Don't Kill The Messenger (3 page)

“So …” she says, still trying to make sense of it, “this is … your job?”

“No. Jobs pay. I don’t get any money for this. It’s just what I do.”

“If it doesn’t pay, how do you make a living?”

“I have money,” I explain. “A lot of money that I didn’t earn and probably don’t deserve. Do you know what LEDs are?”

“LEDs?”

“It stands for light-emitting diode. It’s the little red or blue or green light on your phone, your DVD player, your coffeemaker. Well, my father helped invent the LED, and every time one was put into anything, anywhere in the world, he got a fraction of a penny for it. When he died, I continued to get that royalty, and I will for the rest of my life.”

She thinks about it for a moment. “There must be billions of them in the world.”

“Yeah.”

“So you’re rich?”

“I have more money than I need. It’s what I live on. I have a house, but I’m almost never there. I don’t have a fancy car; I prefer rental cars so I don’t have to keep them up. I move around. I do this, I go home, I get the next message, and I move around again.”

I see belief starting to linger in her expression, and I am relieved. Too often, I’m chased off or worse by people who think I’m trying to scam them or threaten them or extort money. Rebecca believes what I still have trouble believing myself.

“You help people just to help them,” she says in quiet wonder. “I didn’t think that existed.”

“I didn’t either,” I admit.

All of a sudden, realization hits her, and her expression of wonder turns instantly to fear. “Wait a minute,” she says. “You said I have to leave here. Is something bad going to happen to me if I don’t?”

“Yes.”

“What? What’s going to happen? What?”

“I don’t have the details.”

“What do you mean you don’t have the details? You can’t just tell me I have to uproot my life and leave and not tell me why.”

“Rebecca, if I knew, I would tell you. The message wasn’t specific. It just said you have to leave here and go back to college.”

“That’s in Ohio,” she says. “I haven’t been back there in two years …”

I stand. The message is delivered, and her fear is making me uncomfortable. Best if I leave now.

“You’re going?” she asks, the fear evident in her voice.

“I should.”

“How long do … When do I have to leave here?”

“The sooner the better. That’s all I know.”

She looks like she is about to cry, and I don’t think I have the emotional strength to see her do that. “I don’t even know your name,” she says, sounding very vulnerable.

I defy tradition, disregard my better judgment, and tell her the truth. “I’m Tristan,” I say.

“Tristan.” She repeats it for no reason I can discern.

“Good luck, Rebecca. I hope everything will be all right.”

Without another word, I make my way out of Enchantment, and back to the main room of Gulf Breezes. Rebecca follows me out of the room. Someone new is dancing on the stage; I pay no attention. The job is done, and it’s time for me to leave. I’m hungry, I’m anxious, and even though I swear to myself every single time that this time is going to be different—something in Rebecca’s face or voice has gotten to me and allowed me to care about whether or not she follows my instructions. I need to get out of here before I let that care get to me.

All I can see is the exit back onto Caroline Street, a portal to my freedom from loud music, black light, physical and emotional nudity, and the burden of knowing I’ve just turned a young woman’s life upside down. Thirty feet, twenty, fifteen, twelve, six, three, then out.

Someone says to me, “Thanks for …” but I don’t stick around long enough to hear the end of the sentence. Outside, it’s still close to eighty degrees, and the humidity is equally high, but to me, the relief feels like I’ve stepped into an early spring breeze. I bring my hands to my temples and run my fingers through my hair, closing my eyes as I work to get enough air in my lungs.

It is only after thirty seconds of this that I turn around and realize that Rebecca has followed me out of the club and is standing behind me on the sidewalk. She looks at me, probably confused by the severity of my reaction.

I’m surprised to see her standing there, staring at me. “Hi,” I say.
Not brilliant, but a start.

“So where are we going?” she asks.

“We … who, we?”
Even less brilliant.
“We,
us,
we?”
Toastmasters, here I come.

“You can’t just come into my life, tell me I have to quit my job and move five states away …”

“Four,” I correct.

“Whatever! You can’t just do that and walk away.”

“I do it all the time,” I admit sheepishly.

“Well, you shouldn’t, Tristan! I’m scared here, and I don’t know what to do or how I’m going to get there, or anything. I don’t need you to take care of me or protect me. I just need a ride.”

This has never happened to me before. In the past, I’ve always made such a hasty retreat, I’ve never stuck around for the aftermath of what can be devastating news. There have been times when the recipient disregarded what I said, and I read the news story later about the consequences. But this is the first time I’ve stood and faced the part I’ve tried so hard not to face. Now I’m the one who’s naked, stripped bare by my lack of a good answer to her request.

“If I said ‘I work alone,’ what would that make me?” I ask.

“The biggest douchebag in Florida,” she replies.

“There’s some pretty tough competition for that title, too, isn’t there?”

“Yeah.”

I can’t believe I’m doing this.
“One ride,” I say. “Right to Ohio. We’re not partners or anything.”

“I don’t want to be your partner,” she says. “I just need the fastest way away from here, away from whatever it is that whoever it is says I need to get away from, and the fastest way is you.”

“Okay.”

“Okay? I can come with you?”

“Yeah, I guess you can. Do you need to go in there, talk to the manager, give your notice?”

“Yeah,” she says, “just a sec.”

She walks back to the front door of Gulf Breezes and holds it open. “Morty!” she calls out.

“Yeah, what?” a man’s voice replies from behind the bar.

“I quit!” she announces amiably.

“Okay,” Morty calls out. “See ya!”

She closes the door and looks at me. “Lead the way,” she says.

Chapter 3
 

I had parked in the closest available parking spot to the club, so we walk the four blocks back to the car at a good pace. The lack of details in my message to Rebecca leaves us both uncertain whether the danger is ten days away or ten minutes away. Whichever it is, I’ve seen enough of Key West in any case. I didn’t bank on leaving town accompanied, but now that I am, I have to make the best of it on the long drive to Ohio. I’ll have to call the rental car company now, extend the agreement, and change the drop-off location.

Ohio. Been a while.

“Could you slow down a little?” She interrupts my thoughts. “It’s hard to follow you in these shoes.”

“Take ‘em off, then,” I say. “Should be a procedure you’re familiar with.” I regret it immediately. She didn’t deserve that. As she stops to remove the shoes, I apologize. “I’m not what you’d call a people person,” I explain.

“Yeah, I’ve noticed,” she says. As we start walking again, she asks, “Do you ever give people
good
news?”

“It’s not why I’m sent. I figure the good news is when they listen to my instructions and get to see another day.”

We make it back to the Chrysler, and I open it up and put the top down. She gets in quickly, looking around. “Do you think they saw us?”

“I don’t know. I don’t even know if there is a ‘they.’ The message didn’t say. All I know is you’re supposed to leave Key West and go back to college.”

“God, I still can’t believe this. I just met you twenty minutes ago, and now I’m supposed to drive across the country with you. How do I know you’re not a pervert who’s going to drive me into a cornfield and rape me to death?”

“Okay,” I reply, starting the car, “first off, the driving you across the country part was
your
idea. As you recall, I was prepared to leave here without you, which is probably what made you believe that I’m not a rapist pervert—which, by the way, I’m not. And secondly, there are no cornfields in southern Florida. So, apart from that little agricultural detail, you have two choices: You can trust me and we can drive to Ohio or you can get out here and do whatever you would have done if I hadn’t walked into your life.”

She thinks about it for several seconds as the car idles. She searches my eyes for truth, for honesty. “You’re not here to hurt me?”

I shake my head.

“And you don’t want anything from me?”

“No. Not even gas money.” I realize, “That’s unusual in your life, isn’t it?”

She nods.

“I’m sorry to hear that.” And I genuinely am.

After a moment, she asks, “Can we stop at my place for a few minutes?”

Without any good reason, my response is suspicious: “Why? What’s at your place?”

She gestures to her outfit. “Umm, clothes? Some stuff to take along. I can’t drive to Ohio looking like an extra from
Showgirls.
”

“Okay. Tell me where to go.”

“You mean you don’t know where I live, the way you know where I work?”

It is bordering on interrogation, and I am in no mood. “No, because going to your home wasn’t in the plans or the assignment. So if you want to get there, some directions might be more helpful than you’re being right now.”

My tone is scolding, and it silences her. Though an apology isn’t formally offered, it resides in her next statement. “Take a right at the corner.”

She lives alone in a small apartment. It isn’t fancy, but it’s far from run-down. She clearly makes enough money to afford comfortable living conditions. No car, though. No high-end electronics either. It makes me wonder if she’s deep in debt or saving up for something. Maybe both. There’s a time and a place to ask her about it, but this is neither. Since I delivered the message, she’s been edgy; understandably so. Now, as I stand in her living room, she flits about the place, grabbing two soft-sided bags and filling them with essentials. She then grabs a more practical outfit: a pair of shorts, a comfortable shirt, and slip-on shoes.

In a moment I didn’t expect, she closes the bedroom door to change clothes. Less than half an hour ago, she was ready to take off all her clothes and dance on my lap for twenty dollars. Now, modesty kicks in. It’s nice to see that not everybody takes their work home with them.

After a minute, she emerges in the new outfit, and I’m struck once again by how pretty she is. Too late, I realize I’m staring, after she looks at me quizzically and asks, “What?”

“Nothing,” I answer. “You’re right. That outfit will work better.” She accepts my answer. “Are you ready to go?”

“I think so. It’s just … I don’t know how long I’ll be gone. I mean, do I have to leave for a few days, a couple of weeks … or am I running out on my lease?”

I sigh in sympathetic frustration. All very good questions. “I just don’t know. This is the part I never stick around for. Until now, I’ve delivered the message and left the person to figure out the best course of action. The details that went with it weren’t something I ever let myself think about.”

“Well, maybe you should, Tristan. You march into people’s lives uninvited, and you … you, what? You give them this … proclamation. And then you’re out of there. See ya. Good luck with that whole re-arranging your life thing. Well, there’s details. Jobs and apartments and family members and friends. And I sure as hell wish that message of yours came with a little bit of help about what to do about them.”

The last part of her sentence trails off to quietness, as the tears she was fighting emerge. It isn’t an all-out sob, more of an exhausted cry, coupled with the embarrassment of breaking down in front of a stranger.

I’m without a sense of what to do. Do I put my arms around her and hold her while she cries? Do I say the right thing, whatever the hell that is? Do I leave the room, to let her cry in private? I’m no good at these decisions. So mostly I stand there.

“I’m sorry,” I say quietly. “I didn’t mean to make you … you know.”

“It’s not your fault,” she answers, then thinks a moment. “Well, it is, but it isn’t. I’m just so tired, and all I wanted to do when I got home tonight was wash my hair and see what was on TV.”

“I wish you could. I wish
I
could.”

“What?” she says. “Wash your hair and watch TV?”

I laugh a little. “Yeah. Sounds a lot better than the way I spend most of my nights.”

She laughs a bit too at the mental picture, and it’s enough to stop her tears. She then walks over to me and runs the fingers of her right hand through my hair. The feeling is indescribable. It’s human contact, unsolicited, unpurchased, and perfect. “Feels pretty clean to me,” she comments.

“I do manage,” I tell her. “On a good day, I’ll even use conditioner.”

“I can tell,” she says, her tone relaxing at last. “I bet you’re one of those lather-rinse-repeat kind of guys.”

“Of course. It doesn’t work if you don’t repeat.”

In spite of herself, she laughs at my corny joke. It’s the closest I’ve felt to her yet, far closer than I felt when her naked body was inches from my face at that club. “So …” I offer. “Truce?”

“Truce,” she says quietly.

“Thank you.”

“Come on, let’s go,” she says. “I’m hungry.”

Despite the pervasive hunger we both feel, we decide that a few miles’ distance between ourselves and Key West is a good idea. So we get on U.S. 1 and head north into the night. I’m gently apprehensive as we pass through the key deer wildlife refuge. If my earlier conversation partner makes another appearance, Rebecca will probably lose it, and I’ll be right on her heels. Fortunately, we traverse those miles with no sign of the chatty beast or any of his kin.
Suits me. Little know-it-all.
I’ve got no plans to fall in love with Rebecca Traeger, no matter how beautiful, sensitive, intelligent, and strong she seems.