The Assistants(4)

What if this was that mysterious way?

And didn’t I “secret” this exact type of scenario when I read that self-help book The Secret? Twenty thousand dollars, I remember saying to the universe. That’s all I need. It’s not that much money, but for me it would be a life-changer. Nineteen thousand, one hundred forty-seven dollars was pretty damn close to twenty thousand dollars, and only a fool would refuse an accurately answered prayer from the universe.

Before long, I found myself becoming absentminded. I would catch myself leaving the house without shoes on or forgetting where I put my keys. I was this close to brushing my teeth with hemorrhoid cream when I realized what was going on. I was in love. I’d fallen in love with the idea of not having student-loan debt, and all the swooning and fantasizing that accompanied love was making me scatterbrained.

While drinking a cup of coffee or riding the L train, I’d slip into daydreams about how my life would change for the better if I let myself keep the reimbursement money. I could have savings, I thought. I could start hoarding my money in one of those things they call a savings account. All at once I would become less anxious and more generous. Maybe I’d get a dog—one of those adorable new mixed breeds, like a Cheagle. Maybe I’d start going to the gym with all the extra time I’d have not debating between eating the slightly off leftover burrito in the fridge and splurging on some groceries from C-Town; between getting the cavity in my molar filled and having that funky paramecium-shaped mole on my back looked at. And, sure, I could get one more wear out of this pair of socks before I go to the Laundromat. And look at this sheath of aluminum foil, it’s still good as new, I’ll just give it a little rinse. No. No more of that. Instead, I could be living the good life of enjoying dire necessities and bountiful comforts. I could pay my phone bill and go to the movies on the same day.

The next thing I knew, I’d come to in Canarsie.

This is the last stop on this train. Everyone please leave the train.

Something had to happen. I had to rip up that damn check!

Okay, fine, I told myself. I’ll do it.

Back in the safety of my bedroom now, blinds drawn, check in hand, I was poised to end this thing once and for all. But maybe I would just, you know, take a picture of the check first. Not a selfie or anything, just a snapshot. And not the kind that disappears thirty seconds after you take it, or whatever—just an old-fashioned photograph, to remember the check by.

And then I remembered that app on my phone, the one where all you have to do is click a photo of a check and—poof—it’s deposited into your bank account.

Damn you, technology.

Technology made it so easy to deposit that check, I could have done it by accident.

It wasn’t an accident—but it could have been.

First I had to open the magical check-depositing app and log on with my username and password. Then I had to snap a picture of the check’s front and the check’s back. Make sure the entire check is inside the box and touch the camera icon when you are ready.

Was I ready?

No, but the novelty of this process was so fascinating that I continued on anyway. Depositing a check with my phone? Who knew I’d ever see the day? It was just unreal enough to feel imaginary.

It wasn’t an accident when I logged on to my student-loan account either. But that was the cunning whimsy of technology at work, too, because if I actually had to leave my house at any point—or even just sit down at my desk and write out a physical check, and stuff that check into an envelope, and walk that envelope to the mailbox to mail it—I don’t think I could have done it. But quietly typing alone in my dark bedroom felt so innocuous, so anonymous, and even potentially undoable. There’s something devastatingly permanent about dropping a letter into a public mailbox, isn’t there? The way the envelope is in your grasp one minute, and then it’s gone, followed by that heavy metal lash of the door. You open the door again just to make sure, as if in the history of all letters there was ever one that didn’t make it down. And then there’s that split second of panic. Did I remember the stamp? The return address? It’s too late now.

But just clicking Send? There would always be Cancel. Edit/Undo.

I stared at the words on my computer screen—Pay in Full—for a long time before making the decision. Earlier in the day, Robert had had an argument with his wife about whether the peppers growing in their garden were jalape?os or habaneros. He turned out to be wrong, so he had me run out to buy her the diamond bracelet she’d had her eye on from Tiffany. Total cost: $8,900.

So $19,147 was roughly only two lost arguments to Robert.

And it wasn’t even his money, was the thing. It was the Titan Corporation’s money, and Titan had billions—literally billions and zillions of dollars. Could anyone really blame me for not giving this minuscule-to-them-yet-life-changing-for-me amount of money back to the Titan Corporation?

It had already been three weeks since the reimbursement check was issued to me, and nobody had missed it. Nobody had missed it! Meanwhile, I could have fostered a family of Cambodian children for what I was paying in interest alone on my student-loan debt each month.

One click. Pay in Full. That was it, that was all it took, and it was done. I was free.





2




DAYS OF anxiety-induced nausea, accompanied by acute acid reflux, passed. Every time Robert called me into his office an angel somewhere would lose its wings and I would throw up a little bit in my mouth. I thought I would feel a great sense of relief once I deposited the check and paid off my loan—and there was an initial rush—but then, instead of relief, what followed was more worry. Except it wasn’t the low-level, all-pervading, quiet hum of money-related worry I was accustomed to. This was more concentrated and pointed, like an in-your-face cystic pimple. Instead of Shoot, rent’s due this week, is there enough in my account? or Fucking-a, Time Warner raised their rates again?, it was: I stole. Robert asking me when his peak-lapel tuxedo would be back from the cleaners? I stole. Robert asking me to research the political donations made by his three o’clock appointment? I have no morals. Robert just back from Georgia, dropping a bag of peaches onto my desk because he knew how much I loved them? I could take my own life.