No Hope for Gomez! (7 page)

16.

Blog entry: Tried to hurry through the next day but time wouldn’t move along. Even though I kept busy.

In the afternoon a shady character entered the store and browsed around in the back, somewhere to the left. I knew for a fact there were no antiques back there because I went there to look for Hicks once, and all I found were boxes of administrative papers (which I’ve since asked Hicks to move to the storage room).

Blog entry: Decided to mosey-on-over and check this guy out – pretended to be searching for some old claims forms.

“Oh, hello,” I said, spotting the guy in a dark corner. “Didn’t see you there. Find anything to your liking?”

The guy turned with a start and crumpled a piece of paper away into one of his pockets. “What?” he said. “Oh, yes. Yes indeed.” His eyes flitted about. “I was just admiring your… eh… boxes of 1987 import tax declaration rejections.”

“Were you now?”

He nodded excitedly. “Very much so. I would like to… eh… purchase them. If they are complete and in mint condition, of course. May I examine them closer?”

“You want to buy my administration?”

“Maybe, maybe.”

I shrugged. “Didn’t know there was much of a market for import tax declaration thingies.”

“Oh, there isn’t,” the guy said. “Not in general. But these are quite old, you see. And import tax rules changed significantly in February of 1988, making mint condition declaration rejections from 1987 instantly desirable.”

“I see.”

“Yes, especially the addition of… eh… article 17, subsection D of Volume 2 of the Revenue and Customs Integrated Tariff. It sealed in the value of 1987 rejections, as you can imagine.”

“Most definitely.” I glanced at the boxes he was now hovering over.

“See here,” he said, taking the top sheet from the nearest box. “See how this faded blue line runs along the left side of the form, but not the right?”

“Yes, now you mention it. Is that significant?”

“Probably not, no.” He shook his head. “Can’t imagine why it would be. Just something I noticed.” He put the sheet back. “But this!” he said, taking a sheet from another box, “this is!” He studied the yellowed piece of paper carefully. “Most interesting,” he mumbled. “Most interesting indeed.”

I wasn’t sure what to make of the guy. He was weird, definitely, but seemed to know his stuff. “So,” I said, “you’re a collector of old tax forms then?”

“A collector of old tax forms?” He mulled this over. “No,” he said at last. “I think that would be too broad a term.” He shook his head. “My interest in forms is entirely limited to 1987 import tax declaration rejections, as I seem to remember stating earlier.” 

“Ah. But what about 1986 rejections? Surely they’re even
more
desirable?”

He scrunched up his nose as if he’d been exposed to a particularly offensive smell. “1986?” he cringed. “1986? I can’t stand forms from 1986! Nor can my fellow 1987 import tax declaration rejections aficionados.” He shot me a stern look. “I’m afraid you won’t find much interest for your so called 1986 forms around these parts!”

“Okay, okay. Never mind. I was just asking.”

The guy waved it away without looking up from the form. I returned to the counter, leaving him to browsing my parents’ declaration on his own.

Blog entry: Booted my laptop. Checked Joseph Miller’s meatpacking blog. Wanted to know if any new entries had mysteriously appeared. None had. Called Detective Norton again and left a message asking him to check out the bruise found on Joseph’s neck. Was just about to start on a blog entry for my trial blog when the tax guy returned from the back. He carried two old forms. “I would like to procure these,” he said. “Perhaps in some kind of monetary transaction? They are… eh… to my liking.”

“No problem,” I said. We haggled a bit over the price, he paid up, then, as he turned to go, I said, “By the way, I know that moustache is fake.”

“What?” He pressed down on his giant fake moustache. “This? It’s not what you think,” he mumbled, “it’s… eh… medicinal.” He hurried to the door. As he opened it, he said, “I have a prescription!” And with that he was gone.

Blog entry: Hicks returned from the front where he’d been washing the inside of the windows. “What was that all about?” he asked.

“Guy with a fake moustache wanted to buy my administration,” I said. “Apparently some of the forms are quite valuable.”

Hicks shook his head. “That guy was a weirdo,” he said. “A major freak.”

I shrugged. “He was pretty weird, yeah.”

“What do you suppose was wrong with him?”

“No idea.”

“Must be something with his brain,” Hicks decided. “Maybe he had an accident or something. Got his head knocked around a bit…”

“Could be.”

We talked for another two seconds, ran out of things to say, so I asked him to wash the windows from the outside. He turned white, muttered something about having left his broom on, and disappeared to the back.

Blog entry: Went home. Created a new disguise. Went straight to Dr. Hargrove’s to hide in her bushes.

Apparently I’d arrived early, because Dr. Hargrove wasn’t home yet. I considered that fortunate; I’d get to do some pre-stalker-stalking. I wasn’t entirely sure what that meant, but had a feeling it was a good thing. I could observe Dr. Hargrove’s place before she got home. Who knew what I might discover?

Blog entry: Waited three hours. Discovered nothing.

Blog entry: Waited two more hours. Nothing still.

Blog entry: After another hour, Dr. Hargrove came home, looking tired and drained. Her hair was no longer pulled back neat and tight, and her lab coat looked ruffled under her open jacket. It had obviously been a trying day. It suddenly occurred to me that I never once considered how demanding the drug trial was on her. I just went in for my sessions every three to four days, enjoying my time with her. She, on the other hand, had to interview hundreds of test subjects a week, asking the same questions over and over again, then had to spend the remainder of her time cataloging the responses and charting out progress. Not to mention the other doctory duties she probably had to perform.

She was an amazing woman, without question.

I moved around the side of the house, through the bushes, following her as she went from room to room to close the blinds.

It couldn’t be easy, working so hard and then feeling watched when you got home.

I vowed to take my stalker-stalker task seriously. I wasn’t just going to win her heart; if this stalker existed, I was going to find him and bring him down!

Blog entry: Waited another hour for her to turn the lights out. Waited another hour to make sure nothing strange happened. Nothing did. Returned home none the wiser.

Either Dr. Hargrove was imagining her stalker or I was extremely unlucky. The latter wouldn’t surprise me. I’d noticed this before; things often tended to go the opposite of ‘my way’ (away from me?)

Blog entry: Had a shower. Went to bed. Read one page of Warren’s new manuscript and passed out.

17.

Blog note: Gravity has a slightly stronger hold on me than it does on other people. I’m sure of it. It pulls on me a little harder during the day, and really tugs away at me first thing in the morning. It’s freaky.

     I watched a motivational speaker on YouTube who mentioned that many people believe they consistently experience disadvantages. They’re convinced it’s harder for them to succeed than it is for others. He went on to explain that this kind of negative thinking is used as an excuse for not achieving goals.

I realized he was right. About most people. They’re sissies for complaining when they don’t even have the extra gravity to deal with. They aren’t cursed with this curious streak of bad luck that I apparently attracted at birth. Most people definitely use negative thinking as an excuse, but not me. I’m merely facing reality here. After all, the better I understand my peculiar situation, the better I can anticipate and evade my problems.

I’ll have to seriously examine and quantify my bad luck, though, if I want to start doing better at life.

Time for an experiment!

Blog entry: Dug up a die and threw it 72 times. Aimed to get as high a total as possible. Tallied the throws knowing I should end up with a number close to 252 (on average the throws should distribute evenly over all six faces, hitting each face about twelve times). Instead of 252, though, I came up with 166. A much lower number, which made my average throw just over 2, instead of the expected 3.5.

I was clearly beating the odds, in a bad way.

I couldn’t believe I hadn’t tried this before.

Blog entry: Wasn’t done yet. Wanted to perform a double blind test in order to negate any innate abilities I had for throwing low numbers (which could be considered a kind of luck if used right). Repeated the experiment with a new die, and this time aimed for a minimum total. Threw another 72 times and tallied again. Should end up with a number close to 252 (on average the throws should distribute evenly over all six faces, hitting each face about twelve times). A total of 72 would be the lowest possible number and thus the number to aim for.
I didn’t get 72. I didn’t expect to, that would’ve been statistically improbable. But I didn’t get 166 or 252 either. What I got, in fact, was 365! My new average throw had increased to 4.9!

There was no more doubt, I’d just proven my point: No Hope for Gomez!

Instead of feeling triumphant, I felt worried. Scared. It was exceedingly spooky to have actual proof staring me in the face. It was like suddenly getting a glimpse of a giant invisible hand turning the world. You were not supposed to see those kinds of things. You were not supposed to notice the machinery at work!

Quickly pocketed the dice and hurried to work. For some reason, I didn’t feel like being alone.

Blog entry: Arrived at the store early. Waited for Hicks to show. We opened the store together.

Blog entry: Slow day. Sold nothing. Browsed the net trying to take my mind off my eerie bad luck. I stumbled onto a site selling infrared cameras and binoculars. They were extremely cool, but expensive. Decided not to buy anything just yet. I did bookmark the page; I could return if it turned out infrared equipment was necessary for my stalker-stalker duties.

Blog entry: At the end of the day I called Detective Norton again. No answer. I was starting to get worried. Was he angry? Busy? Had something happened to him? I left another message asking him to contact me regarding the coroner’s report on Joseph Miller.

Blog entry: Visited the clinic. After taking my pills and answering Dr. Hargrove’s questions, I asked her if the experimental drugs could be affecting my natural levels good luck. She laughed and told me it was always a pleasure to see me. Which was not the answer I was looking for but was a nicer answer than I’d hoped for. Then I asked her if she thought the drugs might be interfering with gravity in a highly localized manner.

Dr. Hargrove’s laugh was cute and genuine. It didn’t offend me in the least. I laughed along as if I’d intended to be funny, then stopped as she quickly turned serious again.

“Have you given any more thought to that thing we discussed the other day?” she asked.

“I have,” I said. “Didn’t you notice?”

Dr. Hargrove shook her head.

“I’ve been stalking you for days.”

“Really?” She seemed relieved. “You have? That’s great, thank you so much, Gomez!”

“You didn’t think I’d forgotten, did you?”

“No,” she said, “but sometimes people say they’ll do something and they intend to, at that moment, but then when it’s time to actually do it, they don’t.”

“I’m not one of those people,” I told her. I chanced putting my hand across the desk to touch hers, lightly. I made sure to smile reassuringly and not to let my hand linger. It was a difficult move which I’d seen in movies, but which I wasn’t sure I could pull off. Lingering even half a second too long would make me seem creepy.

“It’s amazing,” Dr. Hargrove said, not giving any sign she’d noticed my delicately timed hand movement. “I never saw you, Gomez, not once. Well done!”

I shrugged modestly.

“You must be very good at it.”

I decided to take that as a compliment, and not an indication that she thought I was good at creeping around people’s backyards, at night, unseen.

“Thank you,” I said. “It was my pleasure, really.”

“So…”

“So?”

“So, did you see anybody? Did you catch my stalker?”  

I toyed with the idea of lying to her, telling her I had, or that I’d spotted some sinister behavior on her street, but I decided against it. She deserved better. Also, I couldn’t risk this blowing up in my face later.

“Not yet,” I said, “but don’t worry. I have a feeling I’m getting close. It probably won’t be much longer.”

She dropped her shoulders but nodded that she understood.

“Hey,” I said, trying to sound optimistic. “At least you don’t have to worry anymore. Now, when you feel watched, you’ll know it’s me.” I thought about that for a second, then added, “I mean, you’ll know you’re safe with me looking out for you.”

Blog entry: Dr. Hargrove thanked me for my efforts once again. I waved it away. Then it was time for her next appointment.

Blog entry: On my way home it occurred to me that bad luck is nothing more than the opposite happening of what you want to have happen. Which is a pretty useless observation unless you happen to suffer from constant, raging bad luck. Then it becomes a matter of proper timing and preparation.

Theoretically, I should be able to turn my luck around. Become the luckiest man on the planet simply by identifying situations in which I was bound to be unlucky, then pretending to want the opposite.

Another experiment was called for.

Blog entry: Arrived home. Sat at the kitchen table. Took out the die.

In 72 turns, I tried to throw low numbers while pretending to really want high numbers. Tallied the throws, calculated the averages, then lost sight of whether the total should be high, pretend high, low, or pretend low.

Blog entry: Went to bed early. Had a slight headache.