Requiem for a Lost Soul

Requiem for a Lost Soul

By Scott J. Kramer

“What are you doing Sergeant Pepper?” I exclaimed while the leash tugged my phone hand, jarring my view of the latest Facebook post by my ex. The fluffy Pomeranian scratched at the dirt next to a withered looking excuse for a tree he just inaugurated with a canine salute.

“Why can’t you respect me and what I am doing? I was trying to see what Reginald posted about his new flame—” But my words died off as I looked down. Pepper’s paws didn’t scratch dirt anymore, but a hard black surface. Bending down, I nudged the pup aside and picked it up. A little black notebook.

What the…? Dust fell away showing nothing more interesting than an opaque cover. Surreptitiously, I looked up and down the town street, sure someone would call out to claim it. Cars passed, but no one took heed.

Opening it, I saw two words and a long string of numbers and characters.

“We’re going to need to talk to Greg.”

* * *

Walking in Game Time was like entering the Cheers bar when a favorite character arrived. But instead of “Norm” the few barflies cried out “Ms. G!” A little explanation here: I was born Gene Mahoney, but since then I have come into my own personality and like the moniker Ms. G. No transformation, or anything like that but a lifestyle choice. The name suits me. Well, maybe not when you see me.

I’ve been told I look like L.L. Cool J, that beefcake from NCIS Los Angeles. Bald, black, beautiful, but maybe not as muscular. Definitely couldn’t do what that actor does. Probably would shriek like a little girl and run in the opposite direction from a terrorist.

Greg sat at the end of the bar, near a tabletop arcade game. Army fatigues hung loosely from his frame, and his thinning-yet-long hair draped down his back. He concentrated on two x-rated images trying to find the differences.

Civil War Greg, a Vietnam vet, had seen his fair share both during and after the war. Now he spent his time sitting on a stool researching medical practices during the battle of the North and South, imbibing more than his liver could handle, and wasting money on the bar arcade machine.

“How are you doing, my friend?” I patted the back of his cameo jacket as I sat. He startled a bit, looked at me confusedly.

“Oh. Hey.”

Life of the party.

I retrieved the little black book from my murse—my man purse—and slid it over to him. Sloth like, he looked down, over to me, and then back at it. Slowly, he opened it.

“A Swiss bank account number.” Greg turned back to his nudies.

“Well, no doo-doo, Sherlock. I could read that.”

He punched me in the shoulder. Hard. “OW!”

“If you are going to cuss, do it. Don’t use your fruity sayings.”

I rubbed the aching spot on my arm. I’d hate to really piss him off.

The bartender swung by—a nice piece of eye candy named Kyle. I ordered my local IPA, Truth, and watched him as he sauntered away. Too bad he plays for the other team. I shook the thought from my head and continued my mission.

“So, do you know someone that can help me figure this out?”

“What’s to figure out? It’s a bank account number. Go to a bank and see if they can access it through the internet. That’s what I would do.”

Logic settled in and Greg’s statement made sense. Very obvious, but my mind doesn’t always think basic. Might as well make the most of this visit and eat lunch.

* * *

“So, Mr…Mahoney…”

“Oh, call me Ms. G. All my friends do.” I watched the information register in the expression of the regional banker named Jack. My spidey senses got the vibe that this guy was self-absorbed, a higher-than-thou prick. Not that I would say anything, since I still needed his assistance.

“Um, Mr. Mahoney. I can access this account via the bank’s international lines. Should only take but a moment.” He uncomfortably sat straight and typed. His expression remained aloof, poker-wise, or maybe he needed to poop and didn’t want to let on. Eventually, Jack’s computer must’ve told him the balance. A relaxed ease spread through him.

Maybe he figured I was an insane customer not worthy of his help.

“Mr. Mahoney…”

“Ms. G.”

He sighed, and then reluctantly addressed me. “Ms. G…I see that your account holds twenty thousand dollars…”

The banker kept talking but the rest of the words drifted off into space. Twenty K? Do I have access to that? Is it really that easy?

“Mr.— I mean—” Jack started.

“What?”

“Would you like to transfer those funds here, stateside?”

I still couldn’t speak, but my head nodded.

“Then I will just need the password and I can have that done immediately.”

Oh, fudge.

* * *

I deserved another shot in the arm for not cussing, but Greg had stumbled off somewhere when I returned from my failed bank run. Beautiful Kyle brought me another glass of Truth; kind of synonymous with my life about now. Frantically, I flipped through the notebook, finding nothing else written. Who would put the bank account and the password in the same little black book? Maybe ’twas only a pipe dream.

“How’s it hanging, Gene?” The stool next to me rattled. “Seen Greg around?”

Beside me, High Life Johnny eased into the spot carefully as not to aggravate some back issue. I felt for the guy. Life dealt him hard, even after Military Intelligence office parted ways with him back in the 70s. Picture Jed Clampett from the hit show, but then age him about thirty years. That was Johnny.

His beer of choice arrived in front of him without a word, and I let the man swallow down a sip of the golden goodness before answering his questions.“Greg’s been here and gone. As to things hanging…” I threw the little black note book on the bar and took more of the Truth.

What came, I never expected. “By gawd…is it really?” Johnny took the book in his hands reverently as if it were a relic from the Cincinnati Museum Center.

“Um…is this your first beer?” He could really put them away.

Ignoring me, he told the tale of Clarence Muddlepot.

“I first came upon Crackpot Clarence—that’s what they called him, not to his face mind you, though I’m sure it wouldn’t have fazed him. Anyway, where was I?” He took a long swig, nearly draining the bottle. A glazed look came over his eyes as if he lost connection to reality, but it disappeared with a quick shake of his head.

“The library. The one up the street, but I heard he frequented downtown as well. Clarence always dressed as if it would rain; long, dark trench coat and matching fisherman’s hat pulled down over his thick-rimmed glasses. On this morning, he looked up to the sky pointing a large collapsed umbrella to the sky. I stopped and stared.”

“He said, ‘I’m repositioning the satellites. Don’t mind me.’”

“Now you can see where the nickname came from, but not just space stuff. I knew a cop that handled security there. Clarence often gave him cryptic notes, sealed in an envelope, for the Queen of England.”

Johnny’s story continued on, with more bizarre antics, but he came to the point of the notebook about two beers later. “I ran into Clarence one day on the street. A wild frantic daze filled his eyes, more than usual.”

“He’d said, ‘I lost it! My notebook! My Gertrude!’”

“Who?”

“That’s what confused me.” He swallowed the last of the Miller, then slapped the bar.

* * *

Didn’t get much more out of him. I think the alcohol made it to his bloodstream, making him more concerned about the Keno numbers. “Damn fourteen!”

I paid my tab and started my stroll back to the costume shop I owned, the little black book in my hand. Somewhere the secret to twenty thousand lurked. If the story had come before the bank, I would have thought the scrawl of numbers meant nothing. But fate played a different game for me.

The old bell jangled as I opened the door and I made my way through racks of outfits. In the back it opened up to dressing rooms and register.

“Hiya, G.” Jen Jen said in a bored tone. She propped herself up, legs on the counter, chair tilted at a gravity-defying angle, reading a book as always. My college student tended the shop when she wasn’t taking classes at college for an undeclared major—for four years, now.

“What’s the subject today?”

“Mortuary Science.” She raised the tome up to show me the cover. When You’re Dead, You’re Dead. Definitely straight to the point.

“Sounds like fun reading.”

I tossed the notebook on the counter, not wanting to deal with it. Jen Jen kicked upright, interested. “What’s this?”

I gave her a brief rundown of my day, omitting nothing. Jen Jen was like family to me. She flipped through the pages, stopping only on the first page. Then saying nothing, out came her phone.

So much for her speculation on the subject. But my thoughts cut short with exclamation.

“There’s a blog article about him.” She turned the phone to me.

Clarence Muddlepot’s life reads like his surname. Born to middle class, Clarence studied hard, went to college, and landed a good job. He married, had a son. Sounds like a wonderful normal life. His boy, Robert, was diagnosed at five with CANDLE disease. It is a rare affliction that literally torches the internal organs. Robert passed after his eighth birthday.

Distraught beyond belief, his wife Gertie went into severe depression. She came from a wealthy family, inheriting much, yet she spent the lot to cure her son. Blame weighed heavily upon her.

Two years later, she took her life.

Clarence lost his mind. You could find this intelligent man roaming the streets of Cheviot confused and misunderstood. He lost his job, then his house, and probably his sanity along with it.

On March 5, 2009 a Metro bus clipped him as he stepped out into the street holding an umbrella aloft.

He had no family left to claim the body.

A wave of misery washed over me. A tale as old as time—and happens so often. Jen Jen snapped me out of my emotional musing.

“Too bad he didn’t leave the passcode. Someone could really benefit from that money.” I caught her eye, and her hidden meaning materialized. She was a giving person for someone from her generation.

Too bad I don’t… But then something clicked. I scurried over to the phone and dialed the phone number for the bank. Jen Jen returned to her book while I took the call in the back room. Jack answered quickly. I did a quick spiel, reminding him of our conversation.

“Oh yes Mr. Mah…um…”

“Can you try my account again?” I gave him the long string of numbers.

“Password?”

I closed my eyes, sighed. If this wasn’t right… “Gertrude.”

* * *

Three days later, I pulled up a news story video to show Jen Jen.

“And now for a unique story. Donation from a dead man. The Make a Wish Foundation reported that it received a twenty-thousand-dollar check from one Clarence Muddlepot, who died five years ago with no family or relatives. Most knew him as one of the city’s homeless population, but his story has more history than that.” The video continued on with a quick snapshot of Clarence’s life.

“You did good, G. That money will make a big difference to those kids.” She patted my back.

A tear welled up and rolled down my cheek. “I didn’t do anything. Blame it on Sergeant Pepper.”