The Game, Part 3

This is part of a series. If you haven't already, you should start from the beginning.






      We enter the Starbucks and look around. I feel as if I have just marched into a saloon in the old west. “Howdy”, I say, in a low voice. The dusty cowpokes at the bar turn, the piano music stops, the card players at the multitude of tables set down their sweaty bicycles and bourbon stained poker chips and aim suspicious glares in my direction. I pause for a moment, hands still on the door, not a single motion toward the long six in my holster, so they all know I am not after any bounties. After a moment, the music starts up again right where it left off (because that cheat is using a player piano, I can see his right foot working the pedal). I am free to walk up to the bar and order a-

      “DOUBLE MOCACHINO LATTE WITH NONFAT WHIPPED AND LOWFAT FOAM AND AN EXTRA TALL ICE-A-MUNDO” The barista interrupts my (better) reality by calling out the poorly named beverages he has just prepared, and Frank pushes me the rest of the way into the small, packed Starbucks. We are really not sure what to do, so I get in line. I stand nonchalantly behind another customer, and the cashier looks up with a tremendous grin and points at my ears. I smile, because soon I will be drinking more espresso, and also because I now know we are in the right place.

      When he finishes with the other customer, he looks up “wow I didn’t think you were going to show up!” The next plant is the cashier. CRS corporation has sleeper agents everywhere. Olga and Fair must have spent a small fortune on my birthday gift. “I just want to say, I think it is totally awesome that you are doing this” This guy was enthralled with us. He hands us the envelope and we buy a quadruple espresso and one of those bottled coffee things. We chat with him for a while, and tell him the story of our day’s exploits, he gives me a coffee on the house and I tip as well as I can without being absurd. As we wait for the coffee, the Cashier fills me in on some details. Apparently a mysterious woman named ‘Spicy’ has been in to the Starbucks on a couple occasions to negotiate timing and drop off the clues. It was unclear whether she was Fair or Olga, they are both pretty spicy, maybe a CRS employee had done most of the setup. One of the envelopes contains my car key. The other contains a crossword. The clues have been written using close personal data that must have been collected on me. Fair must have filled out a long questionnaire at CRS, because the clues are all inside jokes that only I can get. Then there is a scramble, with some of the letters from the answers, which spells “the card stop”. Once we realize that Frank’s ‘C’ is actually meant to be an ‘L’, it spells “the last drop”. We thank the Starbucks Crew and run out to the parking lot.

      We wander into the parking lot, that twelfth shot of espresso is coursing through my veins and the end is in sight, but it will be good to see my stolen car again. We see a glimmer of white, the sleek chassis displaces most of the air that had occupied the parking spot in the back of the lot. The rest of the air is still in place. Except for the air that is being displaced by the junk inside my car. Oh, yeah, I forgot to mention the air that is being displaced by the soaped up windows and at least 20 helium balloons that are completely filling my stolen car. After we get in, we actually have to move several balloons to the trunk in order to even be able to see out the back window. Hearts and “Birthday boy” are all over my windows. It should be noted that having one’s car stolen and defaced in such a manner feels immensely good, and I was elated. The entire way to the last drop I felt great, if still a little worried that I might not get it back.

      I park my stolen car in the YMCA parking lot, and say a silent goodbye to it as we walk into the bar across the street. It is about 6:30, so the usual friendly bunch of local regulars is sitting around the bar and the place is mostly empty. The bar tender looks up at me, “What can I get for you?” I wonder if I did the scramble wrong but I had better order a drink just to be sure, “Can I have a Bass Ale?” he pulls on the tap and turns toward Frank, “um… a Blue Moon?”, and as the bartender passes me my beer I decide to bring it up, “Did they tell you a dude with pink bunny ears would be coming in today?” I gesture toward my head to point out the fact that I am, in fact, wearing pink bunny ears, in case they were missed in his initial inspection. “Oh yeah, they did say something about that”, He looks over to his right, where one of the regulars nods. He walks over there and pours a couple shots of Johnny Walker Red, “they said for you to drink scotch with the bartender.” I politely oblige. Frank and I drink our beers and tell the story of our adventure to the people at the bar. They are entertained by my proud display of my partially shaven leg, and recommend that I not take the ears off. Sound advice. Bartender reaches into the papers by the register and withdraws another silver envelope. It has my house key inside. There is a clue in there, too. Nice and simple, this must be the last one. It is handwritten, unlike the others. CRS probably let Fair or Olga word it themselves.

“grab a snack @ tip top street”

      Olga’s handwriting, and our beers vanish. Well, that’s it. That is why we were not allowed to stop at home. There is going to be a bunch of people there, I know it. Frank knows it, too, “I bet Olga has a bunch of people ready to jump out at you when we walk in, dude.” I leave an absurd tip and we walk out to the car. It finally dawns on me that my car is here to stay. I turn the key in the ignition of my very own car, which is mine and not stolen, and exhale. We spin around oak square and up to my villa. The guard at the gate is sleeping, and ten minutes of garden lined driveway later, we pull up to the main chateau. The lights are all off, except for the kitchen. They must have had the bartender call to warn them. We climb the stairs to my second floor apartment in the umm… villa, and I have dibs on the bathroom. I need to urinate before everyone jumps out at me. After washing up a bit, I check the rest of the apartment. It is a little quiet in here, and the reality of all my friends hiding anywhere for any extended period of time is debauchery and giggling. I hear none of this, and one by one, the dark rooms in my apartment turn up empty.
When I return, Frank is already hungrily devouring the cake that was on the kitchen table. I join him, it is delicious. Something resists the knife when we cut into it, however. Another clue. A delicious, chocolaty clue. And there is something else. A can. With a note. The can.

      For those of you who have never experienced “berry” 7up Plus, it is horrible. Infused with vitamins, in order to make it “healthy”, these 12 cans of 7up plus have infested our fridge since last summer. I had convinced Olga that I would drink them if they tasted bad when we were in the store, and after we both tried a foul can of calcium water with carbonation and ear infection medicine flavoring, the next 6 months were spent tricking our various houseguests and each other into drinking 9 of the remaining cans. I am sure I consumed 3 or 4 of the cursed things on dares and tricks, but this is the slickest move Olga has pulled since that time she tried to win “the quiet game” by stabbing me with the kitchen knives until I spoke. The can has a note on it.

“drink this, and bring the empty can with you as proof”

TO BE CONCLUDED SOON!