The Cogwork Obsession by Maxwell Blue
With an underlining thought of pleasure and an overwhelming feeling of clemency, Mike grabbed his shiny black remote, swiped the TV icon on it and then fell backwards, trusting that his leather couch would be there for him. Most days he would have taken a quick look, but today he was feeling a little more certain about being Mike. He was completely relaxed in the moment as he gave the entertainment system some more time to reboot. Mike knew when the cycle completed itself because, cable girl, appeared on the screen, like she always did, every time Mike turned his entertainment system on she would pop up on the screen, always more giddy than anyone ever had the right to be, this cartoon character of a person, with a stronger conviction in TV watching than Mormons believe in Mormonism and those guys believed they will be gifted a whole planet when they die, hopefully one with a breathable atmosphere Mike thought slightly bemused. Mike stopped her before she could announce which pay-per-view movies were the most popular by changing the channel. First, Mike watched an educational program about eggs, then he watched chefs competing against each other, and when Mike had his full of news pundits and 1980s teen angst films he turned on the program he has been waiting to see all morning. Mike thought of himself as an old Hollywood innovator, who moved with the same expertise as the great producers of the late 1990s. These men got things done.
Upon hearing an actress say “No” to them, they would turn quickly to that pouting face and say, you might think it is paradoxical, and ironic, but the more you are telling me “NO”, the more you are actually saying, “YES”.
Just as he expected Bridgid was settling into the room nicely. If Mike didn’t know he wouldn’t have thought she was in the next room, but he did use high definition cameras. His actresses got only the best. Bridgid was reading one of the books from the library. Then she threw the book across the room collapsing into tears. There were more than a hundred titles there – that should keep her busy for a while. But now it was lunchtime. Mike got up and went over to the kitchen where he whipped up a fresh mixed salad greens with raspberry vinaigrette in a stainless steel bowl. He arranged the salad on an expensive bone china plate, sprinkling toasted walnuts, sliced pears and some crumbles of blue cheese, and then he placed the plate on a silver tray. In the microwave he heated up Bridgid’s leftover lasagna. When the heating cycle was completed he plated the lasagna and placed the plate on the silver tray.
When Mike entered the room, Bridgid was still on the floor sobbing. He placed the tray with the food on the table. Bridgid stopped crying and looked up at Mike’s smiling face. “What have you done to me?”
“I made you lunch. Well, the salad really. The lasagna is from last night.”
“I mean where are my clothes?” Looking down at the dress that Mike put her in. “And where am I?”
“Isn’t it great? It is like living in the past. Did you look out the window?”
“That’s no window,” Bridgid said in frustration. “That’s a TV screen playing some movie I have never seen.”
“You haven’t seen it before because it was only filmed a week ago by my own production company. I made it just for you. Don’t you feel special?”
“No.” Bridgid said getting up from the floor. “Is that my suitcase?”
“I had one of my employees fetch it for you.” Handing Bridgid her bag. “Some things didn’t fit the timeline so I repacked it with items that did.” Bridgid opened the suitcase and pulled out the custom designed costumes that Mike added to her bag.
“You are too kind,” she said coldly. “What am I supposed to do anyway? Sit in this room and perform for you? You can’t keep me in her like I am a doll. I hope you know that.”
“I think you will be acting with us for some time,” Mike said, “After all you are very, lucky.”
“Lucky!” Bridgid screamed, shaking her Victorian dress about.
You won the Lottery, like me, not as big though, but who would turn down one hundred and fifty thousand dollars,” Mike said, “I called your paper this morning, bright and early. ‘early bird catches the worm’ and all that.”
20 Hours Earlier
Mike left with plenty of time for his Friday appointment with Dr. Bartholomew. Dr. Bartholomew usually ran a little on the late side. He checked in with Chloe, the receptionist, before sitting down. Chloe always greeted Mike with smiles that reminded him of a game show hostess. She told him she would tell the doctor that he was here. The waiting didn’t bother Mike at all. He wasn’t thinking about his visit with Dr. Bartholomew. He was thinking about tomorrow night. His thoughts were racing about Brigid, she was beguiling. He liked the sound of her name when it rolled off his tongue. Just about everything was in place for the big night and boy was he nervous. What would it be like when he picked her up for dinner?
His mouth felt like he had been sucking on cotton balls. It was either dry from rapidly talking all day to people, who were helping him plan for tonight or from a side effect of stopping his medication. He went to the water cooler next to the door and poured himself a drink. Mike could see Chloe through the glass window partition. She was using the photocopier and her back was turned. She looked pretty from that angle. He paused in thought for a moment and then lifted the paper cup to his parched lips and swished the water in his mouth. Satisfied that it did the trick he swallowed. What was he doing? He couldn’t go through with it. It was wrong. It was perverse. But he had spent all that time and money. Was it for nothing?
“Mike.”
Why do his plans always turn to crap? Why doesn’t anything go right?
“Mike.”
Well he did do a fine job with the restaurants. That is what his stylist said. But Mike paid the stylist. What else would he say? But the newspaper liked it as well and Mike hadn’t paid them to write a glowing review.
“Mike!”
“Oh, Dr. Bartholomew, I didn’t hear you.”
“I could see that.” The doctor put a comforting hand on Mike’s shoulder. “Why don’t we talk about it?” The doctor lead the way to his office and Mike followed. Upon entering the room Dr. Bartholomew took a seat in a chair, he always sat at the end of the room.
“It all started a month ago,” Mike explained. “I’ve been working on this big project in one of my warehouses and it has been driving me frantic, absolutely frantic.” Sitting stiffly next to the doctor in a Gordon tufted loveseat.
“The one where you keep your automobiles?” Jotting down some notes into Mike’s chart while he talked. Dr. Bartholomew knew Mike owned a fleet of sport utility vehicles, sedans and high performance sport cars in a large warehouse downtown.
“No, not that one. The one that I didn’t know what to do with. The empty one.”
“I see.” Dr. Bartholomew stopped writing and looked up. “And how does this make you feel, being empty I mean.”
“Not me! I know I have felt empty in the past. I was talking about the warehouse. Something needed to be done with the warehouse so I felt like flexing some architectural muscle and interior designing skills and put together some rooms.” Sitting back and relaxing into the sofa for the first time. “I even had the rooms professionally photographed and I just had them submitted to a trade publication.” Mike got out his smart phone and used its six inch screen to show Dr. Bartholomew the five different rooms he had built and designed.
“Very nice,” the doctor said as he flipped through the photos. “Except for this one,” pointing to the smallest room, “this room looks like a dive motel.”
“Yeah -- it is sort of like being punished to be stuck in that room I imagine,” Mike said ruefully. “Don’t forget about the television though. Look at that screen. That is a high definition screen, it’s brand new. I grant you the bed is plain looking and very lumpy, but that is a queen size bed.”
“I stayed in worse.” Dr. Bartholomew said handing back the phone. “What are you going to do with these rooms now that you have your photos?” He continued writing in the chart. “It is not like you can transport them into a house.”
“Questions, more and more questions.” Mike started to rub his head.
“Are you hearing voices again?” Dr. Bartholomew asked. “Have you been taking your medication?”
Mike looked towards the table in front of him, closely examining the doctor’s collection of windup metal men that were gathered there and picked one up. “I was feeling better so I stopped taking it.” Mike wound up the toy and let it go on the table. “Besides I feel weird when I am on them.” The metal man marched off the table and Mike caught it, watched its tiny metal gears grind to a halt before he placed it back on the table.
“You have a chronic condition, Mike, and if you stop taking your medication you will fall back into a relapse.”
“Really?” he stammered. “No, I am fine. I am in control,” finishing with more confidence.
“What about the voices?” Dr. Bartholomew asked.
Mike leaned forward. “I keep them at bay.” Then he stood up. “These talks with you are what keeps me grounded.”
The doctor looked over to his novelty clock on the far wall that told time in a counter-intuitive way. “We still have a few more minutes left.”
“Keep the change, doc.” Mike said with a grin. “I have a date to get ready for.”
* * *
When the job becomes insurmountable it makes sense to break it down, write it up and if it was feasible to delegate it. Right before his date Mike was in the process of doing just that when he met with one of his associates in front of the Jefferson Avenue warehouse. Even though Mike thought of him as an underling he treated him as an equal. That is the way Mike dealt with most people. This man’s position was towards the bottom of the totem pole, there was no question about that, but that didn’t mean his job wasn’t important.
Mike was aware that he lived in a massive machine and if one of its smallest cogs were to come loose and fail the whole mechanism would grind to a halt; much like that metal man in Dr. Bartholomew’s office. This man was such a cog – small but vital. He was the blood flow that moved the plan along. He was a necessary component in getting things moved from place to place. He was Mike’s personal assistant who went the extra mile while working under the radar. Associate was far too grand a title though. He was used more like a freelancer that worked from job to job on an infrequent basis.
“Let me get this straight,” his freelancer said. “You want me to break into this girl’s apartment and pack a suitcase of her clothes.” Mike was holding a metal clipboard. Fastened on the clipboard was the list of tasks he needed to complete. He check marked the next item on the list and dropped the clipboard to his side.
This freelancer standing before him was a man that was just a few months shy of reaching the day where he could legally drink his first beer. Mike was an equal opportunity employer and his lax dress code allowed this freelancer to be outfitted in his unusual fashion, dressed in an alternative rock band T-shirt, baggy blue jeans which hung low enough to reveal a pair of green and red striped Tommy Hilfiger boxers. Fastened to his feet were a pair of high-top sneakers. He liked to be called Bounce.
He claimed that the reason for his nom de plume was because he could get into a place and out quickly and completely undetected. Outside of the “breaking and entering” racket Bounce was known as Hector Knipper, a hodgepodge name than spanned two cultural backgrounds. His mother was Mexican and his father was German. Mike got Bounce’s contact information from Nick Trotter, a drug supplier he met a few years ago. He was a friend of a friend in his last life. Trotter was a man who knew how to get things and he didn’t care that Mike had more money than God, because he knew how it could be spent. Trotter referred Bounce to Mike and supplied him with all the GHB he needed. Before Mike paid Trotter he asked about the surcharge to his asking price for the GHB. He was just curious. Trotter simply explained that he was including a headhunter’s fee for Bounce.
“Don’t worry about getting into her apartment, Bounce. It shouldn’t be a problem because I will be giving you the keys. You have the address.” Mike was happy that Hector was getting up to speed on the plan. The front of the warehouse had been deserted for over an hour, but just the same he thought he heard something, possibly one of his whispers. He didn’t know. “Did you hear that?”
“Hear what?” Hector said turning his head from side to side.
“Never mind,” Mike said rubbing his temples with his right hand. “Meet me here tonight and I will get you the keys. When you get to the apartment don’t make it look as if it were a break in and don’t take anything other than the clothes and a few knickknacks. No big ticket items like stereos or TVs.”
“Who do you think you are talking to?” Hector asked. Based on his startled look of confusion it was obvious that Mike had hurt his pride. “I’m a professional. I am not known as Bounce for nothing you know.” He let that spiel sink in and then as if it were an afterthought he added “Are you paying me now?”
This time it was Mike who looked hurt. Of course he was paying him. He had the money. With a lopsided grin he walked over to the trunk in the front of his white Ferrari Enzo and pulled a backpack full of Ben Franklins out of the trunk and tossed it over to Hector.
“There is three thousand dollars in that bag and you will be getting another three thousand dollars when I have the suitcase.” Hector zipped open the backpack and thumbed through the cash, checking every bill. “And when you pack it think about all the things that your girlfriend would take on a long vacation.”
Eight hours later Mike picked Bridgid up outside her apartment building. She wore what must have been five inch heel shoes, in a brilliant shade of orange, had on an open back floral dress with orange, black and white flowers. Around her neck hung a modest gold cross and except for a Japanese Quartz stainless steel bracelet watch she wore no other jewelry. In her hands she held tightly to a dark green and silver hand purse, sewn with patterns of flowers and ribbons. When Mike opened the passenger side door for her he noticed that she was only slightly shorter than him. Once they were both inside the sports car it only took a few minutes before the subject of money to come up. That when Mike started to hear the whisperings again.
“Nice ride.”
It was a nice ride, but did she know she would be eating at a restaurant that he owned? He told her that he borrowed the car from a rich friend. Maybe she didn’t know that was a lie. Maybe her friends didn’t know who he was. Stupid. It was stupid to have done this with a reporter. Won’t her colleagues go looking for her when she went missing? There was always the possibility that they might discover he was once known as Josh Needelman.
“You didn’t have to do that. I’m not too impressed with money.”
Not impressed with money? That was refreshing. He wondered what room she would like to stay in. Has she read Jane Eyre or Wuthering Heights? How did she feel about Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland? Being a reporter she must do a lot of reading. He told her about the restaurant.
“Meatball? That is a strange name for a restaurant, but I do enjoy Italian food.” She straightened her dress which had bunched up when she put her seatbelt on. “How did you hear about it?”
He told her he read a review in the local paper. Doesn’t she read the paper? This is a very good restaurant. She works at a paper for chrissakes. How could she not have heard about it?
She laughs. “It was reviewed in my paper. I’m so busy that I barely have enough time to do my work or go out to eat to care what is written in that section of the paper. My job teeters from Hollywood gossip to the advice column. I mostly concern myself with that part of the paper, but lately I have been given the opportunity to write some lengthy pieces about events that happen around town. Like the festival in the park last week.” Bridgid opened up her purse and began searching inside. “I think I saved a clipping of the story if you care to read it.” Finding what she was looking for she pulled it out and held it up like a prize she won out of a crackerjack box. “Here it is.”
Can’t read it now! What does she think he is doing here?
“Of course you can’t read if while you are driving,” Getting her head out of her purse and taking in the flashing lights of the nighttime traffic as if she was seeing it for the first time. “I will show you later.”
When Mike got to the “Meatball” he handed the car over to the valet and escorted Bridgid to the front of the restaurant. Looking through the glass doors Bridgid could see the tomato red tablecloths matched with the black wood chairs. From inside the restaurant various oil paintings of Italy could be seen decorating the burgundy walls. And below her feet the floors were checkered like a chessboard with brilliant black and white tiles. The maître d' was paying close attention to Mike and his date, but he was acting like he was paying no more than the usual amount of concern he would give a customer. Mike had given explicit directions to his staff that they were to pretend like they have never seen him before. The maitre d’ was playing his part so well that it appeared as though he was unaware that his boss had reached his station until the very last moment.
“Reservations for two under the name Boyle,” Mike told the maitre d’.
“Right this way, sir.” the maitre d’ said leading the way to a little round table set for two on top of a raised dais in the corner of the dining room. There were two flickering candles on short brass candlesticks at either side of the table. This aesthetic glow of candlelight became a necessity in this section of the restaurant. The overhead accent lighting didn’t provide nearly enough lumination. The effect caused couples to sit close together in order to see their dinner and each other. Mike could tell from Bridgid’s expression that she was impressed.
“This is a cozy spot.” Bridgid said
“All I did was tell them not to sit us next to the restrooms.” Mike said pulling out a chair for Bridgid to sit in. “But I did arrange something special for dessert.”
“How so?” Bridgid asked taking a seat at the table.
“I just so happen to have prepared the dessert myself.” Mike said taking a seat in the other chair. “In another life I worked as a pastry chef.”
“Really? What do you do now?”
This was awkward. What lie should he tell her? “I am a day trader.” Mike said. “I’ve been doing it for a few years now. I do alright. It’s not like I make millions of dollars, but the hours are great. I just get up early, make my stock picks and then it’s off to the gym.”
“Mr. Boyle!” The waitress said. “No one told me that Mr. Big was going to be dining in my section tonight.”
“Mr. Big?” Bridgid questioned looking over to Mike and then to the waitress.
“That’s what we call our boss.” The waitress said with a wink. “We hardly ever see him these days.” Clearly Rachael didn’t get the memo that he was playing it incognito tonight.
“Rachael is just joking around,” Mike explained with a laugh. “She knows that I talked to the owner and he said to act like I own the place. Rachael here is just playing along.”
“Rachael was here when you made that dessert you were just talking about?” Bridgid asked.
“That’s right,” Mike said. Then he turned towards Rachael. “Rachael would you be so kind to bring us a good bottle of merlot and while you are at it get Tad to bring us a basket of bread.”
“Right away, boss.” Rachael said with a wink.
“You seem quite familiar with this place to have been here only a couple of hours.” Bridgid said with a knowing smile.
“I’m a quick study.” Mike said.
After Rachael came back with the wine the meal started to click together in a steady rhythm. Mike asked for the osso buco for his main course and Bridgid picked the vegan lasagna. They selected two appetizers: the caprese tomato bites and the asparagus bruschetta. Bridgid agreed that they should share a Caesar salad after Mike told her the salads were generous here. When the main course came Mike was able to finish his meal, but Bridgid left her plate half finished. She was claimed that she was saving room for dessert. The truth was she always left her dinners half eaten because she saved the leftovers for lunch the next day. Once Rachael had Bridgid’s meal wrapped up in a dainty box Mike went to the kitchen to collect the dessert. It only took him a couple of minutes to plate them with fresh raspberries and to squiggle on a few letters with chocolate sauce.
“Tiramisu,” Mike said presenting Bridgid with the dessert. “This is my own personal recipe. I modified it from a recipe I had taken from a pastry chef who use to live in Sicily.”
“It is very good.” Bridgid said after she took her first bite. “Were you the one who wrote out my name in chocolate?”
“That was me.” Mike said taking a spoonful of his own dessert. “I use to do this sort of thing for a living.”
“I might just eat it all.” Bridgid said with a satisfied grin. “This tiramisu is tantamount to the most heavenly delights.”
“It only takes a small sample to cause a deleterious effect.” Mike said. “There is no need to finish it.”
“No.” Bridgid said playfully as she scooped up another bite. “I want to.” Blissfully swallowing down the dessert. “Did you say ‘deleterious’, Mike?”
“Oh, did I say that? I meant to say, ‘desirous’,” Mike said.
“What’s in it? I don’t think I’ve ever had it before.”
“Lady finger cookies, coffee, mascarpone cheese, bittersweet chocolate, a liqueur and my special ingredient.” Mike said.
“What is the special ingredient?” Bridgid asked lifting another spoonful up to her lips.
“I will never tell.” Mike admitted.
Three minutes later Rachael came back with the bill book. Mike paid the bill and left a two hundred dollar tip for Rachael in the book. By this time Bridgid was starting to look a little tired around the eyes.
“Are you feeling alright?” Mike asked getting up from his seat.
“Yes.” Bridgid said sheepishly “Just a little woozy. It was probably the wine.”
“Well I better get you home.” Mike said helping her to her feet. “Don’t forget your purse and doggy bag.”
“No. I am fine.” Bridgid said taking a few unaided steps. “I don’t feel like dancing, but I can walk without a problem.” She more or less floated like she was in a dream through the dining room.
“Let me get the door for you.” Mike said reaching for the front door. “Just a little bit further and you will be back inside my Ferrari.”
“Don’t you mean your friend’s Ferrari.”
“Yes.” Mike said nodding his head. “You’re right. The car really belongs to my friend.” Mike handed his ticket to the valet and within a minute his car was idling at his side. After leaving a generous tip, Mike opened the passenger side door and helped Bridgid into the passenger seat, which she fell back into like she was holding onto something prodigious. But she was able to fasten her own seatbelt with some trial and error. Once Bridgid was secure Mike headed for the freeway. Hector should be at the warehouse waiting for him. Mike was making some great time on the road.
When he hit his first red light, he took that opportunity to check up on the girl. “How are you doing?” Mike asked. Her eyes were closed. Maybe she was sleeping.
“Are we home yet?” Bridgid asked opening her eyes just enough to get a good look around. The instantaneity of her reaction startled Mike.
“Not yet,” Mike cooed her. “Do you have the keys in your purse?”
“In the purse…”
Mike took that as a “yes”, but he didn’t find it practical to ruffle through her purse while he was driving a stick shift and then he remembered the cell phone. If the phone had a GPS chip it, could be tracked to its last known location. That could spell trouble. He had better get rid of her phone before he hit the freeway. In-between shifting gears he felt inside the purse for something that could have been a cell phone. Mike latched onto it right away. It was the largest object in there –one of the newer models he guessed. When he threw it out the car window he promised himself that he would buy her another one.
As Mike drove up to the warehouse he could see Hector smoking outside. Judging by the number of butts on the ground he has been there awhile. Mike got out of the car leaving the engine running and walked over to Hector. Mike was holding the keys that he fetched from Bridgid’s purse.
“I hope you haven’t been waiting long.” Mike said as he handed the keys over to the freelancer, undeniably a feigning concern. Mike knew of the importance, at least to sometimes be a caring fellow, even though these feelings were capricious at best. Besides, Hector was being paid well for his time. You certainly didn’t skimp payment, on the very finest in his line of work.
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