stings my eyes as I breathe in. It burns my nose as I turn the thing over and over again in my hand as I wait.
4:45 P.M. 13th Call
Caller: Did you put the money in the bag?
Me: What is this?
Me: What did you send me?
Caller: Her brain stem.
Me: Oh god.
Me: You killed her.
Me: You fucking killed her!
Caller: In a few minutes, there will be a knock at your door. It’ll be a courier. Hand over the bag. And wait.
Me: You fucking son of a bitch! I’ll find you. I’ll fucking find you. And I’ll kill you!
Me: I’ll fucking kill you!
Caller: Hand over the money with the bag and all of its contents.
Me: What makes you think I’ll do what you ask now! You fucking piece of shit. You-
Caller: Or else you’ll never even find her body.
Me: What?
Caller: You heard me.
Caller: If you want her body back.
Caller: You’ll do as I say.
Me: How…could you?
Me: Please -sob-
Me: Please, tell me that this is some sort of joke.
Me: Please, tell me that I have a second chance.
Me: Please.
Caller: She’s dead.
Me: No. no. nonono no.
Caller: Yes.
Me: You -sob- son of a fucking bitch. You. The bag. You already killed her. You were never going to let her go.
Caller: You were never going to give me the money. And now it’s too late.
Me: I swear I was! I fucking swore to you!
Me: I fucking swore to you!
Caller: Don’t tell fibs.
Me: I swear. I swear…
Caller: Now do as I say.
*click*
I tear the phone off the desk and throw it across the room. It comes off the cradle; the dead tone can be heard as I’m sobbing in my chair. I grab the key from around my neck and unlock the secret compartment. Inside I take out 50,000 dollars.
Inside the bag, I put back the jar. And I place in my 50,000 dollars. But before I go to zip it up. I take a glance at something scrawled inside, on the white name tag that’s sewn into the inner sleeve, in jagged black letters are the words Rancid Ransel.
Before there’s a knock at my door.
I hurriedly zip it up as I wipe the tears from my face. And I open the door to hand over the bag, to the courier. It’s been the same one this entire time. But that’s nothing new. There’s a sunken look in her eyes, tired and weary. Her once light brown hair is grayed and patched. Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if we had never gotten that divorce? Sometimes I want to ask, but I can never bring myself to choke out those words. Instead, I hand her the bag. And she turns around and walks away as the door slams shut.
And for a second I imagine her taking two parcels from today, and she goes over to that unassuming locker at the end of the hall. And she puts everything inside. Before she gets into the elevator and leaves for the day.
While I go back to my desk and I wait. I wait for the phone to ring.
But it never comes.
And at 5:00 P.M. I do the same thing I’ve done since the day that my daughter was kidnapped. I put the phone back into place and I leave my office.
Hoping to never have to come back again.
But I’ll be back.
I’ll be outside that door at 8:59 A.M. the very next morning.
So I can wait for Rancid Ransel’s call. Which comes. Every day. Exactly the same way. And the three of us are forced into this same play. Over and over again. Until he’s satisfied enough, until he decides that I’ve suffered enough, until he gives me back my daughter’s body.
Until then, every waking moment, I say his name.
Rancid. Ransel. Rancid…Ransel. Rancid Ransel.
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