Unusual things may happen in our lives. Sometimes, the reason they occur can elude us.

However, if we are successful in discovering the cause for what happened, it might be something we didn’t expect. This becomes apparent in . . .

Drop Dead, Gorgeous

     I sat in the living room of my sprawling ranch house in Gotham, California, about sixty miles from the Bay Area. I stared across the room out the picture window and watched the leaves drop from the trees in my front yard on this beautiful late October afternoon. Millennial Avenue appeared desolate. No person strolled through the neighborhood. No vehicle moved up or down the street. The silence made me feel a bit uncomfortable.

     The phone on the round mahogany end table vibrated, sending a warbling sound through my somewhat uneasy, yet tranquil environment. I leaned over and grabbed it off its base. “Hello,” I moaned.

     “Mark my words, you’re not going to have the opportunity to see her if you don’t do as I say.”

     “Huh, who is this?”

     “You’ll find out soon enough,” a raspy voice echoed on the other end of the line.

     “What is this call about?”

     “Listen, Gorgeous. If you prize life, you’ll do as I say.”

     I’ve never been called gorgeous, . . . handsome, maybe. “Okay, I’m listening,” I said.

     “Go to the window and look outside.”

     Holding the phone in my hand, I got up from my seat on the plush leather couch and shuffled over to the window. My god! I saw a crowd marching like soldiers. There were at least twenty of them, maybe more. But how did they get there? Just a minute ago, there hadn’t been a soul on my quiet block.

     “What do you see?” the voice on the phone croaked.

     “People. But I don’t know where they came from.”

     “Turn around,” the voice ordered.

     So I did. “What the . . .? Where the hell am I?” Across the room, four-foot high counters lined the front wall. The sign behind these counters read, “Bethany National Savings.” Three office cubicles stationed on each of the sidewalls were vacant. I was in a bank and alone, or so it appeared. But how was my home phone, which I grasped in my hand, still working?

     “Now listen to me,” the gravelly voice sounded.

     “If you ever want to see her again, you’ll do as I say and do it now.”

     “Who is she?” I groaned. “And why am I here?”

     The voice ignored my first question, but did respond to the second. “Look around you. What do you see?”

     “An empty bank.”

     “You are very perceptive, Gorgeous. I need you to do something for me.”

     “What? And how did I get from my living room to the bank?”

     “I put you there. Now listen carefully. It is essential you understand and do everything I say. I mean everything.”

     “Who are you?”

     “That’s not important. Go to the third cubicle on the right, pull out the chair and sit down.”

     Why I did what he instructed, I’ll never know. But I did. Still holding the phone to my ear, I awaited his next instructions. Looking at the clock on the desk, I noticed it was 8:50 a.m. Banks open at nine. If I’m caught here, how do I explain it? Then I thought, morning? When I got the call, it was late Sunday afternoon. Why don’t I remember coming here? He said he put me here. How is that possible?

     “Are you settled in?”

     “Yeah.”

     “The computer should be on. Pull out the keyboard.”

     “Yes, the computer’s on. Okay, I’ve pulled out the keyboard. Now what?” I asked.

     “Type in the following numbers: six, two, three, eleven, fourteen, four, one, seven. Tell me when you’re done.”

     “I’m done. So?”

     “What do you see on the screen?”

     “Uh, the name, Marybeth and five sets of numbers. Who is she? And the numbers, what do they mean?”

     “Don’t play games with me, Gorgeous, if you ever want to see her again.”

     “I’ve never seen her before, so how could I see her again?”

     “No more questions. Just read me each of the number sequences,” the voice demanded.

     “Until you tell me what this is all about, I’m not doing anything.”

     “Don’t push me or you’ll be responsible for her death.”

     “Death?” Then the phone went dead.

     The alarm clock on my oak nightstand blared. I slammed the button on top to stop the obnoxious sound. I rubbed the sleep from my eyes. Oh, my. I had a dream—just a crazy dream. I breathed a sigh of relief and rolled out of bed.

     I better get going or I’ll be late for work. I washed up, dressed, grabbed an energy bar from the cupboard, and raced into the garage. Twenty minutes later, I pulled my three-year old Camry into Olson and Freedman’s parking lot on Third Avenue, where I worked as a business consultant.

     I entered the double-glass doors to the building and walked down the hall to my office. Entering, my secretary, Maribel, smiled and sung out, “Good morning, Mr. G.”

     “Good morning, my sweet Maribel, I chanted. But why did she call me Mr. G? My name is Havensworth.

     “Oh, Mr. Havensworth, a mail carrier delivered a letter for you,” Maribel shouted. “I put it on your desk.”

     “Thanks, Maribel,” I replied. I guess I misheard her call me “Mr. G.” With that nagging dream still stuck in my head, I went into my office and closed the door. As I picked the envelope up off my desk, I saw the words, “To: Gorgeous,” scribbled on its surface. I began to shake. My hands trembled. I knew this wasn’t a dream. But did I dare open the envelope?

     I stood staring at it. Then there was a knock at my door. “Come in,” I whimpered.

     “Hey, Charlie, everything all right?”

     “Yeah, George. Why do you ask?”

     “Just the way you told me to come in. It didn’t sound like you. You know, . . . strong and confident.”

     “Well, I’ve got something on my mind.”

     “Care to share it with me? It might be good to get it off your chest.”

     “I don’t know.”

     “What’s that you’re holding?”

     “Oh, just an envelope.”

     “Well, go ahead and open it. Maybe it’s from an ardent admirer.”

     “Yeah, that’d be the day. I haven’t had a date in over six months.” As I fiddled with the envelope, it dropped out of my hands and floated to the floor. Before I could react, George grabbed it.

     “Well, well, well. Hi there, gorgeous. Someone’s got the hots for you.”

     “It’s not what you think.”

     “Then what is it? Come on, open it.”

     It wasn’t sealed. The flap was tucked inside. Using caution, I slipped the flap out and up. I removed a sheet of paper. I glanced at it and then looked up at George. He gawked at me awaiting the great proclamation of love that would flow from my lips. Looking back down at the note, my voice quivered as I read, “Dear Mr. Gorgeous, . . ." I stopped reading, afraid to continue.

      “Keep going,” George gasped.

     “Why should I?”

     “You’ll never know unless you read it,” he said.

     So I continued reading, “Tom, they said if you wouldn’t cooperate, they would have no choice but to kill me. If you’re reading this letter, you now know that is what happened. I don’t know why you wouldn’t try your hardest to save me. I thought you loved me. As I prepare to leave this earth at the hands of these alien beings, I have nothing but contempt for you and can only wish you the same fate. They told me your death was imminent as they no longer had any use for you, Mr. Tom Gorgeous, . . . and neither do I.”

     “Is that it, Charlie? And who the hell is Tom Gorgeous?” George asked.

     “No, that isn’t it. There’s a closing line. It says, ‘Drop dead, Gorgeous.”

     “Is this some kind of sick joke?” George queried.

     “I don’t have any idea. I don’t know her or him? And I’m not him. And alien beings were responsible for all of this? This is insane.”

     “You have to do something,” George sputtered. “Go to the police.”

     “And tell them what? I was whisked out of my home on a Sunday afternoon by aliens and placed inside a bank Monday morning before it opened. Then I accessed someone’s computer. And because I wouldn’t cooperate by providing the information I found on it, I may have gotten a woman killed. Will you visit me at the maximum security prison for nuts where I will live out the rest my life?”

     George left my office unfulfilled. I sat at my desk, confused and frightened about doing something that seemed idiotic or doing nothing at all.

     Two weeks later, I walked into the office. Entering, Maribel smiled and sung out, “Good morning, Mr. G.”

     “Good morning, my sweet Maribel, I chanted. But why did she call me Mr. G again? She knows my name is Havensworth.

     “Oh, Mr. Havensworth, a mail carrier delivered a letter for you,” Maribel shouted. “I put it on your desk.”

     I entered my office, afraid of what to expect. I slithered into my desk chair and peered at the letter. My heart began to beat out of control.

     “Oh my, is this from her? But she’s dead,” I muttered. “And do they still think I’m him? Are they going to kill me? My god, what do I do now?” Stunned, I sat paralyzed, leaving the eerie envelope on my desk unopened.

     Then there was a knock on the door. Before I could say, “Come in,” it swung open, and a beautiful nurse, dressed in a white uniform, with a badge that read, “Marybeth Lawton, Wellington Manor Hospital, Mental Health Services,” danced into the room.

     “Good morning, gorgeous,” she murmured. “It’s time to take your medication.”

Copyright © 2020 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.