February 4, 1999
An old man sat in a Denny's in St. Joseph, Missouri, finishing his fourth cup of hot coffee as he slid his almost-empty plate of eggs away from him. He lit a cigarette and took a long drag, settling back a little in his chair. It was a good day, the sun shining, breezes blowing the heat away. He grinned a little too broadly as the waitress made her way to his table. She was a cutie-redhead, long legs, a ponytail. She must have been a college student.
"Can I get you some more coffee, sir?"
"Why that would be lovely, young lady. And the check, please." He checked his cheeks before draining the coffee cup; everything was perfect. The check and another cup of coffee appeared with the redhead, who smiled and said "Have a nice day." He would definitely do that.
The kid at the pay counter couldn't have been a day over 17. He grinned, flashing bad teeth that blended into his pimply complection. It's a wonder people can eat here, the old man thought. With trembling fingers he peeled a hundred dollar bill off a wad. "Sorry, son," he said in that same husky voice, "this is the smallest I have."
The boy smiled proudly. "No problem, sir," he said, no doubt beaming with his ability to make change.
Twenty, forty, sixty, eighty, ninety, five, six seven-the change came back smoothly, some of the bills a little wrinkled and worn, some crisp and perfect. The old man grinned cautiously as he slipped it into the pocket of his old suit jacket. "Thank you, son."
"You have a good day, sir." The boy beamed again. The old man couldn't help but smile back.
Once outside, the old man moved a little more swiftly as he got into a 1978 LeMans that used to be a deep brown but was now sort of the shade of a dead leaf. He gunned the engine and pulled quickly out of the parking lot, heading down Frederick to turn onto the Belt Highway. A roundabout trip later he pulled into the driveway of a small, nondescript house in the middle of town. The old man was no longer driving; instead, a man in his early thirties emerged wearing sweatpants and a fresh shave. He scooped a crumpled old suit and hat and a mass of hair from the passenger side of the bench seat and bundled them in a Sunday paper he had brought along just for this purpose.
Flynn Mathers unlocked his door and went inside with the bundle. It was a quiet day--no kids playing in nearby yards, no middle-aged men working on their lawns or women tending gardens. Quiet for a Saturday. Must be some sort of event in town; a rodeo or something, he thought.
The house appeared fairly uncluttered from the street. Flynn had some decent furniture, a small TV and a portable stereo, a couple of bookshelves--he looked like an ordinary college kid who graduated, got a job, and needed a woman in his life to spruce up the place. But that was the front room.
Flynn dropped the clothes and fake beard and wig on an ornate wooden chair next to the bedroom door, stopping long enough to remove the money from his jacket pocket and place it in a small lockbox. He flopped down on his King-sized Serta Perfect Sleeper. He liked the name; that was why he bought it, instead of a waterbed or something equally bell-and-whistly. Perfect Sleep was what Flynn had. He slept like a baby monkey in its mother's arms when darkness fell. He didn't need a job, and he certainly didn't need a woman around, decorating and fucking everything up. He had everything he needed right here, and everything was in its perfect place. Perfection was kind of a hobby for Flynn. Or more like an art form.
The day-glo stars attached to the ceiling couldn't lull him into a nap; he was too restless. Flynn got up, stars of a different kind in his eyes. "Time to go to work," he said to no one in particular.
He passed the living room with its assortment of antique furniture, ornate rugs and pillows and huge home entertainment system just long enough to admire it, then unlocked the door to the basement. He stood in darkness for a second as he fumbled for the lightswitch. Red bulbs burst into a light he followed down to his base of operations. A sturdy desk with a computer stood in one corner, an extra tower unit flanking it. Three monitors glowed dimly in the eerie light. In the other corner stood a high-capacity, top-quality copier, a fax machine, a laser printer and a stack of soft-weave green paper stock. It took Flynn forever to find this stuff; now he had boxes of it stacked from floor to ceiling in his extra bedroom. He bought cases wholesale. It was the perfect setup.
First, he clicked his space bar to remove the monitors' screen savers and reveal their contents: an image absolutely identical to a fifty-dollar bill on one screen, a hundred on the other. Then he fed sheets of the mossy green stock into the printer's sheet feeder and set his software, Flynnware, he called it, to print. A stack of perfect-looking fronts and backs, three to a page, emerged. Flynn smiled as he took them out of the tray and transferred them to the copier, set on duplex and loaded with a coarser grade of paper, the closest to federal standards made by man without having to raid a government printshop. He cradled the pages as they slipped into the sorter, savoring the heat of fresh copies, breathing in the fresh smell so close to actual money.
All that remained was the cutting. He loaded a couple of sheets into his paper cutter and sliced them off expertly. To the untrained eye, these were the genuine article. Even to the trained eye, they were near-perfect. He had passed them in banks and finance companies just to make sure. And, of course, there was the thrill of possibly getting caught. He thought about it sometimes: newspaper headlines, appearances on TV news magazines and later, when he was released from prison, talk shows. "The Man Who Fooled the World." Oh, it was tempting, but Flynn liked freedom, artistic freedom, more than thrill.
That was the reason for the disguises; he passed one hundred per meal three times a day, the cheapest meals he could find. He netted about three hundred dollars a day, tax free. A little over two thousand a week. Eighty-four hundred a month. A hundred thousand bucks a year, just on meals. The cash went to investments, mutual funds, the kind of stuff that's traceable but not suspicious. No income tax, no worries but where to spend the money next. But he spent very little. Only the best, only when it was necessary. He was very careful not to let his art get out of hand.
He couldn't wait; this new batch had to be tested. Flynn wrapped up a few of the bills, then went upstairs and began applying makeup. A woman this time, middle-aged, totally innocuous. Mad money, maybe a little revenge against the hubby for screwing his twenty-year-old secretary-it happened all the time. He traced his lips carefully with a Prussian Red, outlining them with a subtle brown pencil liner. False eyelashes, a carefully placed and styled wig. He slipped pads into the frilly underwear, adjusted everything to fit, secured his penis to his leg with a piece of string. The dress fit well, but not tightly, giving him just a hint of matronage. He pencilled in a few crow's feet and wrinkles to complete the look, slipping into a fashionable pair of flats (he refused to wear heels, even for money) and finding the perfect purse to match. Flynn's closets were jammed full of what he called his costumes-dresses, suits and ties, all manner of jeans and t-shirts, his usual attire-and the tops of his antique dressers overflowed with jewelry, tie tacks, and the like. Even the four cars lying under car covers in his backyard were costumes, tailored for each personality. He was prepared to dress for any occasion, every possibility.
But now he was a middle-aged woman, probably a librarian or a teacher who had a small glass of sherry when she got home at night, who had a couple of cats running the house and a bed that had only seen her and her dreams. He liked to imagine lives for his characters, temper the flush of money with a personality, some desire, more than simply a scam or a crime. Flynn was creating lives here, fleshing them out and letting them taste the air before he abandoned them for new ones the public had never seen.
The middle-aged woman slipped out the back way into a Toyota, mid-80s, blue and well kept. Totally inconspicuous. She drove across town to the little package store adjacent to Ray's IGA. She had never been here before, so there was an excited tension in the air. She parked close to the entrance and sauntered to the door, a little haughty. Once inside, she ran face to face with the redhead, the waitress from Denny's. She was about to say hello when she realized the girl wouldn't recognize her. She settled for a smile, then hurried to the wines.
The middle-aged woman picked up a bottle of Beringer White Zinfandel to guarantee maximum return without having to drink formaldehyde-laced swill. The redhead was comparing the rums with a bemused smile. The woman--Mrs. Torrence, Bev to her friends--watched the redhead, resisting the urge to run over and suggest the Bacardi Black with a splash of orange juice, then ask her for a date as Flynn. But that was insane-counterfeiters don't date. They have solitary lives and lonely existences punctuated only by the thrill of a new product and buying the best consumables money can buy. And love? Certainly not. Flynn couldn't love anybody; he'd been doing this too long. He was set in his ways.
The clerk behind the counter rang up the middle-aged woman's purchase and handed her $45.62 in change. She stuffed the money in her purse, her eyes still slanted in the redhead's direction. There was something about her. There was an intelligence in her eyes, even from a distance, and a playful manner in her movements. She must enjoy her life, Mrs. Torrence thought. She certainly was nice to me at Denny's. But Hell, she got paid to do that.
Bev walked slowly back to her Toyota and sat there for a few minutes before starting the engine. She watched the redhead walk out of the store with a sack, watched her get into a late-model truck and drive away. Only when the redhead could no longer be seen did she put the Toyota in gear and head home.
Flynn was angry at himself when he arrived home, having dabbed off makeup on the way. He was still half made-up, and looked ghastly. He ran immediately to the bathroom to the giant jar of cold cream he couldn't live without and stared at himself in the mirror. How stupid was this? He was thinking about some girl he didn't even know, who couldn't possibly be interested in him. He could never hide his activities from her, and if she found out she'd think he was insane, a criminal, or worse. Nobody could possibly understand his calling. Flynn considered himself an artist; the bills he created were uniquely his, and he agonized over each line, every minuscule detail. His bills were better than the originals, in his estimation. He was born to do this, to make his money this way. It was a higher calling than getting up early every morning, driving to some factory and churning out other peoples' products all day. Or selling them. That was beneath him.
He took a deep breath and sighed. These were the obstacles to true art--loneliness, being misunderstood by the masses, most of whom were content with the ragged-edged, threadbare cash that slipped in and out of their wallets every day.
Flynn went back downstairs and dropped into his easy chair, turning on the big-screen TV. He needed distraction, some diversion from his suffering. Jerry Springer was on. Strippers again; just what he needed. He turned the sound off and watched artificial breasts bounce across the stage as the strippers performed one by one. He thought back to that redhead. Hers were real; Hell, all of her seemed real, like the rest of reality was a dream and hers was the face everyone hopes to see when they wake up. Could it be he could use a little attention? He could be careful, after all. He settled into a sleeplike stupor watching fake bodies frolic and imagining a very real body in his house, sitting on his overstuffed sofa, admiring his antiques.
But he certainly couldn't bring her here. He glanced at the clock-it was after four. Time to get ready for dinner.
A darkly Hispanic-looking man wandered into the South Belt Burger King around five o'clock, at the height of the dinner feeding frenzy. He seemed to stroke his mustache as he waited in line. Of course, he was making sure it was securely attached. He waited patiently, then addressed the girl at the counter in a soft voice with just a hint of an accent.
"I would like the Whopper deal, please."
"What would you like to drink?" She was bland, one of the vapid counter girls Flynn often thought of as the scourge of manhood when he was at home with nothing to do but feel sorry for himself.
"A Coke, please. Coca-Cola."
The counter girl frowned, then went about the business of putting his dinner together. She was efficient, robotlike. She must have been trained to do this and nothing else, the Hispanic man thought. Flynn saw this character as a young man fresh out of college with his whole life ahead of him, considering taking a trip to Mexico to visit distant relatives and see the sights of his native land. His parents made sure he learned both Spanish and English fluently as a child, and he had used that bilingualism to his advantage, majoring in International Business and preparing to broker big deals with companies in Spanish-speaking countries. This man, Hector, or perhaps Esteban, was stopping at Burger King on the way to a rendezvous with some beautiful se¤orita or other, perhaps for drinks at a Mexican restaurant lit with candles. He grimaced a bit at the thought of this now; he should keep his mind on his work. The girl had appeared with his food. Hector, or Esteban, pulled a fifty out of his wallet. "I am sorry; I have nothing smaller."
She barely glanced at the bill. "No problem, sir," she said, "One moment please." She popped the cash register drawer and slipped the fifty in the back, pulling out a couple of crisp twenties and some singles. "Here you go."
He took the change, smiled and found a booth. He found it was much less conspicuous to eat in the restaurant rather than take it to go. There was always the possibility of someone discovering the counterfeit, too; he would love to see how they reacted to the beauty of his bills. But today as every day, every meal, he would be disappointed. He finished his food and left in a mid-eighties Toyota, blue...totally inconspicuous.
Back at home, Flynn began thinking about the redhead again. What was the magical pull she had on him? Maybe he was just getting lonely; that could happen. The idea of talking to her was getting more and more palatable to him. He could at least chat her up, maybe ask her out. He didn't have to bring her home with him or anything so dangerous. Some companionship would be nice, and he could just be himself-the only role in which Flynn had very little practice these days.
He put on a nice pair of khakis and a crisply ironed black button-down shirt, then went to the bathroom to check the look. He still looked tired. He splashed a little cold water on his face, followed by some after shave. He looked okay. Maybe the redhead wasn't still working. Maybe he really was insane, trying something like this.
He removed the cover from the Camaro and checked the street outside. It was quiet enough. He roared out of the garage, reveling in the car's power. He had forgotten how nice it was to drive this car after tooling around in all those rebuilt "getaway cars." He opened it up a little on the way back to Denny's, flying around side streets. He felt surprisingly good, more liberated than he expected. It had been a long time since he had done anything just for himself like this.
Denny's was slow, it being around six, six-thirty, just after the dinner rush. He slipped in, looking to see if she was there. He didn't see her, but he decided to be seated anyway. He had grabbed a handful of authentic money before leaving the house in case he wanted to eat.
His waitress was a blonde, and nice. He smiled at her as she brought him a cup of coffee. Then he saw her. She was moving from table to table filling sugar shakers from a big bag, and she didn't seem too happy about it. Flynn waited until she was a couple of tables away to get a good look.
Her nametag said "Terry," and her eyes were a deep green. They reminded Flynn of a freshly made hundred dollar bill. She was even prettier up close-perfect skin, delicate features, and a great big smile. He saw that when he cleared his throat to get her attention. "Hi," he said, feeling stupid.
"Hello there, sir. Can I do something for you?"
"Actually, you can. I was wondering if your nametag was correct, or if it was someone else's or something."
She smiled quizzically. "That's an odd question."
"Well," he said, "I know sometimes you waitresses accidentally switch nametags and all; I just wanted to know what to call you."
"Ah," she said. "It's sort of right. My name is 'Terry,' but it's 'Terri' with an 'I'. Is that all you wanted to know?"
Flynn sat there for a second, wondering what in the Hell he was going to do next. "Well, to be honest, Terri, I'd like to know if you are in the habit of having coffee with strangers."
She grinned ear to ear this time. "Not exactly in the habit," she said. "It's not my usual thing, but I make exceptions from time to time."
"So when do you get off work? I sure would like to buy you a cup of coffee."
She checked her watch. "I'm supposed to be off now, but we're short. Let me go see." She disappeared into the kitchen.
Great. Now what am I supposed to do, Flynn thought. He wasn't creating a character this time. This was the genuine article, a character he had been forced to make up as he went along. He wasn't prepared for this. Maybe she won't like me and I won't have to do anything but pay for a couple of cups of coffee.
A few minutes later the Terri emerged, still smiling. "I'm off now," she said, "boy, did you do me a favor! Can we go to my place first? I need to get out of this uniform."
Flynn left a huge tip for a cup of coffee and they were off. Terri lived in an apartment complex on the South side of town, farther South than Flynn had explored. No restaurants there, nothing but homes in that neighborhood. "I'll just be a couple of minutes," Terri said as they climbed the stairs to the third floor.
Her apartment was feminine, if a little bare. She seemed pretty basic, not an ostentatious bone in her body. Flynn liked that. A few pieces of bizarre abstract sculpture provided the only real decoration in the room. Terri came out of the bedroom after a short time dressed in black stirrup pants, a black top and black shoes. She smiled. "So where are you taking me for coffee?"
Flynn thought for a minute. "How about Shoneys?"
"Ooh...the competition. Good choice."
They talked over deep brown mugs of coffee they poured from a bottomless carafe. "So tell me," Terri said after the weather and the waitresses had been talked to death, "what is it that made you ask me out?"
"I saw you a couple of times, and I thought you'd be nice to get to know. There's just something about you," Flynn said.
"That's cool." Terri said. "Like an aura or something."
"Yeah, something like that." Flynn was totally taken with this girl. She was lovely, and with that...something. He still had no idea what it was.
"Okay, so tell me all about yourself," Terri said.
Flynn froze. What could he tell her? What would she understand? This was the moment he had dreaded. Could he bare his life to this complete stranger? She could be a cop, or an FBI agent, or one of those ATF agents that were always on television gassing people. He took a long, deep breath.
"Well? Do you have lots of secrets?"
He smiled. "Yes I do. Can I trust you? Never mind, I feel like I can somehow. That certain something, again. The truth is, I'm a counterfeiter. I produce letter-perfect copies of fifty-and one hundred-dollar bills in my basement, and I pass them all over town to make a living. I own a house, four cars and a houseful of antiques and expensive furniture. Before I became a career criminal, I had no other life. I consider myself an artist, and my money is my art, as is the way I spend it."
Terri sat back, impressed. "You're shitting me."
"I am not. I'm completely serious, Terri. This is what I am."
Her face went through a variety of different reactions, like she was trying all possible options out before settling on one. Flynn's heart beat like a techno bass drum at high speed. Damnit, how could I have been so stupid? he thought. Nobody could possibly internalize all that. She thinks I'm crazy.
Finally, Terri seemed to settle on one look-the same impressed one as before. "Cool," she said. "Can I see?"
Flynn breathed a partial sigh of relief. "You're not a cop, are you? FBI? ATF?"
"I thought the ATF only did alcohol, cigarettes and guns," Terri said.
"That may be. I don't know." Fear suddenly gripped Flynn's heart. With a couple of sentences, he could have ruined his whole life. This was nothing like the thrill of getting caught. This was just wrong.
"Flynn, do I look like a cop to you? Jesus, right."
"Wouldn't you imagine I'd be just a bit paranoid? I do break the law."
Terri laughed. "That's certainly true. But cool. Crime as an art form. I'm studying sculpture, myself. That's not as cool as what you do, though. Are you really serious?"
Flynn smiled. "I'm not creative enough to make this up."
"So show me," Terri said.
Terri admired Flynn's living room as he unlocked the basement door. "You've got some beautiful pieces here," she said, "I'd love to saw some of these legs off and make something out of them."
Flynn chuckled. "This way."
He led her silently down the red-lit stairway with less apprehension than he expected he'd have. "This is my base of operations," he said.
Terri walked around the space, touching the monitors and keyboards, the bodies of the copier and printer. "This is a beautiful setup," she told him. "Can I see the bills themselves?"
Flynn jostled a mouse. "Look at this first." The screensaver disappeared, and the bills seemed to glow a little in the light.
Terri sat down behind the terminal. "God," she said, "It's gorgeous, Flynn. Absolutely perfect. You really are an artist, you know?"
Flynn's chest felt as if it would burst open. "Thanks."
He printed a sheet of bills for her. She rubbed the page all over, stroked her cheek with it. "Soft," she said. He took the counterfeit cash through all the steps of production while Terri watched appreciatively. When he was done, she pulled him away from the copier and put her arms around his neck. "So now can I see your bedroom?"
They made love like two people who had just discovered something wonderful, which is what they were, after all. Lying in bed, Flynn was struck by this woman who slipped into his life so easily and inconspicuously, just like he slipped into restaurants and other places of business and passed his art on to the world. She was a miracle, or would be if he believed in miracles. "I'd like to see what you do," he told her.
They went to a little shed behind Terri's apartment building. "Can you believe my landlord lets me rent this out? Like twenty bucks a month. To him it's just an unused old tool shed. To me, it's a place to work." The place was littered with tools and materials, even a welding torch on the workbench. Terri spread her arms wide. "This is my place. My studio," she said.
Flynn picked up a piece of metal twisted around a metal pole. "Is this a sculpture?"
"That it is," Terri said. "It's a piece of twisted sheet metal welded to a hunk of a flagpole. It was Hell cutting that flagpole up."
"What do you call it?"
"Twisted Pole. I know, it's not very original." She laughed, then pointed at a ceramic bear sitting in one corner. "This is what I do for money. Not as clever as you, but I'm a sellout, you know?"
"Nothing wrong with that. Everybody's got to be something. Might as well profit from what you are."
Terri nodded. "So what do you think of all this?"
"Your studio? I like it. It's a good place to work."
"Like your basement."
"Like my basement," he said.
"I didn't mean what do you think about my studio. I meant about all of this, this wild, spontaneous, impossible thing we're getting into."
Flynn smiled. "I like it," he told her. "I think it's perfect."
*****
A middle-aged couple walks into the Kona Resort in Honolulu, Hawaii with a couple of bags and a trunk, which they carry between them. They smile at each other as they approach the counter. "We have a reservation. Curran."
The clerk consults his computer terminal. "Yes, sir, Mr. Curran. We have you in room 413. Lovely view in that room."
"Wonderful. Can we pre-pay? We're planning to hit all the islands this week. Oahu tomorrow."
The clerk grins. "Certainly, sir. If you have any other charges, we'll just bill them to the room. That will be one hundred fourteen dollars."
Mr. Curran takes out his wallet and pulls out two one hundred dollar bills. "Terribly sorry, old man, this is all I have."
"No problem, sir," the clerk says. "We change big bills all the time."
Up in their room, the couple removes their clothes and folds everything carefully, placing their body pads and wigs on top. They open the trunk, producing a bag of tools, a portable printer, and a small personal copier. A big jar of cold cream between them in the bathroom, they remove their makeup, then check each other. Terri turns to Flynn and, smoothing his hair with her hand, asks, "How do I look, honey? Is it all gone?"
"You look just perfect," Flynn says.
Copyright © Jeff Kersh
All rights reserved.Jeff Kersh is a technical writer living near St. Louis. He has earned a PhD degree in Creative Writing from Oklahoma State University, and has previously published poems in The Lucid Stone, Heartbeat and the Eleventh Muse, among other "littles".
Be sure to check out poetry by Jeff Kersh also featured on reality x.
