Mystery Chapter

Should I keep putting this on my blog? I may stop, so this could be the last installment (on the blog at least.)

It was at the Aquarium that I first became acquainted with Franklin Turne. He was beside the shark tank, peering inside with an apathetic blankness in his eyes. He wore a black buttoned suit, and I'm quite sure my eyes would have passed right over him if it were not for the briefcase clenched within his right hand.

You see, Franklin was as average as it was possible to be without arousing suspicion. He wore a normal hat to cover his standard haircut. He wore a regular shirt that you couldn't help but feel you owned too. His shoes shined but did not sparkle, and his pants were exceptionally plain.

Had he been facing me, instead of the sharks, I might have noticed his left eye, which was no eye at all, but a glassy opaque marble to fill the vacuum. As it was, the only peculiarity I noticed belonging to Franklin Turne was his expensive briefcase, and his strained fist around the handle.

Had I given his countenance more consideration, I may have recognized his not-so-commonplace expression; the way he looked at those sharks was filled with an avid concentration, as though he hoped to find an answer to a question which plagued him. It would not be another four months until I learned what he was asking, and a whole year until I had the answer.

The first time I longed for something out of my price range, I was in love with my librarian. It was my second year of elementary school, and I caught a glimpse of her calf as she shifted her skirts while reading a picture book to my class.

She was intelligent, aged, and was, in my opinion, the most beautiful grown up woman I'd ever laid eyes on. With my limited experience and crushing ignorance, my courtship did not do well. My darling librarian thought that I was an avid reader with an unfortunate stuttering problem.

In the fourth grade I discovered my natural talent, and my interests changed to a pig-tailed blond girl in my mathematics class. I loved mathematics; the answer was always there before you'd solved it. The two things were one in the same: question and answer, problem and solution. I knew in that fourth grade classroom that I was to be the best accountant ever to wield a calculator in the United States of America. Of course I was correct.

Being around all of the figures of an entirely intangible wealth made me calm towards the market. When you spend your days following great sums of money around your client's life, you become apathetic towards bankruptcy, limitations, and frugality. Anything possible has a price, and I knew it.

My career entailed being a spectator. I did not tell these tycoons of businessmen how to spend their money. I didn't tell them that what they were buying was needless, I didn't mention that it would be beneficial to the rest of the world to allot 5% of their income towards charity. Their money was their money, and I only marked its flow.

Throughout my lifetime, I've met many peers who have let the job get to their head. Seeing such vast budgets has led some to overspending their own measly salary. Others feel minute in the expansive sea of money that they don't possess. Many of the latter men have taken their own lives. Thankfully, I've never been either of these people. I have always remained collected and intelligent when spending my own money. I never had any notions of grandeur. I never wanted what was unattainable. And when, in my youth, I desired what was not mine to have, I learned, and I changed. In the fifth grade I held hands with Eloise, the pigtailed girl in my Math class. True, walking past the library was painful. And true, I would rather have touched my librarian's shins than hold a hand of a little girl.

But a hand in my hand was better than a leg in my mind, and I got over myself quickly.

About a week after April 15, I had time on my hands. That was why I went to the aquarium. My boss, Mr. Muondain, called me into his office on Monday to tell me I needed to use my vacation hours. He told me he was a humane boss, and that everyone needs an occasional break. Then he gave me a stern look and said that this should, obviously, not be taken to extremes.

And so I was booted out of the office for the day for my deserved rest and relaxation. I stood outside of the office I had dedicated so much of my time to, and I contemplated where I ought to go next.

Home? No, all that waited for me there was bills, cigarettes and time with myself. I operated on an easy schedule to remember; work, home, bed, work. On holidays I visited the mother I'd had committed. The mother who didn't remember me. The mother who couldn't even recall the year. My visits were as brief as I saw fit. There was no pint in seeing her, she certainly didn't see me.

There was no one else in my life besides my clients. Once a month, usually tied with the full moon to feed the romantic in me, I would stave off any feelings of loneliness at a brothel. It was a new place each time to keep my one bypass of the law undetected. A new place and a new face, 45 minutes of every month, and I was content. Prostitutes are actually much cheaper than relationships. My budget and groin always felt appeased afterwards.

Yet the moon was still waxing on April 24th, and there was no approaching holidays to go pay homage to my mother. What else did I know how to do? What else could I do at 9:30 AM?

The movie theatre was out of the question at $12.00 a ticket. I refused to be entertained by something requiring my participation, such as ice skating of any other physical activity. What was there to do that required practically nothing?

I thought of the zoo, but it was expensive and miles away. I came up with two substitutes: the park or the aquarium. Which to observe, fish or human beings?

Humans, I thought to myself, are a terrible bore. At least fish are in constant motion. I departed for the aquarium.

Constant motion, that is, unless they're dead.