Johnathan H. Parker

“Mr. Parker? John, are you listening? Do you understand?”

Hearing his name in that moment was as distantly new as the first time he ever heard it. It faded into the cacophony of electronic hum and small talk between tellers and clients. Banking was always an area of direct focus for him, ensuring no condition went unread, nor line left unsigned. This, he frequently reminded himself, is an area of business to avoid making mistakes, less the dozens of fact-checking government representatives highlight his errors in owing balances. And yet in this moment, he found himself more distant than preparation could avoid.

“Yes, I understand,” he lied, ready to meticulously comb through release paperwork regarding forgotten safety deposit box release later that night. This is a situation one does not often find themselves in and any additional glance at paperwork would only benefit a smooth ownership transition.

“Excellent,” she spoke almost too eagerly. “You can take these back while I go fetch the box. And again, I am very sorry to hear of the passing of your father.”

“Thank you,” he replied as she handed him his ID. He stared at the photo as the teller shuffled off further into the depths of the behind-the-counter hallways of the bank. The small, squared image stared back in challenge, silently taunting him with a face seemingly more foreign than familiar in this moment. He shook the thought out of his conscious mind as he pulled a faded leather wallet from his long coat’s pocket. He put the ID in the left slot. He then closed the wallet before remembering it did not close all the way like this, prompting him to open it up and slide the card to the right instead.

The teller returned with a metal box and a comically large ring of keys. “This is what happens when boxes get left behind,” she joked. “Your father always refused to upgrade to the newer system.”

She placed the box on her desk with a metallic ting and flicked through the keys for its match. She pulled one forward and placed it in the lock. A few grinding turns later and the spring clicked a release. She opened the box, careful to displace little dust from its neglected top. Inside, as promised, were two thick rounds of $100 bills bound in twine, each topped with a handwritten note claiming $10,000. She held open the box for him to collect its contents. He hesitated before inclining, much like a child when offered to choose a prize after a dentist’s appointment.

As he lifted out his newly acquired sum she offered, “Are you certain you wouldn’t like it deposited to your account? I understand the intent is to close it, but there are some excellent bundles on offer still.” John reassured his decision, making mental note of not being able to blame a businesswoman for attempting to sell business. He declined her offer and pocketed the money along with the wallet.

Out of the bank, he turned to head straight for the coffee shop he eyed on his way in earlier that morning. He did his best to ignore the deafening burn from his pocket. A pocket worth $20,000 is not often found on the streets, he learned through a pickpocket stage when younger, but is even less of something you make obvious to those around you. Each passing stranger was a potential block to his new acquisition. He silently prayed to no one that no passerby recognized him.

He veered into the open entrance of the corner shop following the aroma of the morning’s fresh roast advertised above him. He went up to the counter to avoid suspicion of attending a coffee shop crowd without getting coffee. After ordering a black, he collected his cup and went to a far table and sat in the corner-most blue upholstered chair. He did not waste time taking in the shop’s atmosphere, instead diving right to his phone.

He opened the local paper’s website for the umpteenth time this week and read an article titled ‘Fatal Crash Leaves Man in Hospital, One Dead’. He recognized the cover photo now as the road leading into this town and the mangled blue hatchback as belonging to the deceased Johnathan Parker Senior. The contents of the article he had memorized at this point, but he analyzed the photo now with the new context of visiting the site of crash. He often wondered how such a monumental accident for a small town could possibly have a victim neglected from the total count of persons involved. Almost four weeks and nobody questioned whether John Parker Junior was in the vehicle with his father, much less that he, too, succumbed to his injuries.

He pulled a little black book from his jacket’s inner chest pocket. Inside the worn and yellowing pages lay lists of names, each with a strikethrough in his writing. He mindlessly thumbed through the ghosts of his past, remembering how each looked more and more like himself as time went on. The tally ended in Johnathan H. Parker’s untouched name, mimicking the signature found on the rear of the ID handed to the teller earlier. He remembered back to when he first saw this name, years ago scraping through social media searches. He compiled his groupings of individuals striking as much of a resemblance as any identity thief could hope for and gathered as much contextual information on each as provided. Johnathan was no friend to website security and finding additional information on him was easier than picking up his wallet from the untouched apartment he located the day before. As far as the job field of identity theft goes, one can never be sure what exactly they will be receiving. However, with the added circumstance of the father’s discovered box, an unexpected cash bonus is more than happily accepted.

As he finished his coffee, he contemplated the drive back and shedding of John Parker Jr’s life. He did not wish to risk a prolonged stay in an unfamiliar town infested with recognition. Although uncanny, the resemblance between John and himself was bound to be questioned in person. Before heading out with his prize in tow, he removed a pen from his pocket and took it to his black book. He marked a strike through the name Johnathan H. Parker, replaced the book to his pocket, and left the suffocation of another small town behind him.