The Black Briefcase

My name is Monty Calhoun. About two years ago I retired from the Army. I joined when I was 18, right out of high school. I’ve been to Iraq, South Korea, Afghanistan twice, and Germany. I’ve been through two wars and two divorces.

Since I got out I’ve just been driving around North America in my RV, just seeing where the road takes me. Last Fall I was in Nashville, spending the afternoon just walking around. I saw a little black book lying on the ground.

Something told me to pick it up and look inside. The book was blank except for the first page. Written in blue ink was an address and the following message: “Go to this address and knock twice. Tell the man who answers the door that you are here for the briefcase. He will ask you for a password. It is Coldwater.”

I was intrigued. I entered the address into my phone. It was only a couple of miles away. I decided to walk to the address and check it out.

I arrived at a yellow house with a friendly looking porch. I knocked twice on the door. One minute later a short elderly Asian man opened the door. I told him that I was here for the briefcase. He asked for the password. I said, “Coldwater”.

The man closed the door in my face without saying anything. Enough time passed that I thought that he might not be coming back. Maybe I had failed some part of the test. Just as I was about to turn and leave, the door opened and the man handed me a black briefcase. As soon as it was in my hand he shut the door.

I decided not to open the case until I got back to the RV. I sat down at my little table inside the RV. When I opened the case, I saw that it was filled with hundred dollar bills. I counted them. There was twenty thousand dollars in that case.

I was in a real moral dilemma. Who did this money belong to? Did I mess up a drug deal or some kind of other illegal activity? Would someone be looking for me and the money? I had to imagine someone would notice it’s missing.

Just then someone knocked on the door to my RV. I closed the case and set it under the table. I opened the door to see a thin white guy in what looked to be an expensive, tailored royal blue suit. His face and head were shaved clean. He looked to be about my age.

“I’m lost. Can you give me directions?” he asked.

“I’m not from around here. You can use my phone if you need to.”

“I’m lost. Can you give me directions?” he asked again.

“Like I said, I’m not from around here. I don’t know the area. Do you want to use my phone?”

“I’m lost. Can you give me directions?”

I shut the door and went back to sit at my table.

I decided to keep the money and get the hell out of town. I got on I-40 heading West toward Memphis. About three and a half hours later I was in Memphis. I didn’t feel like I had put enough distance between me and Nashville, but it was dark and I was tired so I found an RV park to stay for the night.

I put the case under my bed. I fell asleep, but I kept seeing the bald man in my dreams.

“I’m lost. Can you give me directions?” he would ask.

I woke up to someone knocking on my door. I peeked out my window. It was the bald man. He saw me looking at him.

“I’m lost. Can you give me directions?” he called out to me.

I cranked up the RV and got the hell out of there.

For the next month the bald man would follow me everywhere I went. I couldn’t escape him. I would see him in my dreams and at my door. Finally I couldn’t take it anymore.

“Is this about the money? Do you want the money?” I yelled at him.

“I’m lost. Can you give me directions?”

I threw the case at him. It was a few thousand lighter than when I got it, but I hoped it would be enough for him to leave me alone.

I drove off into the night, hoping I’d never see the bald man in the blue suit again.