Settling the Score

Stealing his little black book was the key to setting my plan in motion.

A plan that had been brewing for four years, in which my life was consumed by only this plot. And the funny thing is I would have gladly devoted 40 more years easily to bring Mr. X down. My whole life was building up until this point, so now all I had was time and patience. Over the course of those years, months, days, and hours I became an expert in detail, no detail was too small for my observation. Like a cheetah stalking its prey, I knew the intimate details of my environment and target intuitively.

Routines and habits, mannerisms and personal quirks were all my forte. I knew the exact time down to the minute that Mr. X would round his shiny white Lexus into his reserved parking spot, when he would visit the lobby coffee shop, what he would be having for lunch, and even the exact area above his breast pocket where the ketchup would inevitably fall onto his white pressed shirt, leaving an ugly red stain. But more importantly than knowing these details, it was as though I could feel him. Sense his emotions, ebbing and flowing from him. It was strange to feel so perfectly in sync to someone that you detested. And it wasn’t just a simple everyday detest that you say in passing, maybe to your friends to seem dramatic, this was a hatred that stemmed from the inner core of my being, it was part of my DNA.

The first two years, Mr. X didn’t even notice me, despite having twice daily cleaned the same conference room where he held meeting after meeting. Our bodies have been in such close proximity to one another for years, much closer than many people were to their own families or friends. Occasionally he would look up at me, but he didn’t really see me. I was like a plant or an office accessory that blurred into the background like any other. It probably helped that I looked like a group of people that in his mind he waved away. Mexican, different, other. I’m not sure what he classified me as, probably all the above. My short stature and dark, round features were not something that drew in his eye or called for further investigation. I couldn’t complain however, it was to my advantage that I was so unremarkable and insignificant-I would never be considered a suspect.

It was in the third year that he addressed me in a off handed way, calling out, “Bring me a water bottle”. And it was only this past year, that he talked to me. It was late at night after a 10-hour shift, and most of the office was emptied out. I was making my rounds in one of the larger conference rooms, emptying the small trash cans when he beckoned me over with one of his plump fingers.

“I’m in a generous mood, so I’m not going to report you, but it seems that you have been slacking. I would revisit the Morningstar conference room if I were you. Comprendo?” Then he tossed his coat over his shoulder and walked briskly away. When I went back to the conference room there were two empty paper coffee cups left on one of the narrow tables alongside the wall. Besides the two cups, undoubtedly left by members of the last meeting everything else was immaculate if not sparkling. When I got home, I was so angry at myself for just standing there, wide eyed, probably with my mouth agape. In my fantasy, I would have prodded his broad beefy chest with my index finger while exclaiming, “Clean it up yourself!” For a few nights after this incident I would go home and recite this into my bathroom mirror “Clean it up yourself, you asshole!” I would add different vulgarities depending on my mood. I would scream it until my face was red and flushed. It felt good. But after a few nights of this, I grew tired of it, knowing that it would forever remain a fantasy because I was a fly on the wall for a reason. I was a fly on a mission.

The plan wouldn’t have been possible, if the office wasn’t operating under a widespread and simple assumption- that I didn’t speak English. My first week, people just assumed that I was Spanish speaking only and in response I would just nod or smile back. Seemingly no one would have guessed I grew up in the United States. I didn’t mind, since this fit perfectly into my plan. I was labeled as a nonthreat and this gave me the freedom to enter the smaller, more intimate meetings- the Morningstar conference room meetings. I would shuffle in, my gaze averted, make my way slowly to the trash can, while everyone continued to talk. Over and over again, the meetings would just go on, as though my entrance was nothing more than the air conditioner kicking on. Right away, I knew that was how I would bring him to his knees. At first the conversations were garbled words and jargon that I didn’t understand, as though they were indeed speaking another language. But eventually, I began to understand the politics, the subtle non spoken meanings and the back of the napkin deals.

Another advantage was that Mr. X was a pure creature of habit. Maybe it had to do with his age, or just his personality, but he was so painfully predictable. Meeting after meeting, he had his little black book by his side. It almost felt like that little book had its own personality, as though it were his persistent and aggressive personal assistant, judging the rest of the meeting attendees while giving Mr. X bitchy side commentary. Though the book was out, sitting squarely on the conference table, Mr. X would never open it during meetings. Only after all attendees had exited the room would he furiously jot down his notes in his chicken scratch handwriting. Then at the end of the day, he would tuck it away in the breast pocket of his overcoat, storing it close to his heart. If I hadn’t despised Mr. X maybe I would find this ritual rather endearing, but to me it just further proved his idiocy.

The first year that I worked at the headquarters, I noticed that Mr. X paid particular attention to a woman named Kimberly Evans. She was a busty, red heady woman with bright eyes and a high-pitched laugh. When she was around, he became even louder and more overbearing. The corners of his broad toady mouth would peel upwards when she would enter the room and he would bounce over to her, like an eager puppy. I noticed this dynamic right away and wasn’t sure how to use it to my advantage, until I thought about the idea of the little black book. I purchased the book and sent it to Mr. X’s home address with a little blue bow on top, accompanied by a heart shaped note. I told him to always keep the book by his side, that way I (aka Kimberly) would see it as a token of his devotion. After that, the book was ever present in the Morningstar conference room, just as I had planned.

Though I wish I could say, I had a more thought out master plan I still didn’t know how I would get the book back into my possession. Since Kimberly’s affections seemed to still mean the world to Mr. X, despite the fact that I had caught Kimberly in the supply room with her arms around a man named Bill several months after the purchase of the book, he never left it unattended. You would think it was his personal diary. That’s why I know it was a stroke of pure luck when the little book fell into my lap. It was nothing less than fate.

It was a Tuesday, a normal, boringly unremarkable Tuesday. I had been replenishing the toilet paper in the women’s bathroom when I heard someone call out from their desk, “Someone help! Dave fainted!” I didn’t know who Dave was, nor did I care, but this situation set my plan in motion on a much quicker timeline than I had anticipated and for that I will always be grateful to this delicate Dave. Remind me to thank him later.

Being the superman that Mr. X believed himself to be and with Kimberly Evans to impress, he abruptly jumped from the conference room chair when he heard this cry for help, squeezed his body through the narrow doorway and propelled himself into the chaotic situation of reviving Dave. Though he was no medical profession, he would later recall his vital importance in the situation. While he was completely absorbed in this act of heroism, I was able to slip easily into the Morningstar conference room and apprehend the little black book. I decided for dramatic effect that I would replace the little black book with a blank copy that I always carried around in case this very situation arose. Since it was nearing the end of the workday, Mr. X would likely slip the black book into his coat pocket and make his merry way home without realizing until the next morning that he was bamboozled.

With the book in tow, I left work before my shift was over that day. Back at my home office, I sliced open the back cover of the book and took out the chip that I had planted two years ago. Two years of huge secrets were captured on this tiny microchip. While listening to the recording, I logged into my trading account. With the help of Mr. X’s notes, the very notes from the little black book, that I had been reviewing on a nightly basis through the small camera planted in the Morningstar conference room positioned right above Mr. X’s conference room chair, my portfolio was close to $36M. The money was just a small repentance for what Mr. X did to me. Let’s just call it my inheritance, just like the one I’m sure Mr. X received from his parents and the one that he will leave to his children.

But this was bigger than money and the recording allowed the second part of my plan to play out- the revenge piece. As I listened, insider secrets, names, dates, locations all spilled out from this tiny chip. I made copies of the chip, packaged them up with an anonymous note and shipped them out to every news station in the area.

Mr. X is now serving a 30-year prison sentence.

Now reader you may be asking why?

Well, let me start by introducing myself. My name is Maria Julia Romero Ramirez.

I came to the United States when I was 5 years old with my parents from Guatemala. When I was 9 my parents were taken - hunted and dragged away by a policy that Mr. X drafted and executed in order to “keep our borders safe”. After they were taken, I lost contact with them. I lived alone, in poverty, dodging social service agents, until I was of legal age. I still don’t know if my parents are dead or alive. And for that, Mr. X had to pay. Up until this year, Mr. X lived with his wife and 4 children in a large mansion in D.C. I lived as an orphan in a cellar of a convenience store, with no bathroom. To this day, I still have no home, no family.

And for that-I’m just trying to settle the score.

And that reminds me, I owe a thank you for our dear delicate Dave. Remember him? The fainter. I think $20,000 will do. I’ll drop the check in the mail on my way to the airport.

My mission here is done.