The Weird Insights of a Scobberlotcher

Twenty-nine Sounds Burnt Orange

I felt like a heartbroken freak. Spent the next few days drinking microwaved tea and staring out the window across the bay at America slowly smouldering. Could easily have turned into a bit of a hobby without that surprise phone call. I was going to completely ignore it at first. Then I changed my mind and checked the caller I.D. It was the name of a law firm. Right up there in the highly suspicious category with 800 numbers. Randall, Randall & Bajwan LLP. Let it go to answering and heard a bland female voice explain that her firm was holding a package for me from the estate of a Douglas Dexter. Kindly get in touch. Some kind of scam maybe? But her voice was as flat and featureless as a prairie drive in winter. So at least it sounded genuine.

I called back and got her directly. A Susan something. She explained that, yes, they had a package for me from the estate of the late Douglas Dexter. Douglas Dexter? Douglas Dexter? Who the hell is Douglas Dexter? And why would he leave me anything? She said she had no idea. Not her job. But they'd been holding it for awhile cause they'd had trouble tracking me down. Could I please come claim it so they could close the file? O.k., so couldn't she just mail it to me? Sorry, no, had to be in person with formal identification. Her voice was still mostly starchy white and flat on the phone but now more animated with tiny dents or wrinkles. The sound of a freshly laundered shirt. That clinched it. It just had to be legit. I decided I could use a change of scenery.

Took me maybe thirty minutes to walk uptown and climb the two flights to their office. The whole time I kept trying to remember. That name, that name, it was in there somewhere but I just couldn't get at it. Susan was right where she said she'd be, sitting at the front desk of Randall, Randall & Bajwan. And she was just as crisp, clipped and straight lipped as she'd sounded. No idle prattle from this one, which was a relief. Two pieces of i.d., some signatures, a decisive thump of a hand stamp and I was off with my eight by eleven manila envelope. My name across it in big, bold marker pen. Curiosity kept nibbling at me but I resisted the temptation to stop somewhere and open it till I got back home. When I did it was a bit of a shocker. It was a plea from the grave.