The Recruiter

“You sit there, and just smile at me. You drink your orange juice, no pulp. You had to have no pulp. You sit there, drink your no pulp orange juice, pulling that unlit cigarette from your lips, putting it back, pulling it out to sip your juice, putting it back. But you won’t light it. Not once, you won’t light it. Just sit there, smiling, drinking, and…. Well, it doesn’t matter what I say now does it?”

He laughs at his companion’s agitation. It is amusing after all, someone getting so bent out of shape over things so little, because all he can see is a bigger picture, but even so, it’s blurred. Like a massive painting. From far away, he can make out a galloping horse racing through a sunlit meadow, but upon closer inspection, your eyes were fooled from far away. Upon closer inspection, it’s just a blur of colors, nothing spectacular, no galloping horse, not even a meadow. Just a big picture that isn’t what you think it is up close.

That’s how John thought.

Pulling the cigarette from his lips, sipping his orange juice, and smiling, Thatcher couldn’t help but wonder how in the world people got by thinking like John. There were so many, who lived by the “Big Picture” rule.

“That’s what you are John. A Big Picture kinda guy. You don’t look at all the little pebbles at the bottom of the pond and think, ‘man, there’s millions of pebbles on the bottom of that pond.’ No John, you walk up to that pond, stand on the edge and think one thing. Do you know that that one thing is you think John?” Pull the cigarette out, take a sip, set glass down, cigarette returned to the lips.

“That it’s a pond. Just a pond.” John said it, knowing that what Thatcher wanted to hear, that that was the answer he was seeking. And John would deny it, in his head, to the man sitting across from him with the loaded gun, with the cigarette and the orange juice. But, deep down inside, John knew that the man across from him was right.

“Exactly. It’s just a pond.” Cocking the hammer back on the gun, making John’s heart skip a beat, Thatcher relaxed back in his chair, running his free hand through his long, black hair. It wasn’t the first time he’d done this. Not in a long, long time.

“Why are you doing this?” John had to know. There he was, in his home, being held hostage by a man who had barged in, gun to John’s head, forcing the two to sit down. For two hours, to the second they had sat in silence, nothing said between them as Thatcher pointed the gun at the owner of the house. Then, precisely as those two hours were up, Thatcher pulled the unlit cigarette from his lips that had been there from the get go, introduced himself, asked for a glass of orange juice, no pulp.

“Ask yourself why the pond is just a pond?” Thatcher was smiling, still smiling.

“What does a damn pond have to do with you pointing a gun at me?” John couldn’t figure out for the life of him what he had done to make another man want to hurt him. The chance was there that Thatcher was no more than a crazy person, which was seeming more accurate a conclusion with each passing moment.

“The pond has nothing, and everything to do with this John. Here we are, two strangers, sitting across from each other, one has a gun pointed at the other, and the other has nothing pointed at the one. And then I ask you about a pond. Makes you wonder about the pond and why I even bring it up. Because John, right now, this situation is the pond. And it’s sink or swim time. Which are you going to do?”

John didn’t understand. What was happening? Was he about to die? Was he about to get shot by a man who didn’t even know, hadn’t met before, hadn’t even known existed before two hours and sixteen minutes earlier that evening.

“What are you going on about? Please, tell me what I did to deserve this? What did I do to you? Do you want money?” This only made Thatcher laugh harder, the cigarette almost falling from his lips, the man having to struggle to hold his mouth just right to not let the menthol stick fall.

“Please, all I wanted was your time, your ears and a glass of no pulp orange juice. I got all three, now all I want is for you to grasp and understand my reason for existing. We all have a reason, and this is mine.” All John could think was that Thatcher was out of his mind.

“If you’re going to kill me, just get it over with. I can’t stand this bullshit. I don’t get what you are going on about. So do it, just kill me.”

“There it is John. Just a pond, no pebbles. ‘Just kill me, kill me already.’ And you are probably thinking I’m out of my mind too aren’t you?” John just nodded, his eyes glued to the gun still pointed at him. “John, look at this, and ask yourself why I’m here?” Pulling out a picture from the front pocket of his ratty jean jacket, setting it on the table between the two, John was in shock, not understanding how the man across from his had it.

“Ashley.” The picture was of John’s daughter, who, having just died three weeks before in a car crash, was still the only thing that her father could ever think of anymore. He missed her so much, and for this psycho, this Thatcher to taunt him with her picture, it was sick. John didn’t care if he was going to die, get shot, whatever. He was going to murder the psycho who dared to even bring up his daughter. “You bastard, where did you get this?” John held the picture like it was his daughter, though he knew all too well the real Ashley was gone.

“That’s not important John. What is, is the pond.” Cigarette out, sip of juice, glass down, cigarette back.

“The pond. The pond. What does the pond have to do WITH MY DAUGHTER!” Slamming his fist on the coffee table, the glass top shattered, glass flying everywhere, but there Thatcher sat, just smiling. “If you’re going to kill me, KILL ME! DON’T SIT HERE, and talk to me about ponds, lakes, whatever. Just DO IT!” Crying, John was through, spent. His mind hurt from trying to figure out what was happening.

“That’s just it John. You want to see her again. Would die to do so. You blame yourself. Think it was your fault. She was driving though John, you were at home. Drunk driver hit her, not her fault, certainly not yours. And you are just begging me to pull that trigger, thinking that it would me committing murder, not you committing suicide. You miss her that much.” Finishing the orange juice, Thatcher set the empty glass down, and stood, looking down at the sobbing man.

John cried heavily, falling to the floor onto his knees, his hand bleeding, his non-bleeding hand holding the picture of Ashley to his heart. Thatcher was right. Absolutely right.

“Are you my Angel of Mercy? An Angel of Death? Who are you?” John prayed to some God that man had been sent to reconnect father and daughter. John’s wife had left him years ago, leaving the man to raise his daughter alone, leaving the two to grow closer, to bond. And then, with Ashley stolen from him, he was left alone in a world that was cruel, harsh, and unforgiving. “Be my Angel of Death Thatcher.”

“I’m no Angel, nor do I want to be. Too much work taking care of those wings.” Laughing, Thatcher walked over, placing a hand on the crying man’s shoulder. “The gun was never loaded, it just helps to get people to listen. Everything, all this, this world, life, death, it’s all a pond. Sometimes, you need to look past that, and right there, amongst the water, the ripples, the fish, is one pebble just waiting to be found.”

John, looking up to the man whose voice was soothing, calming, Thatcher still smiling, the cigarette still between his lips, John was still confused. Thatcher, nodding with his head towards the seat he had just been sitting it, John thinking it was empty, but proven wrong as he looked to it, his daughter somehow sitting there, smiling and crying, looking at her daddy.

“Ashley,” John said, losing his breath, crawling around the broken top table to his daughter. She was there, he could feel her, hug her. She hugged back. Her hair, her long blond hair was in his face, but he didn’t care. It smelled of lilies, and rosemary. It was pretty.

“I miss you daddy.” Her voice, it was soft, but it was Ashley’s, only making him cry harder.

“I miss you too baby. I miss you too. And I love you. I love you so much. And I’m sorry. I’m so….” His daughter put a finger to his lips, hushing him. Shaking her head, tears that shined like crystals falling from her eyes.

“Don’t be sorry daddy. It wasn’t your fault. And Thatcher took me to a better place, told me I’d get to see you one more time. But, he said, for me to see you, you had to do something.” His daughter was there, there with him for one more time. John would do anything. He couldn’t explain it, how Thatcher had done it. John knew it was Ashley, couldn’t deny it. He had buried his daughter weeks ago, and yet there she was, right in front of him, he holding her. He would do anything. He owed the man anything.

“Anything. You let me see her again. I let me see her.” Kissing her cheek, John looked away, throwing a smile to Thatcher, feeling Ashley disappear from his arms. Looking back, the seat was empty, his little girl gone from him again, making his cry again, this time harder than before.

“I’m tired of collecting souls John. I’m ready to gallop through a meadow, or swim in a pond, instead of just collection pebbles to sit at the bottom. You sir, are my replacement.” Standing, Thatcher, finally lit his cigarette. Twenty three years he had been waiting to light it.

“I don’t understand. Collect souls? For, heaven.” John, still crying, said he would do anything, but, he didn’t quite grasp was he was being charged with.

“No John. I said I wasn’t an angel.” Laughing, taking a closed eyed, long drag of the menthol stick, Thatcher blew the smoke out passed a sinister grin.  “It’s a bit unfair, how we trick ‘em. I bring Ashley up, you see her, you agree to anything. Terrible really. Unfair in my opinion. Don’t see it coming. You didn’t see it coming did you?”

“I don’t understand. What’s happening?” Standing, looking to the gun was sitting on the floor, the gun that Thatcher had said was empty.

“Welcome to Hell’s Recruiting Services. We borrow souls on loan from heaven, use ‘em to ensnare guilty souls, and drag ‘em to hell. Quite a profession, and we get dental. Here’s the book of regulations, rules, guidelines, do’s and do not’s. And by the way, orange juice helps with going from the living world to hell. Don’t know why. Just does. Just remember, always…”

“No pulp,” John said, mouthing the words, not sure what else to say but to finish the sentence with the obvious answer. His eyes had shifted from the gun to the book that Thatcher held, and the man’s mind was spinning. Was it all real? Had his daughter’s soul been loaned from heaven to a man from hell to lure him into the same profession.

 

*

 

“Can I help you sir?” The woman asked, answering the door to the stranger who had been loudly knocking for several minutes, and though she had tried to ignore him, it had been no good, the knocking just continued until she gave in and answered it.

“Hello Marie. I’m going to need a glass of orange juice, no pulp. And my name is John,” the stranger said, the cigarette between his lips bouncing as he spoke. Four weeks it had been there, and he was actually surprised that he was good as his new profession, Recruiter.