Why me?

I'm thinking, "Deep, dark, dreamless sleep."

"Breathe in... two... three. Breathe out... two...three."

Screw it! This is not working! I haven't slept well in six weeks.

Of course, it doesn't help that as a scholarship student, I have to take a full course load and maintain a GPA of eighty plus to ensure my tuition coverage. And a girl has to sleep somewhere, so I have to work part time to pay for my spot in the student residence. After a couple of disastrous jobs in student pubs, I was fortunate to obtain a position as a day bar tender at The Faculty Club, which is a beautiful Victorian building on campus with stained glass windows and wood paneling. It's quiet and clean and I get to wear a nice black dress. It's a "members only" club and is a whole bunch of steps up from the student bars. As a bonus, during each shift, I am allowed to order all the food I want for $5.00. The chef teases me about how a little skinny girl can put away three sandwiches each shift. He's right. I do put them away - wrapped in plastic in my purse to feed me until my next shift.

Basically, I serve old "deadwood" professors who achieved tenure years ago and then essentially abandoned academia and had nothing else to do and nowhere else to go. Sometimes when I approach the door to open up at 11:30 a.m., it looks like we're running a geriatric methadone clinic. A few geezers are already lined up, shuffling in their loafers, looking at their watches, anxious to rest their butts in the lovely wing back chairs and start the drinking day. They are nice for the most part. Sure, I have to sometimes dodge drifting hands when I bend over to set drinks down on the low mahogany coffee tables, but I am young and agile, so that's ok. Listening to their endless bragging competitions about past publications and accolades is worse.

And then there is "Dr. P." He saunters in at about 12:10 p.m., adhering to some old English principle about not imbibing before noon. He purposely stands at the bar. Never sits. He explained that standing is his strategy to monitor his intake. When he starts to sway, he knows he should order his last beer and then meander home while he can still walk. The only problem is that I have to man the bar, which means I have to listen to Dr. P.'s recitations of his world travels; and also decline his offers to take me on his next trip, "all expenses paid, no strings attached", so he has a dinner companion each night. I honed a pleasant smiling expression while thinking of which of my veins I might open with the corkscrew.

To keep up a professional image, I am not allowed to do home work or even read a book while working. Classical music plays endlessly, which is okay the first twenty times you hear the tape loop. Other than the boredom, all in all, it's a pretty good gig.

The job took an upswing one Thursday when a male under the age of seventy swooped in. Good looking, young, nicely attired. He ordered the most expensive Single Malt on the shelf and directed me to charge it to the account of the Dean of Philosophy - his father, whom he was to meet in the formal dining room for lunch. He needed a little anticipatory fortification. He introduced himself as, "Hal."

I thought, "Who names their kid 'Hal' these days?" I said, " Oh, like in '2001: A Space Odyssey'?" He laughed and voiced surprise that I knew the film. That led to a discussion of other science fiction movies, and then sci fi literature, and there were several more single malts because dad no showed, which, apparently, was not uncommon. My shift flew by and when I left, I thanked Hal for the big tip.

To my surprise, Hal appeared again the following Thursday. I asked if he had a "rain date" with dad, but he didn't. I glowed a little, thinking he wished to see me, but then he explained that he had worked his way through less than one quarter of the Single Malts on the shelf. My heart sank.

"You should join me."

I replied that I could not drink while working and expressed that I was a "cheap white wine girl", so the experience would be wasted on me. I was miffed that that he had not returned just to see me, so I added that I could not justify drinking an ounce of liquor that cost more than my weekly food budget.

After an awkward silence, I felt bad, so I commented that I had seen the movie, "The Angels' Share", and that was all I knew about Scotch Whisky. Again, Hal was shocked that I had seen that film, and a discussion ensued about other Scottish films, and other foreign films, and then we segued into movie soundtracks, and then my shift was over. Hal gave me another big tip.

After that, Hal was a regular on Thursday afternoons. We talked about more films, as well as music, literature, art, and, of course, Scotch. We started sharing personal information. He learned about my stereotypical "middle class girl from small town leaves home to attend university in the big city" story and he told me his stereotypical "kid from privileged background parties his way through life" story. He referred to himself as "an academic tourist", taking courses in Ancient Civilizations, Film Studies, Art, Literature, History etc. He had no career goal because he didn't need one - he was rich. He said, "It's all fun and games until someone loses their trust fund." I thought, "Ha, ha. (Sarcastically.)

As time passed, and additional whiskies were sampled, Hal revealed more about his life. It turned out that he "loved the ladies". He described his many, many conquests. He had "dated" a former child actress who had put her Hollywood career on hold to obtain a degree in English Lit. He had been involved with the granddaughter of a former U.S. Vice president. He had also slept with both a Miss Florida and a Miss Alaska. He spoke at length about the gorgeous Mexican girl with whom he had a tumultuous relationship until he realized that her father was probably a drug lord. There was also the fabulous Russian exchange student who turned out to be "connected."

By then, I was silently calling, "B.S." I could no longer accept his stories as valid. Nevertheless, they were entertaining. Oh - forgot to mention all the wives of professors he supposedly dallied with. I love a good soap opera as much as the next girl, but it was just too much to be true. I pasted on my pleasant smile that I had perfected with Dr. P., and thought of the big tips that Hal kept giving me. He never asked me out, even though we seemed to have a connection and I would say that I am solid 7.5 on the 0 to 10 female attractiveness scale.

One Thursday, Hal arrived a bit later than usual and had obviously been drinking already. I went to pour the next single malt on the list, but he shook his head and asked for a shot of tequila - an expensive tequila, of course.

"I had some bad news."

I asked if he wanted to talk. He declined, but added, "If I was going to talk to anyone about this, it would be you." He revealed that he considered me to be his "good friend". My heart sank. Again. He stated that I was the only person he could trust. As he threw back further shots, he became more effusive. He expressed that he "loved" me, but he hadn't invited me to any events with his other friends, not because I wasn't rich (I thought, "Thanks for that, Hal"), but because he liked to have something that was just his own. When I was preparing to leave at the end of my shift, Hal leaned across the bar and asked if he could come back to my room in residence. I thought, "Woohoo!"

I had to physically support Hal while walking down the cobbled path to the quad with the big oak tree, and then across to my building. I fretted about how Hal would perceive my simple room. If he was disdained, he didn't show it. He seemed mesmerized by the wall beside my bed that was plastered with pictures I had cut from magazines of places I wished to visit some day and postcards of famous paintings purchased from art gallery gift shops.

"Got anything to drink?"

I opened my mini fridge and revealed a half bottle of white plonk and two light beers. Hal decided on beer, and slumped into the only seat - an old armchair I had inherited when my grandmother passed. As I leaned over to give him the beer, Hal suddenly placed a hand on each side of my face. I thought, "Woohoo!" He said, "I really do consider you my good friend." My heart sank. Again. He chugged about half the beer and awkwardly placed the bottle on the floor and promptly passed out. I drank the rest of the beer. I said, "Waste not; want not." Hal did not respond, so I went to bed - wearing all my clothes as an "access denied" sign in case Hal fancied his chances in the middle of the night.

When I awoke in the morning, Hal was still slumbering. I went to the communal washroom down the hall. When I returned, Hal was gone. There was an envelope on the chair. The writing did not say "thank you", as I anticipated . Instead, "Open if something happens to me." I realized I had never seen Hal's writing. It struck me that this may not be his writing, and the envelope might not be for me. Maybe it fell out of his jacket? It then hit me that I did not have his phone number. I considered calling his father's office, but given the conversations we had that suggested a disparaged relationship, I dismissed that idea. Not knowing what to do, I placed the envelope under my mattress.

My little life went on. I composed essays, and wrote exams, and worked. Hal did not return to the bar. Weeks passed. Every time I made my bed, I felt the envelope under my fingertips and thought of Hal. I saw nothing on the news that might pertain to him. I googled him, with, surprisingly, no success. That reinforced my conclusion that his stories had been fabricated for his own amusement.

So, here I am six weeks later. Is six weeks of "radio silence" sufficient to conclude that "something" has happened to someone? I don't know, but I can't stand the lack of sleep any longer. I pull the envelope out of its spot. I take my scissors and snip along the top edge. I pinch the opposite end and shake and the contents are discharged onto my duvet: a small black book and a cheque for $20,000.00 made out to me. I think, "WTF, Hal?!"