Monday, January 21, 2008

NYC Midnight: For Love of Money

For the first post of 2008, below is my entry into the NYCMidnight Short Story Contest. Quite a fun challenge! All entrants are assigned a heat with a genre and subject, and we must write about that in 2500 words or less. Stories are to be written in one week and sent to NYCMidnight. Judging ends and finalists notified by February 29. Finalists will then compete for $1,000 and a trip to New York to meet with editors. The trick is -- finalists have only 24 hours to write the next short story, again, writing the genre and subject given to them by NYCMidnight. I've never written fantasy before in my life. Below is my contest entry. I'd love feedback. Readers can post comments on this blog. Thanks!

My assignment: Genre: FANTASY -- Subject: ATM

Synopsis: Cooper Kingsley lives to be wealthy, near his money, and in control.

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FOR LOVE OF MONEY

Cooper Kingsley lives to be wealthy, near his money, and in control.

If Cooper Kingsley could go back to riding a horse and buggy, he would. Automobiles are machines to him, and Kingsley hates machines. Though he drives a new Lincoln, the buttons on the dashboard confuse him. A horse might smell dank and sweaty, but it’s easier.

As a young boy, he wasn’t handy with mechanical devices, though his father had tried to teach him about contraptions in the garage before he was tall enough to see above the scarred workbench. He hated machines even more for the way his father admired them, always spending time in the workshop, tinkering day and night.

Turned off, machines sit dead and silent. Turned on, they’re loud with shrill, whining sounds. They made Kingsley feel out of control, and this dislike carried over to adulthood.

Making money is where Kingsley shines. Money is what he likes. He lives to be wealthy. Very wealthy, and in control.

Kingsley likes people, too, for one reason—to boss them, make constant demands. It’s his way or no way. Never mind that he wouldn’t be missed if gone tomorrow.

This morning—like every other morning—he reads the Wall Street Journal, comfortable in his executive office, soothed by the luxury of his leather chair, high above the street ten stories below. He sips coffee spiked with a touch of expensive liqueur. No matter that it’s 10:00 AM. Somewhere in the world, it’s after noon, he knows.

Inside his office, classical music plays softly, piped in from surround-sound speakers, programmed with his favorite selections. His secretary handles its operation. Van Gogh paintings line the north wall, while expanses of glass windows fill the south and west sides of the room. Here it is quiet, serene—a contrast to the crazed chaos that takes place on the other side of the ceiling-high double doors.

***

His telephone’s private line rings, disturbing Kingsley’s reverie. He doesn’t answer it, knowing his secretary will cover for him.

A smugness spreads across Kingsley’s jowly face. Let others do the work. Let them worry about the problems of life. It’s what he thinks at least ten times a day. If a conversation turns maudlin, he puffs on his cigar and waves away the secretary, attorney, or manager who bother him with sad details of their lives. He finds them boring, like his father used to be.

A quick rap on the mahogany door interrupts his musing. “Yes, what is it, Marietta?”

“Excuse me, sir…” His secretary leans only her tight-bunned head inside. Wide owl eyes peer over the top of reading glasses.

“Come in, come in.” Kingsley is irritated, but waves her in.

“The phone, sir. It’s urgent. Your brother, Tom…your father…”

“My father? What does he want with me?” Kingsley shoves away from the desk and stands, his back to her. “Tell Tom I’m not in…” A tenseness spreads across his wide shoulders.

“But, Mr. Kingsley, he said there was an accident. He’s holding on your line.”

He runs a hand through his thinning hair. “All right, all right. I’ll talk to him,” he says. “Shut the door on your way out.”

Kingsley forces friendliness. “Hi, Tom. How are you? How’s the family?” Kingsley thinks back, remembering he’d last talked to his brother at Christmas. Here it is, August. Could it have been that long?

“Hello, Cooper.” His brother’s voice is strained, heavy.

“Go on. Talk. You know I’m a busy man. D’ya need money again?” The words are unleashed and Kingsley knows he’s said the wrong thing.

“Damn, you, Cooper! Still the same arrogant jackass, aren’t you? Some things never change.” Tom’s voice is angry.

Kingsley is quick, hoping to defuse the coming argument. “Look, Tom, I’m sorry. What is it? Something about an accident…” He hears Tom breathe deeply. Sweat moistens his palms and he switches the phone to his right ear.

“Cooper, it’s Dad. A car accident. Drunk driver broadsided him a mile from his house. He’s in intensive care. Hooked up to machines.”

Machines. Kingsley pictures the tubes in and out of his father’s orifices, hears in his mind the noises from the breathing machine.

“Well, not a good situation, now, is it?” Kingsley tries to feel sadness, but the emotion is slow in coming. “What do you want me to do?”

Tom stutters. “Uh…uh. I thought you might want to know. Fly down and be here with the family. Doctor doesn’t know if he’s going to make it.”

Kingsley is slow to respond. He taps his fingers on the desktop, thinking.

“Tom, look. I don’t know if I can get away. Call me again tomorrow and fill me in, okay? I’m sure Dad will be better then, and this will all be a bad dream, right? With good doctoring, he’ll be fine. Whadya’ say?” He’s not sure he wants to see his father, let alone, in this kind of condition.

“You’re not serious!” Tom shrieks. “Does your money mean that much to you—you can’t leave the company for something like this? It’s your father, for crying out loud! King Midas shows his true heart…”

Kingsley tries to defend himself. “Now, Tom, you know better than that. I...well…it’s a busy time of year…”

“Forget it, Cooper. Don’t bother explaining. I’m sorry I called. If he dies, I’ll let you know.” That said, Tom hangs up.

Kingsley wipes his palms with a monogrammed handkerchief, then polishes the brass nameplate that sits on his desk. He knows he should be worried about his father, but he’s learned to care only about money. He turns his thoughts to his investment funds. The headlines say the stock market is expected to fall. That concerns him.

Kingsley opens the business pages. His gaze lingers briefly on a story about the newest development in banking—a machine that takes the place of a teller. A machine—ridiculous. A machine can’t bring my coffee. A machine can’t tell me what I like to hear in meetings. An automated teller machine. Absurd.

Kingsley digests what his brother conveyed on the phone. “Odd that my father is now on an automated life machine,” he says aloud. He pictures his father breathing through a tube, fed by another tube, with switches and lights blinking on a mechanical device next to the bed. Not a fate for me. Hooked to a machine – that’s worse than death.

To dissolve the vision, Kingsley opens the drawer to his desk where he keeps the expensive liqueur, forgetting that Tom said his father’s car was hit by a drunk driver. He takes a long swallow and reaches to buzz Marietta by intercom.

“Yes, Mr. Kingsley?”

“Don’t let anyone disturb me the rest of the day. No calls, no interruptions. I’m working on reports and want to be alone. No need to say good night when you leave for the day—got that?” He loosens his necktie and unbuttons his top shirt button. What he really wants is a short nap.

“Yes, sir. I understand,” she says. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then. Have a good day, sir.”

He unplugs the phone, closes the window blinds, then lies down on the leather couch. Within minutes, Kingsley is fast asleep, snoring.

***

He is awakened by a whirring sound out in the hallway. At first, he’s not sure where he is. The only light comes from a small lamp across the room. No sunlight filters through the closed blinds. He realizes he’s in his office, and remembers that he lay down for a nap sometime during the morning. He looks at his Rolex watch. It reads 10:00.

It can’t be 10:00! He stands and walks to his desk to view the digital clock. It too reads “10:00 PM” in white, glowing letters against a black background.

He recognizes the hallway noise as the sound of a floor buffer. He does a quick comb of his hair, straightens his now-wrinkled jacket, and picks up his briefcase. Kingsley unlocks the door, expecting to be met by a janitor. No one is there.

“Hmmm…must have gone to another floor,” Kingsley says to himself. He walks to the elevator and is surprised to see that the door is open, as if it knew he was coming.

Down on the main floor, he finds the lights in the lobby are off. He fumbles his way forward, leans against a pushbar to open the heavy, glass door, but it doesn’t move. He tries a second time. Again, the door won’t budge.

“Well, I’ll be…” Kingsley was sure the north doors were open 24 hours a day. He looks about for the security guard. He’ll have to walk to the opposite end of the building, go out the back and around to the main entrance. It means walking a quarter-mile distance to be in front and cross to the garage where his Lincoln is parked. How did I get myself into this? I’ve never taken a nap like that.

Unused to walking long distances, Kingsley’s breathing becomes labored halfway down the center walkway. In the distance he sees someone standing at the information desk at the south end. “Wait until I give him a piece of my mind!” he says in a huff. “Incompetence! Those front doors are to remain open!”

“Mr. Kingsley, I wouldn’t go down that way,” a soft voice says behind him.

He turns to see a beautiful, young woman with glowing, blonde hair. She is dressed in white with a gold cord tied around her waist.

“Why not? Who are you?” He doesn’t recall seeing her before.

“I am Angela. I’ve come from your father’s room.”

Kingsley thinks he’s hearing things. “That’s not possible.”

“You should call your father, Mr. Kingsley. He doesn’t have much time,” A tear falls from her eye and lands on the bodice of her dress.

“I’m going to, once I get out of here. I’ll call him from the car,” he says, resuming his walk to the south doors.

She touches his arm and he stops. “Call now or you may regret your choice.” Then she disappears.

His body shakes as he tries to understand what just happened. He wonders if he’s dreaming. Maybe he’s still upstairs asleep.

“Hey! You there!” he shouts to the man standing at the south entry desk. The man doesn’t answer. Kingsley runs to him. He slams his hand down on the granite countertop, thinking the guard is asleep. “Didn’t you hear me?”

“Hello, Mr. Kingsley. I was told you were coming,” he replies. He is a short, dark man wearing a hat, black clothes, holding a cigar. His voice seems to come from nowhere and everywhere.

Kingsley feels a chill up his spine. “You were told? By whom? That woman?” He turns his head, looking for her. “Why are the north doors locked? They’re supposed to be open 24 hours. What’s your name? Who hired you? I’ll report you to your supervisor!” He spouts anger too fast for the man to reply.

“They call me Papa Ghede. I am here to guide you, at your choosing. You hired me,” he says through a wide grin.

Am I going mad? I’ve never seen him before in my life. Kingsley rubs his eyes, searching his recall. He apologizes. “No, I’m sorry, I don’t remember. Why are you down at this entrance?”

The guard points to something behind Kingsley.

He turns to see a strange machine built into the wall between the doors. “Automated Teller Machine” flashes neon red at the top. Below the sign is a darkened window, different shaped slots, and signage with print that is too small to read.

“You wanted someone here to protect the ATM after workers installed it last week. It was your order,” Papa Ghede explains.

I ordered it? I only read about these contraptions this morning in the paper. I told no one to install this…this… machine! You’re lying!”

Kingsley walks to the ATM for a closer look. He reads the instructions. He sticks his fingers into the money slot, intrigued.

“Say, Papa, can I get money out of it now?” He turns to look at him.

The man is gone and the room lights blink off.

“May I help you, Mr. Kingsley?”

He whirls around, expecting to see someone. Again, he is alone.

“May I help you, Mr. Kingsley?” A voice, deeper this time.

He realizes it comes from the machine. His heart beats faster and he feels dizzy. The machine is talking…“Who…who are you? Where are you?” Beads of perspiration form on his upper lip and forehead. The flashing red sign gets brighter and brighter, as if a beating heart.

“I’m here, in the ATM. Would you like some of your money, Cooper?”

It knows my name.

Kingsley’s not so crazy to deny the request, and agrees. “Why, yes…yes, I would. But how do I get it? I don’t much care for machines, you know.” He wonders if he should have admitted that.

The voice is reassuring. “Look in your wallet. Your ATM card is there.”

Kingsley is amazed to find a blue plastic card titled “Bank ATM” next to his bills. “Well, yes, it is. Where did this come from?”

“From me. I’ll take care of you and your money now. I have your records. Your date of birth, source of income, your parents’ names...” The voice is hypnotic and inviting.

Kingsley’s thoughts are jolted. Dad’s accident. I’d better call Tom, especially after the way I treated him on the phone today.

“Cooper, put the card in the slot on the left and you’ll have more riches than ever before. A man like you should always be near his money.” The voice is louder and deeper. Like his father’s.

Kingsley is torn between wanting money and calling his father. He decides he’ll call the hospital as soon as he has a few thousand in hand. He wants his money first.

He pushes the plastic card into the slot. A shrill, whining sound screams from the ATM, like machine noises from his dad’s garage. Kingsley sees the neon ATM sign explode just as his hand is trapped in the slot and he collapses.

***

Kingsley is stirred by voices nearby. He can hardly breathe, though standing upright. He hears car horns, busy footsteps and the dings of an elevator. He feels a catheter beneath his pants. He’s encased in something like a coffin, except for the tiny window in front of his face. Someone is pushing a plastic card into his right shoulder. The pain cuts like a knife.

“Stupid ATM! This machine is out of order again!” A short, dark man wearing a hat is visible on the other side of the glass. He holds a cigar. He puts his face close to the window and whispers, “Don’t feel like working again today, Mr. Kingsley? Keep your money. Some things never change.” He winks, raps his knuckles on the glass and walks away.

A silver coin, like a tear, falls from the ATM and rolls across the floor.

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(Author’s Note to Readers: Papa Ghede is a psychopomp. He waits at the crossroads to take souls into the afterlife and is considered the good counterpart to Baron Samedi. He has a very crass sense of humor and a deep hatred of European-based cultures because of the sexual repression they encourage. Papa Ghede is supposed to be the corpse of the first man who ever died. He is widely recognized as a short, dark man with a high hat on his head and a cigar in his mouth and he's constantly holding an apple in his left hand. It’s said that he has a divine ability to read others’ minds and the ability to know everything that happens in both worlds. Source: Wikipedia)