Deal or no Deal

The third time Gabe came across the case of money, left in his path like a tantalizing pot of gold, he said the exact same thing he’d said before:

“I’m not taking it until you tell me who it is!”

Moira made a noise that was decidedly tantrum-like, and slipped from her hiding spot behind the street corner. Moira was not her real name, and her appearance was not her real appearance, but as she’d explained to Gabe, “I chose a form that would appear non-threatening. Who’s going to sock a sweet old grandma in the head?”

Right now, the alleged sweet old grandma was busy scowling as the money—a case full of crisp stacks totalling $20,000—flickered out of existence with a wiggle of her fingers. “Oh come on! Usually it’s the other person who’s full of questions and existential dread. The ones in your position don’t ask questions. ”

“Well, I’m asking questions.” Gabe held up a little black notebook. “I’ve got it narrowed down to three. Can you at least let me know if it’s one of them?”

“No.”

“Is it because you can’t, or you won’t? You’re telling me no one’s ever asked you before?”

“No one. You’re giving me a headache, sonny. And other troubles. You want to know how much fun it is to be getting digestive upset in this kind of body?”

They’d been at this for the better part of a week. At first, Gabe assumed it was a joke. Then, he assumed it was a bizarre method of money laundering. And then, when the alleged sweet old lady (whatever she was… he’d settled on ‘maybe angel, maybe demon, maybe sadistic leprechaun’) managed to convince him that no, really, the $20,000 was entirely his for the taking, no strings attached, well…

He could just take the money and spend it on whatever he pleased. A new car for his mother. He could treat his sister and nephews to a nice dinner out. A lavish trip. A bouncy castle. He could give it all to charity. But first, he had to know.

“I have things to do,” Moira grumbled, hands perched on her floral-patterned slacks. “People to torment. I can’t move along until you take the flappin’ money.”

Gabe clutched his black book. His sister was a detective. She always said, sometimes you need to hear the facts again to crack the case. “Just walk me through it again. One week ago, you went up to… someone. Man, woman…?”

Moira pushed the glasses up her wrinkled nose. “Quit trying to pry answers out of me. You know the story. I went up to someone, and offered them the deal: they get $10,000, but their worst enemy gets $20,000. Do they take the deal? And lucky you, this person took the deal. And that’s how I got stuck with you.”

“But who…” Gabe sighed. He wasn’t any closer to an answer, but the question would not stop gnawing at him: who on Earth thought he was their worst enemy?

The second time Moira left the case in his house, and he’d refused it, he got to thinking, sat, and jotted down notes. Gabe was not a holy saint, but he wasn’t a bad guy either. He didn’t hold grudges, didn’t have rivalries. He’d been the dorky kid in school, not one to bully others. His current job, for the most part, was free of drama. He didn’t live the sort of life that would lead to having enemies.

He narrowed the list down to three, after filling the notebook with thoughts and reminisces and charts detailing the trials and tribulations of his life and relations, his love and his hate and everything in between. He’d commented to Moira that it was oddly therapeutic to reflect on life like this, and she’d screamed at him that it wasn’t the point, and could he just accept the money already?? And maybe it wasn’t the point, but he had three enemies scribbled in his book, and that counted for something.

Corey Kaufman. The high school bully who’d tormented him every day for two years and got away with it. He’d broken three pairs of Gabe’s glasses.

Karine Jacob, the University professor he’d feuded with, the one who’d humiliated him in front of the class, the one who told him he had no future in creative writing, the reason why he'd ended up with a career in the public service instead.

Jordan Bissonnette, the sod from two jobs ago who made Gabe’s day to day operations a complete misery until h'd nearly burnt out from stress.

Moira had taken one look at the names, and said nothing. No indication which one of them was now sitting $10,000 richer, which one of them didn’t mind the thought of Gabe swimming in $20,000.

And so the standoff continued.

"How long have you been doing this for, anyway?" Gabe asked. Talking was talking, after all. Maybe she'd slip up.

Moira shrugged, adjusting her cardigan. “Decades, centuries. Who even remembers? I adjust the amount for inflation, in case you were wondering.”

He wasn’t. “And you’re stuck here until I take the money from you?”

“I’m not here for fun and sparkles, sonny boy.”

“How many people refuse the deal? On average?”

“Maybe, ehh… a bit more than half. They could all have used the money, but they’d rather be broke than let someone they hate get any sort of reward. You ever heard the expression cutting off your nose to spite your face? You people live on that.”

Gabe glanced at the people passing them on the sidewalk. How many of them lived on spite, he wondered? How many of them were someone’s worst nightmare? Bullies, thieves, murderers… “It's not always about spite. Some people don't deserve to be forgiven. What if someone's worst enemy did something really bad to them?”

Moira snorted. “What am I, an angel? Who said anything about forgiveness? You don’t have to forgive anyone. You might feel better if you forget, who knows. And if you can’t do that… hey, you’ve got a rare opportunity to profit. That’s where I come in. This choice is supposed to tear people up inside. And I'd really like to get back to it, so for the last time...”

“Not until I know who. And you’re going to tell me, otherwise you’re stuck here until the day I die, right?”

Moira looked about ready to make that assumption a reality. A look of malevolence passed behind those tiny glasses and Gabe saw his life flash before his eyes, but then Moira grinned, evil and dark.

“… You know what? Fine. You want to know so bad? You want to torture both of us? I’ll show you who it is. But it’s going to drive you even crazier.”

“Try me.”

Moira pointed to a bench by the sidewalk. Gabe's hands shook around the notebook as they sat. Once he knew, he reasoned, he'd be fine, and he'd take the money and move on.

Moira wiggled her bony fingers. A photograph appeared in her palm and she handed it over. It was a man, maybe a tad older than Gabe, dressed neutrally and smiling reservedly. The name ‘David Papineau’ was scribbled on the back.

It wasn’t the answer he was expecting. Because, well… “I...I don’t know this guy.”

Moira’s grin was still wide. “Oh, he knows you.”

Gabe looked again. Slightly familiar, maybe? Someone from school? Summer camp? Work? Someone's ex?

“But how can we be enemies if I don’t even know him?”

“Funny how it works, huh?” Moira chuckled, hooking her arms over the back of the bench. “You think any of those people from that book waste time thinking about you? Think they'd point to you if I asked them who their worst enemy is? You can hate them ‘til the cows come home, but it doesn’t do them a bit of harm. You’re the one letting them live rent-free in your head.”

Gabe stared at the photograph. Had he cut this guy off in traffic? Stolen his lunch from the office refrigerator? Had this guy written down notes and charts until he’d come up with Gabe’s name, reluctantly handing it over to this angel-demon thing, come to torment him with a sadistic choice? Was he desperate for $10,000, to the point that he didn't care if his most hated person profited?

“I’m not a bad person,” Gabe said feebly, more for his benefit than Moira's. His hands were still shaking, for an entirely different reason. "I wouldn't have done anything to this guy."

“Pfft. I don’t care if you steal cars or step on posies. I’m not here to judge, I’m usually here to torment the people to who I offer the deal. You’re just a knucklehead who can’t accept free money.”

“I can’t take the money.”

“Oh, for the love of…!” Moira looked about ready for a stroke.

“I mean… I don’t know who this guy is, or what I did to him, but I obviously hurt him pretty bad, yeah? If he’s still thinking about me after all this time… God, isn’t it even worse that I don’t remember him? The only reason you’re offering me this money is because, somehow, at some point, I made this guy suffer. He hates me more than anyone on Earth. I can’t profit from that.”

“Listen here…”

“Can I give it to him? Give the $20,000 to him. Go back and tell him his worst enemy refused. Tell him I'm sorry.”

“What if he kicks puppies? You don’t know that. Besides, I can’t. There are rules to my particular flavor of torment. The choice isn’t yours. You need to take the money.”

“I don’t want it." Gabe smothered his face in his hands. It was tainted money, as far as he was concerned. "So if you can't take it back, I guess you’re stuck with me for a while. You’re not allowed to kill me... are you?”

She probably would have done it by now if she could, which meant Gabe was inheriting a very permanent, very cranky devil on his shoulder.

“Doesn’t mean I can’t dream about it. Okay…” Moira slipped off her glasses and cleaned them with a tissue tucked between her wrinkled bosoms. When she put them back on, Gabe caught a glimpse of something otherworldly behind those eyes. Cold, but not malevolent. All business.

Moira steepled her fingers in front of her mouth. “Okay. Listen carefully. I am sick to death of dealing with you, Gabe. I need to follow certain… let’s call them rules. I can’t leave you until you take the money. Or… I can offer you a deal. And because you gave me such a headache, I’m going to make it a very difficult deal.”

Gabe gulped. Oh no.

“I will give you $10,000, guilt-free. And in exchange… the three names in that book each get $20,000. Deal? Or no deal?”

Three enemies. Three people who probably forgot he existed. Three people who, for all he knew, were like him. Human, flawed, regretful. Or, for all he knew, were sociopathic, evil, and cruel.

More than half the people didn’t take the deal. Cutting off their nose to spit their face. Gabe understood that. Some things couldn’t be forgiven.

But it wasn’t about forgiveness, was it? Like Moira said: it was about torment.

“Come on, hmm?” Moira cackled, rising to her feet and brushing dust off her slacks. “Are you going to let them live rent free in your head? Or are you going to charge them for the privilege? If nothing else, imagine tormenting them while they try to figure out who the hell you are.”

For a moment, Gabe hovered, vacillating between the names in his book and the mystery of the man in the photograph. Between spite, and guilt, and everything in between.

“Damn it.” Gabe closed his eyes, let his hand do the talking. He shoved the notebook in Moira’s hands. “Deal.”