One Last Task

“Twenty-thousand? Are you sure?”

I stand blinking.

“Yes, well...”, she hesitates and draws in a sharp breath.

“Well, it’s $23,413, but after service fees, taxes, um, let’s see, yes, $20,000 exactly.”

I have to steady myself on the counter with one hand.

“Did you want to bundle this with your other props from last week? Of course if you’d like to keep it for later, props can be put on a hold process, similar to...”

I stop listening but I still see her mouth moving.

Prop.

Where did that word even come from? I’d made the assumption, like others, that it referred to being propped up. Perhaps it came from the Spanish word “propina”, meaning “tip.” The internet turned it into an acronym: people renting other people. Nobody knew for sure though.

“Are you familiar with that process?”

The woman peers at me over her glasses, squinting. Surely she can see I’m in shock.

She asks gently, “Have you been working tasks for long?”

I nod, but then shake my head.

“Only a few years.”

I stumble over the sentence. I can hear my voice as if it comes from across the room. I guess it has been a few years. Close to three now anyways.

Most of the work (otherwise known as tasks) has been boring, at best.

A line starts to form behind me and someone clears their throat. I become suddenly aware of my surroundings. I remove my phone from the transfer pad.

“I’ll come back later.”

Fumbling, I stash my phone away in one pocket and my hand in the other. Even the perfunctory task of walking seems difficult and my head swirls.

As I leave the office, I feel the telltale vibration and quickly pull my phone back out.

A task. Just a few blocks away and I’m quick enough to accept it. I never look at what the work is for because I need whatever I can get. I always take every task and I am always grateful for every prop.

It’s a pet sitting job.

Pretty common these days.

Leaving a pet alone has become akin to leaving a child alone and anyone who can afford it will hire someone like me, a task worker, to sit with their pet. Usually for a brief time, but if you’re lucky it might be for the weekend.

I arrive to a modern apartment and a man rushes out to greet me. He ushers me inside, giving me quick directions and introduces me to a fluffy Maltese. The dog is curled on the couch, dozing and unaware of my arrival.

After the man leaves, I sit on the couch, staring at the white pile of fur.

I contemplate the mysterious prop in my account. I have never heard of a prop this large.

Props are paid weekly. There are suggested amounts for props, but people are usually a little more or a little less generous than suggested.

Lately, it’s been a little less.

When a prop transfer is initiated, you are payed for your previous week’s work. Making over a hundred dollars is considered good pay.

A hundred dollars is enough to get by. I can pay my rent at the dormitory, afford decent food, and still have a bit left over. Not much though. If I need something additional - new shoes, a trip to the neighboring city - I‘ll have to take out a loan against my digital account.

Cash is obsolete.

I remember in elementary, passing around a laminated sheet that contained dollars. Green paper pressed between clear pages. The teacher explained this concept of currency to us. It seemed fragile and easy to misplace, like anything made of paper.

Paper is almost obsolete as well.

The pile of fur shifts and snores.

The problem with props, well, you never knew who pays you what. Of course, if you only did two or three props a week you could figure it out. But I accept dozens each week. My head ached as I went back over the tasks from the previous week. This anonymous system claims to ensure tasks are accepted without discrimination, but I have never found it to be fair.

The minimum to be compensated for tasks is a single dollar per hour.

I’d been lucky once to get a task of cat sitting for an entire week. After the minimum of $168, I was given an additional $12. Most of my food was provided and I hadn’t needed to pay the weekly rent at my dorm. That was a good week, despite the banal surroundings and persistent boredom.

Anyways.

What were my tasks from last week? Let’s see. I’d helped a family who was moving. They had several chests of clothing and wanted it organized. It was a longer task, over six hours total. They had a lot of clothes.

There had been a few “accompaniment” tasks.

This is when you simply go somewhere with someone. There is no expectation of conversation or assistance, simply put: the person doesn’t want to be alone. Regular accompaniment tasks include shopping or appointments.

Less common, but increasingly more frequent, are people who want to be accompanied for an entire day. These tasks are especially boring as they involve mostly sitting and watching someone else carry out their mundane routines.

I had one of those last week. I sat with a woman all day as she restlessly waited for her husband to return from work. Her day consisted of eating imported bonbons, incessantly checking her phone, and pacing about like a caged tiger.

Then I remembered.

Early one morning, I felt the vibration of my phone and in a state of half-consciousness, I accepted my first task of the day. I got dressed in the dingy bathroom outside my dorm and rushed off. The location was forty minutes away on foot, but the price of public transportation was not in my budget. It never is.

I was unfamiliar with the neighborhood and it took me another twenty minutes to locate the correct house. An elderly woman sitting on the porch greeted me and brushed away my apologies. She had a warm, genial smile across her creased face.

“I’m in no hurry,” she said as she slowly rose and led me into her home.

I knew this was a writing task when I accepted it. I am one of the few people I know personally who can write by hand. It isn’t a desirable or lucrative skill. Nonetheless, older people are still fond of writing letters or notes. Handwritten journals were popular in their youth and there is a sentimental yearning for a simpler time, though their time wasn’t simple at all.

Her task, however, was quite simple.

The house was full of relics. Paintings, books, mirrors - all uncommon sights. Only the most venerable families had chosen to hold onto souvenirs like these. There was no monetary value in these items, but to own them was a sign of obvious worldliness and sophistication.

She was clutching a small, black notebook to her chest. She held it tightly as she explained what she wanted me to do. Then, she led me to a desk where a towering stack of notecards awaited me.

She wanted me to write thank-you cards for her.

I realized she planned to send these by post and was astounded that anyone would spend money for such a thing. There must have been five hundred cards. I can only imagine how much it would cost to send with the antiquated mail system.

I quickly got to work, copying her notes onto the cards, before sealing them into their predetermined envelopes.

She had seemingly wrote thank-you notes to everyone she had ever known.

Most notes were basic.

“Thank you for your assistance over the years. I sincerely appreciate your dedication.”

“Thank you for the dental work. My teeth have felt much better.”

“Thank you for the dishes, they are lovely.”

Some were more intriguing.

“Thank you for the time we spent in Cairo. May the memories last as long as the trails we traveled.”

“I appreciate your skillful hand and mind. Your knowledge remains valuable and cherished.”

“My amour, I am writing to thank you for the many delights we have shared.”

I found myself wondering about this woman’s life. She was as much of an antique as the items in her home. At least ninety years old. Her frail hands were marked with the swollen knuckles of arthritis and her hair was just a tuft of fuzz. She was as gray as the cityscape I traversed each day.

But clearly she had lived a captivating life. The thank-you notes revealed travel and love and experiences that most people only dream to have.

The writing task took the entire day. She served me lunch, as well as dinner. I needed several breaks from writing, as the ballpoint pen caused my hand to cramp and ache.

As I wrote, she busied herself around the house. She removed stacks of books from shelves and arranged them in boxes. I stayed focused on my task but occasionally I would steal a glance at the rare artifacts.

When I finished, the sun had set, and I had written a stack of thank-you cards as tall as the brass lamp on the desk.

She retrieved the black notebook, clutching it closely again. Her eyes were watery as she looked up at me and said, “Thank you for your help today.”

And that was it.

My hand was throbbing but otherwise it had been an easy and interesting task. I walked back to my dormitory, stopping for a nightcap, and crawled into bed. I thought about the thank-you cards. Who were they for? Why was she sending them?

The dog suddenly awakes, giving me an awkward look followed by a low whine. I am about to fill a bowl with food but the owner rushes back in and rushes me out. An hour has passed. I can hear him droning to the dog in an infantile voice as I leave.

I walk back to the prop distribution office.

The same woman greets me and I put my phone on the transfer device.

Then, I lower my voice.

“Is there... is there any way you can tell me more about this prop?”

I point to the early morning writing task. I’m sure it’s the one.

The woman frowns.

I know she can access the information, but I also know it is against the rules. I plead with her through my eyes. She is looking at me over her glasses again and she raises an eyebrow.

Finally, I whisper, “For a portion of the transfer? Please?”

Everyone has a price. Although my price as a task worker is probably lower than most.

She types a triple digit number on the screen and I nod. It is pennies compared to what I am about to be paid.

“Pennies” being a concept I understand only in speech; I have never actually seen a coin.

The woman scans over her screen. She frowns, then smiles, then frowns again.

“Well, the person who hired you for the task, is deceased now. The deceased left the final amount in her account to you, as your prop. Your other props from last week total... $104. So, you can see that most of it came from the deceased.”

I repeat the word “deceased” in my head.

I didn’t know her name and never will.

“That’s it. That’s all I know, ok?”

I have overstayed my welcome and a line grows behind me.

I thank the woman and type in the digits for the transfer, minus the amount we had agreed upon for her discretional sharing of knowledge.

As I walk out of the office, unsure of what I will do next, I clutch my phone to my chest, as the old woman had clutched the notebook.

“Thank you.”