Risk, Reward

Rami expected fear. He imagined pain. Daydreamed sadness. Envisioned chaos. Yet, when his dormant lizard brain spoke of peril, he chose a different emotion.

Acceptance.

His primitive instincts had gone cold. He closed his eyes and drank in the stale, foul smelling air that hung heavily in the unkept kitchen. The unwashed linoleum clutched at the soles of his shoes as he shuffled in place, wanting to leave but with no where to go.

A relatively basic component of a complex engine, Rami’s role was small, yet vital. Significant and brief. However, engrossed into the depths of mid execution, nothing reassured him. Only one thing was certain.

He was going to die.

As plans tend to go, architected on functionally flowing streams that trickled out to one desired outcome, this one was built to succeed. The word “simple” had been repeated to the point that it now felt foriegn. Now, enveloped in reality, the hope that was built from Rami’s earlier conversation had floated to the emptying parts of his brain that held alien memories and limp mental constructs.

He opened his eyes and retook in his surroundings. He stood in a once quaint kitchen in a once charm-filled house, nestled in a once upcoming part of town. Like a forest creature blending into its surroundings, the kitchen sink had morphed into a tannish black blend that mimicked the stained countertop’s outdated and unloved vibe. Brown smudges cascaded from the handles of the cabinets, mimicking an out of control spiderweb taking hold of a forgotten space. Fast food waste, a mix of grease blotted paper buckets and crumpled brown bags decorated the corner of the kitchen counter that nestled into the weezing refrigerator. Strangely, a bright blue backsplash with clean, yet poorly applied grout rained some sense of hope onto the dreary counter. It reminded Rami of the first renovated home on a gentrified street; new, rich, clean, yet monstrously out of place.

There were three other people in the kitchen. One sat at a flimsy, surprisingly white table, slowly tapping ash from a dying cigarette into a recently emptied ashtray. Another had slid in behind Rami after letting him in through the door that led to the backyard; his frame drowning out the few subtle rays of morning light that previously washed through the only uncovered window. The last man, bulky and neatly dressed, leaned in the entryway that led to the rest of the house, carelessly flicking away at the keys of an inexpensive flip phone. The man at the table puffed more life from his cigarette. His thick fingers lightly holding on to its white, crushed remains. He spoke.

“Ok...what is it?”

Rami’s lizard brain awoke.

An ounce of the purpose that abandoned him when he entered the dilapidated home returned. Rami wet his lips. “...I...I...found something.”

“Yea?” The man at the table said, rubbing out the last signs of life from his cigarette into the glass dish. “What?”

The man behind Rami coughed, sending Rami’s shoulders into a contracting spasm that pulsed through his spine and into his legs, forcing him to take a small step forward or risk falling. The three men’s posture tightened, only slightly. The man at the table eyes’ splashed over to the corner of the table at the item that had caused Rami to accept his demise.

A gun.

Rami had no idea what type of gun it was, not that it mattered, but he knew what it meant. Without context, it wasn’t particularly menacing. It was smaller than he had expected, with a short silver barrel and a fat, well worn handle. It looked old. It was out of reach. But it was there. He had walked into a house that was holding three unfamiliar men and a gun. Holding his doom.

Lifting his chin up slightly, he began the line he had rehearsed. He took another breath of unclean air and said, it.

“I found your notebook.”

An atmospheric event took hold. Sound stopped. The room grew brighter. The air grew lighter. The man in the entryway stopped texting, his phone bobbed untethered in his loose hands. The man at the table stared intently through Rami, his breath ceased, mouth agape. He blinked a few times and eyed Rami from top to bottom.

Snapping to, the man behind Rami understood the signal and sprung forward. He grabbed the scruff of Rami’s jacket between his neck and right shoulder. His other hand shot out, pinching Rami’s left elbow tight with a strong, hurried hold. The man from the entryway swam forward in a panicked rush, spilling his phone onto the smudge colored floor, and plunged both of his hands simultaneously into Rami’s jacket pockets. In less than three seconds, his hands surfaced, clenching the prize in his left hand. “I got it!” His eyes were wide with excitement. He trembled, smiling, clinging on to the notebook like a starving man who finally found food. The man holding onto Rami let out a short sigh of relief, tightening his grip on his catch.

The notebook was small, black, and well worn. The leather cover was spotted with moisture marks and the corners arched upwards from heavy use. A frayed leather string bookmark dangled and curled downward from the bottom of the notebook’s spine, swinging violently from the frantic wavering of the notebook’s new holder.

The man with the notebook took a moment to compose himself, and then slowly walked over to the table, gently placing it down. The seated man had not moved an inch. He was still staring inquisitively at Rami. He broke his gaze, wiped his hands on the thighs of his jeans, and carefully picked up the black book. Delicately, he peeled back the cover, his eyes filling with recognition as he gently turned the pages, scanning its content and nodding assuringly at each turn.

With the book still open and his eyes affixed to the page, he spoke, softer than before, “Who gave this to you?”

“No one.” Rami said, wincing slightly from the ever-tightening hold on his elbow. “I found it.”

“Where?” his eyes still scanning the pages. His posture grew relaxed.

“Behind a garbage can in Gage Park.” Inside his heavy coat, sweat trickled down his back.

“When?” Pages turned. Eyes scanned.

“Tuesday, morningish.” Rami said, he reached over and rubbed his left elbow, only then realizing that the man holding him had let go.

“Did you show anyone?” Eyes still down.

“No.” He glanced at the kitchen table. The gun was gone.

“Thank you.” He carefully closed the notebook, placing the leather bookmark string between two pages. He rose and handed the book back to the man who had handed it to him. He took it gently into his left hand. His right arm was held rigidly at his side, gun in hand. It was pointed towards the floor, as if to threaten the grime away.

The once seated man took a small step forward. “And how did you know it was my notebook?” His voice was calm and inquisitive. Almost mundane. The same tone you use when asking a passing neighbor their thoughts on the weather.

This was the hard one. The moment of truth. The climax of a Hallmark movie.

“Well…,” Rami grabbed the bottom of his jacket and shook it slightly, hoping it would trigger some muscle memory for the coming speech. “I figured, given its...contents...whoever owned it might want it back.”

“So, you read it?”

“No! Just a little bit of the first page, then I realized what...it...was.”

“How?”

“My brother’s friend, Daymond, used to live around here. He talked about...your particular line of work. I texted him. He thought if I brought it back, you might...be thankful.”

The man chuckled slightly, turned back towards the table, and sat down. He reached for his soon to be empty pack of cigarettes, pulled the last one out and leaned back in his chair. “You really didn’t show anyone else?”

The man holding the gun had put the book down on the table, and held up a phone in his other hand, screen out towards Rami. Rami leaned forward, thinking he was being shown something. The screen blinked to life and the man quickly turned it around and began thumbing the screen, swiping, looking, swiping, looking.

It was Rami’s phone.

Except for the panicked lurching coming from the refrigerator, the room was silent. The thumbing and flipping continued. Rami realized he had been holding his breath. Light was beginning to dim and his head swam with dizzying dreams.

The phone holder stopped and nodded towards the man at the table, who was now inhaling a long drag from his final prey. He thought for a moment, and then slowly nodded back.

Stepping closer, the man who had rummaged through Rami’s pockets raised his arm. Rami winced as his entire body compressed like a spring. Through the fading light of his eyes, he saw what was in the man’s outstretched hand.

His phone.

Unsure, he reached up and took it. The man at the table, immensely enjoying his last cigarette, said. “Thank you for bringing this to me. You did the right thing. You can go.”

Rami wasn’t sure exactly what emotion he was feeling. Fear was still present, but the original acceptance of death had gone. His lizard brain was now at full strength.

Get out.

Instead, he lingered for a moment, eyes on the floor, and said “I...thought there might be a reward.”

The man at the table snorted out a solitary laugh. He looked past Rami, jutting his chin out towards the man behind him. He had moved to the side, freeing a path to the outside world, and was holding several folded bills in his hand.

Behind Rami, he heard the man in charge speak. “You do right around here, good things happen. You don’t...then there’s the book.” He tapped the book once with his index finger.

Lizard brain was now in control. Rami shook his head in a sign of gratitude, took the money and hurried out the door, stumbling down the wet wooden stairs leading away from his newest memory.

Once out of the yard, still hurrying, he looked at his reward.

$300. Three crisp $100 dollar bills.

He laughed nervously to himself, pocketed the cash and continued walking. A few blocks away, he stopped at a red light and noticed that the car that had been following him since he left the house had pulled up evenly with him. The passenger window was rolled down all the way.

"Well?” The driver of the car exclaimed as he leaned down to see Rami.

Rami bent over, slightly smiling. He started to point and gesture down the road, as if he was giving directions. “All good.” Rami whispered between clenched teeth. “He took it.”

“And he clearly admitted it was his?” The driver said. Rami nodded. The driver pumped his fist in delight.

“Here,” the driver held out a business card across the passenger seat. His hand was held low. “We’ll grab him tonight. If all goes well, you can go to that address and claim your reward in about a week. As promised, you won’t have to testify.”

Rami walked over to the car, both hands in fists, and placed them on the open window. His left hand unfurled, and the now crumbled $300 in hundreds and a small recording device he had pulled from the lining of his jacket spilled into the passenger seat. “No problem!” he yelled, looking over his shoulder. “About three blocks up. Good luck!” The driver nodded in recognition.

The man slid the card between Rami’s knuckles. He palmed the card, quickly glancing at the embossed black title, “GTA Crime Stoppers” and put both hands into his pockets and walked away, thinking about what $20,000 would do for him and his family.

Sometimes, the risk is worth the reward.