Stevan Mena - Transience

He had all the information he needed. He took one more look before he left; starting at her ankle, drinking in her bare skin, past the knee, over the thin dress that hugged her curves, to her face, committing it to memory. He felt sympathy for the repressed men who had to work alongside her, confident they must be straining in their seats whenever her tight frame passed their cubicles by. He licked his lips — a new project awaited! In this life, you need to take what you want, boys.

He pushed out his chair, tossed his half full tea into the trash, and exited the shop.

He climbed into a large white van. On its side read: Baxter Mills Inc. Bonded Cleaning Services.

He could still see her through the coffee shop window. He reached under his seat and dragged out a laptop, he wanted to jump onto the networking sites before he forgot all the details. Was he close enough to pull from the shop’s wifi? He saw two bars, good enough. He agreed to the pointless terms of service page and started typing.

He searched the name Teresa Mason first. Quite a few hits came up. He scrolled until he found one for Lansing. There were three actually, but only one with blonde hair. He clicked and her picture enlarged. There she was.

Check.

She had an open page, allowing anyone to see her history. Too easy. He did a quick search and discovered that she went to Clearview High in Windsor Township, graduated seven years ago. Hmm a little older than he thought. His judgment must be off. He liked them younger. As they aged, they often grew wiser to their own mortal vulnerabilities. The young ones walked the earth in ignorant bliss. Still — ripe fruit .

He clicked off the page and did a search for Clearview High, then ran a search of alumni. There she was, wasn’t she cute? He typed up the name Randall, hoping to only find one. Lucky me . Randall Peterson. He was a dorky looking boy. Wonder what he’s doing now?

He searched and discovered Randall works for Martin Mitchell Investments. Lives in Annandale. Nice address. And sure enough, on the corporate website for Martin Mitchell, there was a contact page for him, with a nice-sized photo. He right-clicked and downloaded it.

He went back to the social networking site and expertly created a new page, using a fake email address for confirmation. He wasn’t worried about them tracing him, since the computer was stolen from a plumbing job he did weeks ago in Bridgetown, plus the public wifi camouflaged his IP address. One step ahead. Some idiots don’t even put a pass code on their devices. This one did, but he was able to crack it. Five minutes on Google.

He created the fake page for Randall Peterson. He even found his actual page, and was able to download current pictures of him for authenticity. Too easy. Oh look, he does drive a BMW.

About 4 minutes later, he’d put together a fake page that even Randall couldn’t decipher was phony without scrutinizing every detail. And the only thing he got wrong was the date of birth — it wasn’t listed, so he guessed.

He then sent out friend requests to hundreds of people he never met, knowing most just clicked yes because the more connections you had, the cooler you were. He knew before long he would be loaded.

He brought up Teresa’s page and sent a friend request. He also sent a message, telling her about how he had just run into… shit, what was the other girl’s name? He scanned Teresa’s posts until he found a picture of the fat one with the tiny leather jacket. There she was, squeezing her fat face into the picture, blowing a kiss. A simple mouse over and: Natalie Krycia.

Check.

He updated his message to let Teresa know how he had just run into Natalie, you remember, our friend from high school? She said she still spoke to you, and that you were still local! He then let her know how anxious he was to meet her and re-connect over coffee. Maybe they could go share a Hazelnut iced coffee, which was his favorite.

Was that too slick? He decided it was, and deleted that part. He could save it for their next conversation. He sent the message and waited. And waited. He started up the van to go to his next appointment. He shoved the stolen laptop under his seat and drove off.

He whistled while he worked that day; excited, anxious. He replaced the flange bolts on a toilet with a spring in his step.

After work, he passed a public library. He parked and hustled inside, they were closing in 5 minutes.

He grabbed a seat at the computer tables and surfed to his fake page. She had accepted his friend request, even though he only had 35 friends. He would mention how he is very picky about who he connects with, hence the low number. She also responded to his message. She couldn’t believe it was him after all these years, and she couldn’t wait to catch up.

Checkmate.

“This won’t take long,” Jack insisted. Hester took the hint and stepped back out of Carmen’s bedroom into the hallway.

“Take all the time you need.”

“Thank you.” Jack waited until he heard her footsteps reach the kitchen. He shut the door, but didn’t seal it. He didn’t want to seem obvious.

He scanned the room. He knew exactly what he was looking for — where it would be — if it was there. He took a step towards the dresser with trepidation.

Hester adjusted her chair in the kitchen, the scrape on the linoleum froze Jack in his tracks. He didn’t want her to catch him doing what he was about to do. How could he honestly explain what he was searching for, its possible location divined through a child’s subconscious . He was only there to leave no stone unturned. Even a stone as ridiculous as this. There was no way it could be there. But the river, the necklace, her reaction!

Let’s get this over with.

He stared once again at the framed picture of Carmen and Laura. There was a small, cheaply made green jewelry box with three tiny drawers, one of them open. Jack touched it, closed it with his fingertips. There were a few trinkets from the Caribbean, a Dominican flag in a glass cup, a hairbrush and a small plastic sewing kit on a shelf. He glided his fingers along the comforter of her still-made bed. There was a thin layer of dust that had collected over the years. Jack swished his hands together, brushing it off.

On top of the dresser was a broken lamp, a few scattered CDs, and some dried up painting supplies. Jack crouched down on one knee and braced himself against the side of the dresser. It was old solid wood, not pressed board, with a hand carved pattern along the bottom that had small arches forming a point in the center. He examined its craftsmanship. Quit stalling.

He took a breath and reached his hand underneath. His fingertips pierced through a spongy substance that was probably an ancient collection of spider webs. He wasn’t squeamish and kept feeling around. Nothing. He kept one ear trained on Hester in the kitchen, any slight rustle and he’d have to abort the mission.

He flattened the side of his face against the floor and reached all the way under, swiping his hand back and forth like a windshield wiper across the entire nether region of the dresser. Empty.

He retracted his arm and leaned on the dresser for balance. He opened the top drawer and fished around through her delicates. He opened the middle — tossing the contents impatiently.

The bottom drawer wasn’t on its hinge correctly, something blocking it from closing completely. He bent down and reached inside when the bedroom door opened. Jack didn’t hear it.

It was the dog, Faucet. He licked Jack’s face, surprising him.