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CLOCKWORK
I had a knack for fixing things. Trinkets, houses, and buildings, anything that needed fixing in my miniscule town. It wasn't very ambitious, but at least my parents approved. It made me a modest amount of money that kept me ahead of my bills, but to me it was more than just a way to make a living. Tinkering, making something better with a few twists of my wrench, gave me a satisfaction incomparable to anything else.
Like all young people, I got bored of having it good. My life was broken sink after leaky toilet, and the monotony of it turned my thoughts outward, toward bigger rewards, and the hidden risks that accompanied them.
One Friday in April, 7 years ago, as I dragged myself home, ready for the weekend, something in the mail caught my eye. There was a letter resting on top of the pile, crisp and white. Written on it in looping calligraphy, my name and address.
I raised an eyebrow.
Nobody I knew sent letters anymore, and any family Christmas cards were long overdue. I opened it, and the letter inside perplexed and excited me.
he check was inside, just as the letter said it would be.
"It must be a scam," I muttered to myself, but the words tasted bitter in my mouth. Suddenly, the idea of living off a tiny salary for the rest of my days didn't sound so inviting. Just with five thousand I could do so much: take a vacation to the Caribbean, adopt a dog, maybe buy myself that nice massage chair I had been pining after. With the full amount that was promised to me, the possibilities were endless.
So I packed a change of clothes and headed to the airport to the town of Mentona, following the trail of money like a starved fool.
The first thing I noticed upon arriving was the forcefully cheery atmosphere. The buildings were trim and well kept, plastered with lively child-like paintings on the sides. The people were much the same, overly polite and maintaining constant smiles on their faces.
With the overly enthusiastic help of a few shopkeepers, I headed over to the town hall. There, I was lead to a waiting room, where I sat watching a janitor whistle to himself as he watered a plastic fern.
At last, a stout man with balding grey hair opened an office door and ushered me in. "Welcome to my lovely home town, Mentona." He grinned. "My name is Edward, the mayor. I am so pleased you decided to visit here in pursuit of fixing the clock tower." I nodded impatiently, eager to get to the payment options. "How and when will I...be paid?" I attempted to slide in nonchalantly. Edward's eyebrows raised and he chuckled. "Oh course! If you manage to get the clock running again, you will receive another five grand, as stated in my letter."
My heart soared. In the back of my mind, I felt a tiny pinch of suspicion tug at me- ten grand, for a clock tower? But my call to riches overpowered it.
