Gutsy
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The Postcards
21. May 2012
New York City
Thomas Anderson was scrolling on his Blackberry, until he found a message from one of his clients economy directors. The man wished to make an appointment, where he could come down to Hartford to talk about his deal. It was a simple routine, which Thomas usually left for his ride home. Using his thumps he wrote an answer, while the limousine slowly moved forward up Park Avenue in the beautiful spring time, with the skyscrapers towering above the little car.
A moment later he received another message. It was from his wife: “I have a surprise for you”
He quickly replied: “I’m looking forward to it”
Outside on the sidewalks you could see hundreds of people walk home from work, bumping into each other, talking on their phones and going into bars with their friends. This one day was the first hot evening of the year, which was remarkable longer, making people walk faster down the street and making them feel happier in the last rays of the sun. You could see young men walking down the street with their jackets hanging over their shoulders walking down the street, feeling the breeze going through their hair, while the women were all dressed in small skirts who felt the breeze on their bare legs. Thomas knew the city would be full of life this evening. Thomas could hear the sweet music from an apartment, coming out from an open window, slowly making its way down towards the street, letting the people hear the music on their way home.
Thomas concentrated on his little LCD-screen and did not notice or hear anything. There was no body outside who noticed him, a man sitting inside a limousine, a 36 year old advisor, obviously wealthy, wearing a suit from Barneys, with thick hair and an exhausted expression after a long day at work, where nothing good happened for his carrier, his ego or his bank account.
The car stopped on the corner of Park Avenue and 81st Street, and first after he walked 4 meters from the car and up to his door, he realized that the weather was actually nice outside. As if he was celebrating the weather, he took a nice deep breath, feeling the air filling his lungs, and he was able to give the door man a smile, “How are you Frank?”
“I’m fine Mr. Anderson, how was your day at work today?”
“It was hell today, you should keep hiding your cash under the Madres” Thomas replied, it was their own little intern joke.
His apartment high up in the building had cost him close to five million dollars, when he bought it, just a few months after the 9/11 incident, it was a scoop. The market had been unstable, and the prices for an apartment had been low, due to the concerns from the salesmen, even though the apartment was a beauty. It is an exclusive apartment from before the war, with four meters to the ceiling, kitchen and a chimney, which actually works. Thomas usually buys, when the market is bad, no matter which market, and that is why he has more room, than a childless couple needs. The apartment was a scoop, his family was so excited about it, and he himself felt really good about living there. Besides the apartment is now worth 7.5 million, even if it went on auction, so all in all it had been a splendid investment.
The mailbox was empty; he yelled over his shoulder, “Hey Frank is my wife home?”
“Yes, she got home just 10 minutes ago”
That was a surprise. Her wallet was lying on top of a small pile of letters on the table in the entrée. He slowly and silently closed the door behind him, and tried to sneak up behind her in the hopes that he could lay his hands around her breasts and press his body against hers. He loved to surprise her that way. The Italian marble floors would not let him move silently across the room, not even in his bare feet, which eventually gave him away.
“Thomas is that you?”
“Yes, you’re home early…” He yelled.
“The court postponed the hearing” She replied from the kitchen.
Their puddle instantly heard his voice, and came running towards him from the living room from the other end of the apartment, but its small paws was skating across the marble, and without being able to break, it crashed right into the wall just like another hockey player.
“Bloomberg, how is my little sweetie?” Thomas yelled, as he put his briefcase down and picked up the little white ball of fur from the floor. The dog licked him all over his face with its little pink tongue and its tail swaying from side to side.
“No, don’t pee on daddy’s tie! Good boy, good boy… honey did anyone go for a walk with Bloomberg?”
“Peter told me, that Ricardo went for a walk with him around 4 o’clock”
Thomas put the dog back down, and began looking through the mail; Bills, magazines, personal mail, his catalogues, her catalogues and a post card. It was a completely white card with his name and address printed in black. He turned it around, to find a date; 22th of May, 2009. And beside the inscription he found a picture which made his heart beat faster, it was a drawing of a coffin.
“Helen! Have you seen this?”
His wife came out into the entrée. Her high heels were clicking against the marble floor. She was well dressed in a very dark blue Armani suit, with a pair of beautiful earrings and a pearl necklace around her neck, while her hair was perfectly set up so you could see her perfect face. Everyone would say that she was a beautiful woman.
“Seen what?”
“This…”
She looked at the postcard, “Who is it from?”
“There is no sender on it…” He replied.
“It is from Las Vegas… do you know anyone there?”
“Not as far as I know, I have been there on a business trip, but there is no one I can think of whom I could have met there…”
“Maybe it is a commercial for something, some kind of teaser…” She proposed and handed him the postcard. “A card today, another tomorrow, which explains what the first one means.”
He bought her explanation. She is very intelligent, and she is good at seeing through such things.
“Anyways… it is still bad style, I mean, a coffin? Seriously…”
“Honey, don’t let that spoil your good mood, we are both home early, it’s fantastic! Should we go to Tutti’s?”
He let the postcard fall down on the table with the rest of the mail and let his hands grab around her breasts and squeeze them gently while he let himself kiss her on the cheek.
“Before or after we have had some fun?” He said, hoping the answer would be ‘after’.
The postcard kept rumbling inside his head for the rest of the evening, even though he did not bring up the subject again. He thought about it while they waited for their dessert, he thought about it on the way home, when he went for a walk with Bloomberg and just before he went to bed. Helen was lying beside him reading a book, with her little blue lamp just able to make enough light for her to be able to read. Coffins was something he could not handle. When Thomas was just nine years old, his brother died from cancer, just five years old, and the sight of his little brothers coffin still haunted him until this day. The person who had sent him that postcard, no matter who it was, was an *******.
He turned off the alarm about 15 minutes before it would have gone off. The puddle jumped down from the bed and began its morning routine, running in circles after its own tail, while Thomas slowly got out of bed.
“Alright, alright, I’m coming” Thomas whispered, Helen was still sleeping. Financial people go to work several hours before lawyers, which is why it is always him, taking the dog for a walk in the morning.
Just a few minutes later, he was saying good morning to the door man, while Bloomberg walked away pulling the leech and him out into the cold weather in the morning. Thomas closed his jacket completely around his neck, before he began going north of 82nd Street, where the dog usually did its business, which had to be done, whereas he would go east towards Lexington Avenue and Starbucks, which usually opened early in the morning, and after getting his coffee he would make his way home. Park Avenue was one of the busiest streets in New York, and while Thomas was walking down the street, several taxies drove by and some large trucks filled with goods for some stores.
His head was calm and he was always thinking about new strategies he could use at work, but when he reached 82nd Street, there was no particular subject in his mind, he was busy with a lot of different things inside his mind, thought he had forgotten everything about the postcard. Suddenly when he turned around a corner down the road he was supposed to go, a dark road with tall withered trees, his survival instinct kicked in for a split second making him consider changing his routine and continue up the road to 83rd Street.
His self-respect won over his survival instincts, and he continued down 82nd Street, but he crossed the road, so he could keep a better eye on the young man who was leaning against a building on the other side of the road just a little further down the road. If the young man crossed the street he would know, that he would be in trouble. He would then pick up Bloomberg and run as fast as he could. Back in the day’s one of his best disciplines in school was the marathon, and he was still fast after playing basketball for many years. His Nike shoes were tied firmly and if needed, he would be able to run from the mysterious man.
The man began walking towards him, still on the other side of the road. He was a small person with his hood up, covering his face. Thomas hoped that a car would come down the road, or another person would come walking down the street, but the street was completely empty besides him, the dog and the stranger. He could barely hear the young man’s snickers slide across the sidewalk. All the houses were still covered in darkness; everyone was sleeping at this hour. His heart began to beat incredible fast, as they passed by each other on each side of the street, there was no eye contact, and he continued to walk. The young man on the other side also kept walking away, making the distance between them longer, step by step.
He slowly turned his face to look over his shoulder, to see the young man turn around the corner and continue down Park Avenue. Oh my god, I am a huge ***** and a racist one at that, he thought to himself.
Half way down the street, Bloomberg stopped to do its business at the usual spot. Though Thomas never understood why he did not hear the young man, before he was just a few meters behind him. He must have had his thoughts elsewhere. Maybe he had thought about the meeting with the CEO this morning about the market, maybe he was busy thinking about the dog which walked around its favorite spot, maybe he thought about Helen whom had ripped her bra off, or maybe the young man had made it his art to sneak up on people. None of the thoughts running through his mind could explain it.
Thomas was hit right in the back of his head, whereas he fell down on his knees. The unexpected pain was more fascinating than frightening to him. The blow made his entire world blurry. He looked over at Bloomberg whom had just finished its business, while hearing something about money and feeling some hands on his body going through all his pockets. He could see a small knife close to his left eye, and he could feel his watch being ripped off his hand and his ring. At this moment he thought about the postcard, that cursed postcard, and he heard himself say, “Was it you who sent it?” And he thought he could hear the young man say to him.
“Yes mother****er, it was me who sent it!”
A moment later he received another message. It was from his wife: “I have a surprise for you”
He quickly replied: “I’m looking forward to it”
Outside on the sidewalks you could see hundreds of people walk home from work, bumping into each other, talking on their phones and going into bars with their friends. This one day was the first hot evening of the year, which was remarkable longer, making people walk faster down the street and making them feel happier in the last rays of the sun. You could see young men walking down the street with their jackets hanging over their shoulders walking down the street, feeling the breeze going through their hair, while the women were all dressed in small skirts who felt the breeze on their bare legs. Thomas knew the city would be full of life this evening. Thomas could hear the sweet music from an apartment, coming out from an open window, slowly making its way down towards the street, letting the people hear the music on their way home.
Thomas concentrated on his little LCD-screen and did not notice or hear anything. There was no body outside who noticed him, a man sitting inside a limousine, a 36 year old advisor, obviously wealthy, wearing a suit from Barneys, with thick hair and an exhausted expression after a long day at work, where nothing good happened for his carrier, his ego or his bank account.
The car stopped on the corner of Park Avenue and 81st Street, and first after he walked 4 meters from the car and up to his door, he realized that the weather was actually nice outside. As if he was celebrating the weather, he took a nice deep breath, feeling the air filling his lungs, and he was able to give the door man a smile, “How are you Frank?”
“I’m fine Mr. Anderson, how was your day at work today?”
“It was hell today, you should keep hiding your cash under the Madres” Thomas replied, it was their own little intern joke.
His apartment high up in the building had cost him close to five million dollars, when he bought it, just a few months after the 9/11 incident, it was a scoop. The market had been unstable, and the prices for an apartment had been low, due to the concerns from the salesmen, even though the apartment was a beauty. It is an exclusive apartment from before the war, with four meters to the ceiling, kitchen and a chimney, which actually works. Thomas usually buys, when the market is bad, no matter which market, and that is why he has more room, than a childless couple needs. The apartment was a scoop, his family was so excited about it, and he himself felt really good about living there. Besides the apartment is now worth 7.5 million, even if it went on auction, so all in all it had been a splendid investment.
The mailbox was empty; he yelled over his shoulder, “Hey Frank is my wife home?”
“Yes, she got home just 10 minutes ago”
That was a surprise. Her wallet was lying on top of a small pile of letters on the table in the entrée. He slowly and silently closed the door behind him, and tried to sneak up behind her in the hopes that he could lay his hands around her breasts and press his body against hers. He loved to surprise her that way. The Italian marble floors would not let him move silently across the room, not even in his bare feet, which eventually gave him away.
“Thomas is that you?”
“Yes, you’re home early…” He yelled.
“The court postponed the hearing” She replied from the kitchen.
Their puddle instantly heard his voice, and came running towards him from the living room from the other end of the apartment, but its small paws was skating across the marble, and without being able to break, it crashed right into the wall just like another hockey player.
“Bloomberg, how is my little sweetie?” Thomas yelled, as he put his briefcase down and picked up the little white ball of fur from the floor. The dog licked him all over his face with its little pink tongue and its tail swaying from side to side.
“No, don’t pee on daddy’s tie! Good boy, good boy… honey did anyone go for a walk with Bloomberg?”
“Peter told me, that Ricardo went for a walk with him around 4 o’clock”
Thomas put the dog back down, and began looking through the mail; Bills, magazines, personal mail, his catalogues, her catalogues and a post card. It was a completely white card with his name and address printed in black. He turned it around, to find a date; 22th of May, 2009. And beside the inscription he found a picture which made his heart beat faster, it was a drawing of a coffin.
“Helen! Have you seen this?”
His wife came out into the entrée. Her high heels were clicking against the marble floor. She was well dressed in a very dark blue Armani suit, with a pair of beautiful earrings and a pearl necklace around her neck, while her hair was perfectly set up so you could see her perfect face. Everyone would say that she was a beautiful woman.
“Seen what?”
“This…”
She looked at the postcard, “Who is it from?”
“There is no sender on it…” He replied.
“It is from Las Vegas… do you know anyone there?”
“Not as far as I know, I have been there on a business trip, but there is no one I can think of whom I could have met there…”
“Maybe it is a commercial for something, some kind of teaser…” She proposed and handed him the postcard. “A card today, another tomorrow, which explains what the first one means.”
He bought her explanation. She is very intelligent, and she is good at seeing through such things.
“Anyways… it is still bad style, I mean, a coffin? Seriously…”
“Honey, don’t let that spoil your good mood, we are both home early, it’s fantastic! Should we go to Tutti’s?”
He let the postcard fall down on the table with the rest of the mail and let his hands grab around her breasts and squeeze them gently while he let himself kiss her on the cheek.
“Before or after we have had some fun?” He said, hoping the answer would be ‘after’.
The postcard kept rumbling inside his head for the rest of the evening, even though he did not bring up the subject again. He thought about it while they waited for their dessert, he thought about it on the way home, when he went for a walk with Bloomberg and just before he went to bed. Helen was lying beside him reading a book, with her little blue lamp just able to make enough light for her to be able to read. Coffins was something he could not handle. When Thomas was just nine years old, his brother died from cancer, just five years old, and the sight of his little brothers coffin still haunted him until this day. The person who had sent him that postcard, no matter who it was, was an *******.
He turned off the alarm about 15 minutes before it would have gone off. The puddle jumped down from the bed and began its morning routine, running in circles after its own tail, while Thomas slowly got out of bed.
“Alright, alright, I’m coming” Thomas whispered, Helen was still sleeping. Financial people go to work several hours before lawyers, which is why it is always him, taking the dog for a walk in the morning.
Just a few minutes later, he was saying good morning to the door man, while Bloomberg walked away pulling the leech and him out into the cold weather in the morning. Thomas closed his jacket completely around his neck, before he began going north of 82nd Street, where the dog usually did its business, which had to be done, whereas he would go east towards Lexington Avenue and Starbucks, which usually opened early in the morning, and after getting his coffee he would make his way home. Park Avenue was one of the busiest streets in New York, and while Thomas was walking down the street, several taxies drove by and some large trucks filled with goods for some stores.
His head was calm and he was always thinking about new strategies he could use at work, but when he reached 82nd Street, there was no particular subject in his mind, he was busy with a lot of different things inside his mind, thought he had forgotten everything about the postcard. Suddenly when he turned around a corner down the road he was supposed to go, a dark road with tall withered trees, his survival instinct kicked in for a split second making him consider changing his routine and continue up the road to 83rd Street.
His self-respect won over his survival instincts, and he continued down 82nd Street, but he crossed the road, so he could keep a better eye on the young man who was leaning against a building on the other side of the road just a little further down the road. If the young man crossed the street he would know, that he would be in trouble. He would then pick up Bloomberg and run as fast as he could. Back in the day’s one of his best disciplines in school was the marathon, and he was still fast after playing basketball for many years. His Nike shoes were tied firmly and if needed, he would be able to run from the mysterious man.
The man began walking towards him, still on the other side of the road. He was a small person with his hood up, covering his face. Thomas hoped that a car would come down the road, or another person would come walking down the street, but the street was completely empty besides him, the dog and the stranger. He could barely hear the young man’s snickers slide across the sidewalk. All the houses were still covered in darkness; everyone was sleeping at this hour. His heart began to beat incredible fast, as they passed by each other on each side of the street, there was no eye contact, and he continued to walk. The young man on the other side also kept walking away, making the distance between them longer, step by step.
He slowly turned his face to look over his shoulder, to see the young man turn around the corner and continue down Park Avenue. Oh my god, I am a huge ***** and a racist one at that, he thought to himself.
Half way down the street, Bloomberg stopped to do its business at the usual spot. Though Thomas never understood why he did not hear the young man, before he was just a few meters behind him. He must have had his thoughts elsewhere. Maybe he had thought about the meeting with the CEO this morning about the market, maybe he was busy thinking about the dog which walked around its favorite spot, maybe he thought about Helen whom had ripped her bra off, or maybe the young man had made it his art to sneak up on people. None of the thoughts running through his mind could explain it.
Thomas was hit right in the back of his head, whereas he fell down on his knees. The unexpected pain was more fascinating than frightening to him. The blow made his entire world blurry. He looked over at Bloomberg whom had just finished its business, while hearing something about money and feeling some hands on his body going through all his pockets. He could see a small knife close to his left eye, and he could feel his watch being ripped off his hand and his ring. At this moment he thought about the postcard, that cursed postcard, and he heard himself say, “Was it you who sent it?” And he thought he could hear the young man say to him.
“Yes mother****er, it was me who sent it!”
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