“If I’m lucky and you’re not.” I waved goodbye and used the green pen to write down his license plate number as he drove away.
I went back to my laptop and opened the reader file again. Time to figure out what Soul Identity was up to.
Dad came over. “I looked on the Web,” he said, “and these guys have published nothing. There are a few sites out there referring to Soul Identity, but I don’t think they’re related, because they don’t mention anything about readers. No news articles, either. I’m going back to the public records.”
“I grabbed Bob’s license plate, if you want to try that.” I handed him the number.
“Did that already. Those plates are registered to SI Holding Corporation. And the only thing on them is a post office box in
Baltimore
.”
“If they wish to hide, why are we looking for them?” Mom asked.
We both looked at her as if she was crazy. “Because we can,” Dad said. “Besides, we have an hour before the bridge traffic lets up.”
Mom shook her head. “You boys keep playing detective. I’m going to download my pictures and read my email.”
“Pictures…that reader must be encoding pictures,” Dad said.
I nodded. “That would be the binary chunks—pictures of each eye.” I extracted the data and saved it as a file on my desktop. Then I opened a photo editor and dragged the file into it. “Let’s see what it contains.”
A window reading “Enter password to view images” popped up on my screen.
Dad looked over my shoulder. “What’s the password?”
I thought about this. If the reader collected eye images, either each reader had a built-in password, or the information in the attached file generated the password. Maybe it was both: the file contained the reader information. “I’m guessing it’s the reader serial number,” I said.
“Wouldn’t that be too primitive?”
“Many primitive people walk among us. We call them customers. Let’s try.” I typed the reader serial number into the password box and pressed OK.
Two bluefish eyes filled the screen. “That was it,” I said.
“But we still don’t know why,” Dad said.
After my parents left, I thought about how big and diverse our world must be to include people who make devices that capture eye images.
A person’s irises are as unique as his fingerprints. From a distance the iris looks brown or black or blue, but up close it contains many distinct shapes and colors. These change as you grow, but once you become an adult, they settle down and remain the same.
A couple of companies made iris scanners, but few security systems relied on them. It used to be that anybody could fool their scanners by wearing contact lenses with iris images printed on them. To counter this, the scanners grew in sophistication; they now shine a light into the eye to verify that the iris moves as the pupil contracts. This takes time to check, and as that time increases, the usefulness of the scanners decreases.
I figured that Soul Identity was collecting lots of eye images; otherwise they wouldn’t have their own reader. And if they were using the system because they needed my identity, Bob would have hung around to ensure I used my own eyes. He didn’t stay, so they were assuming it was in my interest to be accurate. They also read both eyes, even though a single iris image provides more than enough unique data points for identification.
I looked at the letter: Use the enclosed reader to obtain your soul identity. These guys were assuming that people wanted to have their eyes photographed, but I couldn’t figure out why. The whole thing was a bit creepy, and I decided I didn’t want them as a client.
Maybe it was tied to the airport. Bob did have a picture of me from this morning on his handheld. I wondered how Soul Identity had access to that kind of data. And the pen saying the firm was established in 1732: what was that all about?
I filed away the images. I’d worry about this only if Soul Identity called back.
Eight days later I
sat on my dock with my coffee and enjoyed a Monday morning on the bay. The rising sun lit up the western shore in yellows and pinks. An osprey searched for his breakfast; he plummeted into the water and took off with a large fish gripped in his claws. The fish wiggled and struggled and eventually broke free, but the osprey dove down and snagged him in midair.
Maybe the osprey had caught the same bluefish we photographed with the Soul Identity reader. Probably not, but I get a kick out of searching for surprise connections. It’s part of my job, I guess.
I had better chances of winning the lottery every day for one week straight than I did of seeing an osprey scoop up the same bluefish. Still, I strained my eyes and hoped to spot a connection between me and the fish in the osprey’s claws. Maybe I could coax the osprey to drop the fish onto my dock, where I could verify its identity.
I shook my head. Soul Identity, although they had not called back, had wiggled their way into my morning coffee philosophy. Just like they had been doing all last week.
I walked back to the house, ready to begin work. I still owed Jane Watson her airport security report.
I waved to my neighbor as I opened my door. I secretly called him Santa because of his white beard and round belly.
Santa looked up from his plants and waved back. “Morning, Scott.”
“Morning.” Two years since he moved in, and I didn’t remember his name. I thought for the hundredth time that I should find it out before I embarrassed myself.
I sat behind my desk and pulled out the unfinished airport security report. I glanced out the window and watched a green van pull into Santa’s driveway. It looked like the SI Delivery van, but the bushes in Santa’s front yard obscured my view. Then I saw Bob the delivery guy walk over and speak to Santa. They both went into Santa’s house.
Interesting. Was Soul Identity running reference checks on me? Was Santa telling them if I was naughty or nice? The connection-seeking portion of my brain shifted into overdrive.
I wanted to head over and ask, but first I needed Santa’s real name. Maybe public records could help. The Maryland State Department of Assessments and Taxation had an online form. I entered the county, street number, and street name. Bingo: Santa bought his house two years ago, was up to date on his taxes, and did his official business under the name Arthur Berringer.
I saw nothing about a Mrs. Claus or any little elves. The name Arthur didn’t ring any bells. I probably had forgotten it, but just to double check, I searched for Arthur Berringer images on the Web. I located an unflattering, but a bit better groomed, photo of Santa boozing it up with his buddies at the Atlantic City Electric Wheelchair Manufacturers convention a few years before. I had found Santa.
I gave up on the airport report. Figuring out what Santa and Bob were cooking up was more interesting than documenting the security holes at the airport. I walked across the lawn and over to my neighbor’s house.
Before I could knock on the door, it flew open, and Bob burst out. He ran full tilt toward his van. My neighbor chased after him and waved a shotgun in the air. Santa had been replaced by an old man with a wild fire in his eyes.
“You’re a cheat!” Santa fired a blast into the air. Bits of leaves and branches showered us.
Bob backed out of the driveway. He knocked over my mailbox, swerved at the last minute to avoid the drainage ditch, and scuffed up the corner of my lawn. A cloud of dust and junk mail drifted in his wake.
“You all right?” I asked. If Santa wanted to shoot at me, I’d have to start running before he reloaded. Once I read that when you’re fleeing from somebody with a gun, you’re supposed to zigzag. I could get in maybe three zigs before reaching my door.
I watched the wild look fade from his eyes. “Come on inside, Scott,” he said. “Have some coffee with me.”
Why not? I followed my neighbor into his house for my very first visit and looked around. Two dusty electric wheelchairs sat parked along the living room walls where a couch and chair normally would have been.
Santa put the shotgun on the dining room table and wiped his sleeve over the wheelchair seats. “Have a seat—I’ll be right back.”
I noticed the pictures framed on the wall. One of them was the same
Atlantic City
photo I had seen on the Web. The other pictures showed more wheelchair conventions. I saw a red-haired Santa, a salt-and-pepper Santa, and an all-white Santa that looked pretty recent.
He returned in a minute holding two steaming mugs. “I added cream and sugar. That all right?”
I took a sip. “Thanks, Arthur. It’s perfect.”
He froze and stared at me. The wild look crept back into his eyes, and I realized I had made a mistake. He set his mug down on the seat of a wheelchair and took a step closer to me. “What did you just call me?” His eyes flickered to the shotgun.
Uh oh. Santa must not like being called Arthur. Or his name wasn’t Arthur. Maybe he went by Art, or Artie. I calculated the odds; there was no way I could guess this one right.
“I called you Arthur. Isn’t your name Arthur Berringer?” I held my breath.
Santa took another step closer. He stood less than a foot away. He breathed hard and clenched and unclenched his fists. “Yes, it’s Arthur, but nobody except my mother ever called me that.” He looked out the window and then back at me. “You’re with them, aren’t you?”
I got up and wondered if I would be able to defend myself with the coffee mug. We stood eye to eye with our noses almost touching. “No, I’m not with Soul Identity.” I bit my tongue. Damn, now why did I have to say the name of the company? Santa’s eyes flicked back to the dining room table. “Just give me a second to explain—that guy Bob stopped by to see me last week, and I thought he had come to ask you about me.”
“And why would he be asking me about you?” His voice came out in a growl.
“They wanted me to do some security work for them, and I thought they were running a reference check. I wanted to find out what they were asking you, but I had forgotten your name.”
Santa stared at me.
“So I searched the Web, and found you in the tax records. That’s where I saw your name was Arthur Berringer.”
We stood there, face to face, for what seemed like forever. Probably it felt a lot longer to me than it did to him. I listened to a jet ski go by outside, and wondered if anybody had heard the earlier shot blast and called the police.
Finally Santa spoke. “You forgot my name? Jeez, Scott, I’ve been your neighbor for two years now.”
“I know,” I said. “I’m so stupid sometimes. I wanted to ask you, but the longer I waited, the harder it became.”
The wild look receded. “Hell, we’re neighbors.” He smiled and stuck out his hand. “Let’s start over. Everybody calls me
Berry
.”
I shook his hand and looked him in the eye. I figured I might as well confess all. “And I’ve been calling you Santa behind your back.”
Berry
laughed and slapped me on the shoulder. “You and the rest of the world.” He picked up his mug and sat down on the other wheelchair. “Sit down and tell Santa what you want.”
Whew. I told him about Bob’s visit the previous Sunday. “They sent me a reader in the mail, but I sent them the eyes of a bluefish.”
Berry
raised his eyebrows. “You’re just gonna give it all away?”
I smiled, not sure what he meant. “I’m giving nothing away,
Berry
. They asked me for my soul identity, and I didn’t want them to have it. Why would they want my eyes, anyway?”
“You really don’t know, do you?”
I shook my head. “I thought they were crackpots.”
Berry
shook his head. “They’re not crackpots. They’re for real. I believe it.” His eyes filled with tears, and his voice cracked. “And that bastard told me no.”
I separate how I handle people’s tears into four buckets. The first contains tears from those caught doing something bad or stupid. I wait until the histrionics end and offer them a tissue as they sort out what their next step will be. The second bucket’s tears come after I say something insensitive and hurtful. I apologize to these people for being such a blockhead. The third’s tears come on their own from those who cry at weddings and at the end of mushy movies. It works best when I act like I don’t notice these tears. Of course, joining in by dabbing my eyes and making sympathetic sounds can lead to happy endings on dates.
Berry
’s were filling up the fourth bucket—the one that holds tears from deep, heart-rending losses. Usually I just say, “I am so sorry,” and I sit with them and reflect on the good times before the loss. But I had no clue of what
Berry
might have lost.
I leaned forward on the wheelchair. “What happened?” I asked.
He wiped his eyes on the back of his hand and sat silent for a minute. “Do you believe in past lives?”
“Reincarnation?” I shook my head.
“Me neither, until a few weeks ago.” He blew his nose on a handkerchief. “In fact, for the last couple of years, I’ve wanted nothing except to hurry up and die and get it over with. Living out here has become so lonely for me.”
I had watched
Berry
putter around his yard many times from my office window. Until this morning, I couldn’t recall seeing anybody visit him.
“I moved here when I retired,” he said. He patted his armrest. “For forty-two years I sold these wheelchairs. I lived alone, but I was busy with work and my buddies. We did six conventions a year—see the pictures?” he asked as he pointed at the wall. “It was a good gig. But once I landed here I lost my way.”
I thought about how little I knew my neighbor. And how crappy that made me feel. “Do you have any family?” I asked.
“Nobody I talk to. My brother’s kids, but I haven’t seen them for more than a decade.” He sighed. “It wasn’t supposed to end like this. I planned to work until I keeled over, but then some bozo at the office cooked up a mandatory retirement age. And my buddy from work got married to our teenage receptionist and bolted to
Puerto Rico
. He died two months later. Too much stress on his heart, I guess. Lucky bastard.”
“So how does Soul Identity enter the picture?” I asked.
“They showed up right after I visited that palm reading place out on route fifty.” He counted on his fingers. “A little over three weeks ago.”
“That tiny cottage with the big hand outside?” I asked. It was just a few miles north and west of us, on the main route to
Ocean
City
. “Why’d you go there?”
“I know it sounds crazy, but I wanted to know how long before I kicked the bucket,” he said. “My life insurance agent claimed their actuarial tables showed nine years, but he didn’t know how much I’d been drinking. My doctor guessed four. I was looking for a third opinion.”
“Why’d you want to know?”
Berry
shrugged. “The shortest path, I guess. I have no kids, no friends, and busy neighbors. Just me and the bottle keeping each other company. I wanted out.”
I thought how lousy a neighbor I must be, how I had been unable to see through the Santa façade and into the agony that made up
Berry
’s lonely days. “Did the palm reader help?” I asked.
He nodded. “I spilled my guts to this little old lady. And she predicted that somebody would soon give my life a purpose.” He stared at me. “She was right, you know. The very next day a Soul Identity member came by the house and gave me a reason to live.”
So it seemed Soul Identity preyed on lonely people, selling false hopes of reincarnation and taking their money. I felt better about ignoring them—they weren’t the kind of customer I wanted.
I thought both of us could use some fresh air. “Can we take a walk as we talk?”
“Sure.”
Berry
carried our mugs into the kitchen and set them in the sink. He nodded at a box in the corner. “I started recycling three weeks ago. Everything’s different now.” He pointed to a folder on the countertop. “Those are their forms. Bob had come to pick them up, but then we had a little problem.”
I glanced at the shotgun on the dining room table. The problem seemed more than little.
Berry
helped me right my mailbox, and we collected the scattered junk mail. Then we headed north and walked along the road next to the shore. We could see the
Annapolis
capitol building and a swarm of sailboats over on the western side. Two container ships headed north toward the
Port
of
Baltimore
. The breeze filled our noses with the salty smell of the bay.
Berry
pointed to the
Chesapeake Bay
Bridge
four miles in front of us. The twin spans soared majestically over the bay and glittered in the morning light. “Have you ever thought about the changes that first bridge caused?” he asked.
I enjoyed having the bridge on the northern edge of my horizon, but I had given no thought to its impact. “No, not really.”