Interesting
Times
Matthew Storm
Copyright © 2013 Cranberry Lane Press
Follow Matthew on Twitter: @mjstorm
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
All rights reserved.
Cover by Erin Lark
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“May you live in interesting times.”
-- Chinese proverb
Chapter 1
Oliver Jones was 32 years old, single, and had always presumed that he lived one of the world’s duller lives. He lived alone in a small house he rented in the quiet Sunset district of San Francisco. The house itself was an old Victorian that dated back to the 1960’s and was completely unremarkable, even among the unremarkable row houses that were characteristic of this part of the city. He liked the neighborhood well enough, but it was never going to be on the front of a postcard.
Oliver worked as a financial analyst at Western Pacific Capital, a small, unremarkable hedge fund headquartered in the center of the city’s financial district. Every weekday morning at exactly 7:04 a.m. he boarded the L train for the 45-minute ride to work. He usually spent the commute reading the newspaper or looking over spreadsheets he’d taken home the night before in order to get an early start on work, but that was mainly an excuse to avoid making eye contact with or speaking to other passengers. He didn’t think of himself as being particularly anti-social, but San Francisco was a big city full of, as his mother had once warned him, colorful characters. Most people were harmless enough, but there were always the exceptions. One moment you were agreeing with someone that, yes, it did seem unusually foggy that morning, and the next you were realizing that particular comment hadn’t been aimed at you at all, but rather to the invisible anthropomorphic rabbit sitting next to you. Oliver had decided some time ago that it was best to simply not bother in the first place. There were better places to meet people.
Oliver’s job was in corporate research, which meant that he tried to get a fix on the financial health of different businesses. He did this by sifting through SEC filings, 10-K reports, earnings statements, and any other piece of paperwork a company might produce for the public to see. It was tedious work that he didn’t particularly care for, but that he was generally acknowledged to be very good at. When he finished his analysis he would recommend to the firm’s traders that they either buy, sell, or hold that particular company’s stock. They were the ones who had the joy of actually doing something with the information he provided, while he moved on to his next analysis. Oliver was just a bit jealous of the traders, feeling that their jobs must be much more exciting than his own. If he’d had a few cocktails with people that didn’t know any better, Oliver might imply that he himself was a trader, because he liked the idea that he did something more interesting at work than study spreadsheet columns all day. In fact, he did not.
After work Oliver would typically ride the train home, microwave something for dinner, and spend a few hours watching television. He didn’t have many friends in the city so he spent most nights like this, alone. Weekends were not much different. More often than not he would go to the office for a few hours on Saturdays to get a jump on the next week’s work. It was not so much out of necessity, but because he really had nothing else to do.
All in all, he thought, it was a dull life. He didn’t mind all that much, but on occasion he would find himself wishing for more. A little excitement. Adventure. Nothing crazy, though. He didn’t fancy exotic vacations in South America or solo climbing up the side of a mountain with nothing but strong fingers and a bag of powdered chalk standing between him and a fall to his death. He just wanted a little something to get his adrenaline going.
Lately he had been thinking about getting a cat.
He already had a cat, in one sense. A stray tom had climbed onto his rear windowsill several months before, when Oliver had been keeping his back window open in a futile attempt to keep his house cool in the summer heat. Like most people in this part of the city, Oliver did not have central air conditioning. The cat had noticed Oliver eating and had meowed hopefully at him, and after a moment’s consideration Oliver placed a piece of “grilled” teriyaki chicken from his microwave dinner onto the windowsill. The cat had downed the food enthusiastically and been a regular visitor ever since. Oliver wouldn’t necessarily call him a pet, though. While he would permit some scratching behind his ears, the one time Oliver had tried to pick the cat up he had been hissed at angrily. Oliver hadn’t tried again, although he had taken to calling the cat “Jeffrey” and found himself looking forward to his visits.
He was thinking about this while watching Jeffrey eat one evening. He had picked up take-out Chinese on his way home and was feeding the cat pieces of shrimp picked from his container of fried rice. The cat seemed to enjoy it much more than microwave food. Oliver wondered if he were to buy a litter box, would Jeffrey know how to use it? He had read somewhere that it was instinctive behavior with cats, once they knew where it was, but he wasn’t so sure. Would the cat even come inside? He had never shown any interest in coming any farther than the windowsill, and Oliver was hesitant to try to pick him up again.
“Things would be easier if you could talk,” he said to Jeffrey.
Oliver heard a strange sound in his ears, like rushing water coming up behind him. He felt suddenly dizzy, and the world seemed to begin to slide, spinning slowly around him, before equally suddenly snapping back into place.
Jeffrey glanced up at him, still chewing. “Nah, I doubt it,” the cat said.
Oliver froze in place, his eyes wide. He saw the cat’s own eyes widen in shock and his tiny mouth dropped open, little bits of shrimp tumbling down onto the windowsill.
“You…you talked!” Oliver stammered.
Jeffrey stared at Oliver. His head swung left and right as if trying to figure out where the new voice had come from, then he yowled in terror and darted away like a shot. Oliver watched as the cat easily scaled the wooden fence that surrounded his property, and then he was gone.
Oliver spent the better part of an hour puzzling over what had happened. The cat had talked, hadn’t it? He had heard it as plainly as…well, anything. But of course he knew better. The only rational explanation was that the cat hadn’t spoken at all. It could only have made one of the myriad sounds cats were capable of, and in his loneliness Oliver had hopefully imagined it was speech.
Or perhaps one of his neighbors had observed all of this through a gap in the fence, and also happened to be a skilled ventriloquist. Oliver would have had to admit that as unlikely as that scenario may have been, it made more sense than a cat speaking to him.
Oliver sighed deeply. If he were going to rank how pathetic this experience had been on a scale of one to ten, it probably came in at about a nine.
Preparing for bed later that night, Oliver wondered what he should do about it. Maybe getting a cat wasn’t such a great idea. He clearly needed to spend more time with people and less talking to animals. This was probably how it started with cat ladies, he thought. You start talking to one cat, then to another, and the next thing you know yo
u’re eighty years old, living with twenty feline roommates in a house that constantly smelled of cat urine. He didn’t want to end up that way.
Maybe he should take a class. He’d always liked cooking, even though he rarely did it anymore. A cooking class would be a good way to meet some people and also get him away from microwave dinners and take-out boxes. He could kill two birds with one stone.
That was definitely the way to go, he decided. There was a culinary school that held evening classes not terribly far from his office. He had seen their commercials on television. He could stop by there after work and see what they had to offer. He’d do it tomorrow.
And this time, he resolved, wasn’t going to be like all the other times he had planned to do something and then never followed up on it. It was time to make a change in his life, and he was definitely going to make it this time.
And if a cat ever spoke to him again, he’d make an appointment with his doctor and get his head looked at.
Chapter 2
The next week passed without any further incidents. Jeffrey did not reappear at Oliver’s windowsill and no other animals or objects spoke to him. What had happened with the cat seemed like a dream now. No doubt he had imagined the whole thing, and his startled reaction to that strange fantasy had scared the poor animal away. Oliver resolved to give the cat something special to eat if he ever returned. He recalled that Jeffrey had seemed to particularly enjoy the Thai food Oliver had brought home a few weeks before. Maybe he should order some and put a plate out on the windowsill where Jeffrey might smell it and come calling. Oliver had found he missed the little cat.
On a foggy Thursday morning a few days later Oliver found himself on a half-empty train on the way to his office. He had just remembered, for the tenth or eleventh time, that he had been meaning to sign up for a cooking class. He’d have to look into that tonight. Or maybe tomorrow. Yes, he’d definitely have time tomorrow.
The train stopped at 16th Avenue and three people boarded. One of them stood out from the usual crowd of morning commuters. He was a tall, lanky man with bleached-blond hair, but what made him unique was his brightly colored Hawaiian shirt. Oliver was surprised. That shirt probably would have been considered a little over the top even in Waikiki, but in San Francisco it just looked ridiculous.
The man took a standing position a few feet away from Oliver as the train doors slid shut and the train began to move again. Oliver wondered if the man was a surfer. He looked like a surfer. Maybe he ought to take surfing lessons, Oliver thought. There were a few surf shops in the Sunset down near the beach. There must be a place there he could take lessons. He’d have to look into it. That and the cooking class. Tomorrow.
The train continued on as Oliver read his newspaper. There was trouble in the Middle East again. Had there ever not been trouble in the Middle East? In all of human history? He wasn’t sure.
Oliver felt a tingling sensation on the back of his neck. Someone was watching him. He looked up quickly but the man in the Hawaiian shirt was reading something on his smartphone and nobody else was nearby. The man in the Hawaiian shirt glanced up to meet Oliver’s gaze. “Nice day today,” he said politely.
“Sure,” said Oliver, going back to his newspaper.
“Going to be hot,” the man said. Oliver nodded without thinking about it. The train was moving into the tunnel at West Portal station and would be in the city soon.
The rest of the commute was uneventful. Oliver got off the train at the last stop and walked two blocks to his building, an elegant high-rise on California Street. He worked on the 47th floor of a 48-story building. He liked it up there. His own office at the firm was small, but it had a large window with an expansive view. He could see all the way across the bay to Oakland and beyond.
Oliver spent his morning combing through a small tech company’s annual 10-K report. There would be an earnings conference call in the afternoon and he wanted to prepare a few questions in advance. Each analyst on the call would be permitted only one question, but Oliver liked to have a few backups handy, just in case someone else asked a question too similar to his first choice before he had the chance.
Just before noon Oliver walked half a block to a small Mexican restaurant. This place could draw quite a lunch crowd and he liked to get in early to avoid a long wait. He was third in the take-out line when the door swung open behind him and the man in the Hawaiian shirt stepped inside. Oliver nearly did a double-take. This guy again? It had to be. Unless he had a twin with a similar terrible fashion sense.
The man in the Hawaiian shirt moved to stand directly behind Oliver and looked at the menu board curiously. “Oh, you were on my train,” he said to Oliver. “Hello again.”
“Hello,” Oliver nodded.
“Good food here?” the man asked. “I’ve never been.”
“Sure,” said Oliver, feeling a bit confused. What were the odds of this? After some thought, he had to admit that the odds were pretty good, actually. San Francisco didn’t have a huge number of tourist destinations and several of the major ones were nearby. Union Square and the Ferry Building were within easy walking distance. The cable cars ran through this area, and Fisherman’s Wharf would only be a fifteen-minute ride away. The man in the Hawaiian shirt was obviously a tourist, given his attire. He was probably just out seeing the sights.
“I love Mexican food,” the man told him.
“Oh. Well, the burritos are good here,” said Oliver.
“Oh, yeah? Thanks, buddy,” the man smiled.
Oliver left the restaurant with a shrimp burrito in a small plastic bag. San Francisco had banned plastic bags from grocery stores some time ago, he remembered. Had that applied to restaurants as well? He wasn’t sure.
The fog hadn’t lifted and it was starting to get windy. Oliver wished he’d brought his jacket along. It had been overcast all day and now the sky was threatening to rain.
Hadn’t the man in the Hawaiian shirt said it was going to be hot, back on the train? Oliver frowned. It hadn’t occurred to him at the time, but rain had been in the forecast for several days. It hadn’t been hot in the city for weeks. What an odd thing to have said. Oliver pondered it for a moment. So the man had been wrong. Fair enough. He was a tourist and was probably unfamiliar with the weather here. But what a silly thing to be wrong about, especially when he had just been standing outside waiting for a train. Even once on board, all you had to do to check the weather was look through the window.
Back in his firm’s 47th floor lobby, Oliver noticed a visitor sitting in the waiting area. The man wore a black suit with a fierce-looking red tie and had a stern demeanor Oliver had seen in other men before. He was probably a process server, or some kind of federal inspector. Everything about him said “official business,” and probably unpleasant business at that. Someone at his firm was about to have a very bad day. He felt sorry for whoever that was.
Donna, the firm’s receptionist, was a cheerful redhead in her mid-forties. Oliver had never seen her without a smile, but now she was biting her bottom lip nervously. “Mr. Jones?” she asked, just as he was about to pass by.
Oliver frowned. Donna always called him by his first name. “What is it, Donna?”
She looked toward the waiting area. “There’s someone here to see…”
“Oliver Jones?” Oliver turned to see the man in the black suit had risen and was now standing directly in front of him, close enough the Oliver could feel the man’s cool breath on his face. He took a short step back as the man held up his identification. “Hilary Teasdale. Securities and Exchange Commission.”
“Hello,” Oliver said. He extended his hand, which Mr. Teasdale shook pleasantly. The other man’s skin was dry and smooth and felt oddly thin, like paper.
“A pleasure to meet you,” Mr. Teasdale said. “Do you have a moment to talk? I just have a few questions for you.”
“Sure,” Oliver said, trying to hide his surprise. What could this be about? Oliver had been with another firm several year
s ago when a group of SEC investigators had come calling. That visit had ended with two senior bankers being led away in handcuffs and the eventual collapse of that firm. But Oliver hadn’t done anything wrong, or even questionable, in his entire career. Not that he knew of, at least. His work may have been boring, but it was entirely honest. He looked at Donna questioningly. “Is there a conference room free?”
“Sausalito,” she said. All the firm’s conference rooms were named after cities in California. Sausalito was the smallest, tucked away in a corner. It was the least showy and hence wasn’t used all that often.
“Is it private?” Mr. Teasdale asked. Oliver glanced at him, his brow wrinkling in confusion. “That is, it would be best right now if nobody saw us talking,” continued Mr. Teasdale. “It might raise suspicions. Ah, questions, that is.”
“We can close the door,” Oliver said. “There aren’t any windows. Donna, I guess, hold my calls?” Oliver had never told anyone to hold his calls in his life. Did people still say that?
“Of course, Mr. Jones.” She watched the men as they started down the hall. Oliver knew that the moment they were out of earshot she’d be on the phone to one of the senior partners. Or quite possibly all of the senior partners. Mr. Teasdale’s questions weren’t the only ones he was going to be answering today
The conference room was only a short walk away. Nobody gave Oliver or his visitor a second look as they went down the hallway. It wasn’t unusual for Oliver to meet representatives of the firms he was researching in his office for personal interviews. “Do you work out of the San Francisco office?” Oliver asked Mr. Teasdale, although he wasn’t sure whether the SEC had a field office in the city.
“I work all over,” Mr. Teasdale replied.
“Will you be here long?”
“Oh, I don’t think this will take very long at all.”
Interesting Times (Interesting Times #1) Page 1