AEAJ - Chapter 2

Chapter 2 - Dear Justin,

Hello. You don't know me. And, technically, I don't actually know you. I know of you, though, and this is enough for our purposes. My name is Chadwick, and I think it would be in the best interests of both of us if we were to meet. You see, I perform a service that I believe you would be incredibly inept at aiding. I realize it is a tad strange for me to ask you to believe that I'm not trying to scam you for all you're worth, but I think we both know that you're not worth much. While I don't know you, I do know a bit about your situation, and it is most definitely not a favorable one. All I'm asking is that you meet me for tea. There's a cafe two blocks from where I'm sending this letter, Au Lait. I'll be in town in two days, and I'll be there at 1 o'clock sharp. If you are to attend, we will discuss the aforementioned service and what, exactly, I'm offering. As a token of my seriousness, I have included a small payment. There is much more where that came from, and there is no one else who can do what I need. I await our meeting.

Sincerely yours,
Chadwick Emmerson the Forty Second and Three Quarters

Justin read the letter twice, in case he'd suffered some sort of massive head trauma while reading and had hallucinated its contents. When he was done, he folded the letter back up, and tossed it onto the counter, then went to lay down on his couch. On the T.V., a topless, three hundred pound woman was assaulting her husband who'd had sexual relations with a thin but plain secretary for some months. The host of the show looked on in horror, the security guards standing up very slowly and allowing some time to past before they quickly and efficiently broke up the fight, which ended in no legal injuries and was met with monstrous applause. The host, struck with awe that a scuffle had ensued from what was a perfectly normal situation, went into the audience to get the reactions of the crowd, where an elderly woman made a comment that did not survive the network censors. Justin, however, was staring at the five hundred-dollar bills in his hand that had been in the envelope.

That night, over a delivered box of pork lo mein, his apartment cast in the cool gray glow of an old movie from the forties, one phrase of the letter suddenly insinuated itself into his head. There is no one else who can do what I need. What did that mean? Chadwick had curiously forgotten to mention exactly what it was he did. The natural assumption was, as he himself had said, a scam, or at the very least something very illegal. It was, he figured, a natural technique of such people to make their targets think they are special, that they are being done a magnificent service by a stroke of amazing luck. But to say something so vague and mysterious seemed counterproductive. It made the letter all the more suspicious. This was to say nothing of the five hundred dollars he'd been given. Whoever Chadwick was, he didn't seem like the type to send someone that much money unless it was legit. This was the impression Justin got, anyway.

In fact, in spite of the short letter he felt as if he could see Chadwick perfectly in his mind. He has hair the color of looking directly into the sun, long and mercilessly styled, probably for at least an hour every day. Not one strand is out of place, not one modicum of frizz. He has a shirt of lilac satin, a classy yet sporty black jacket, and dull leather pants a rare sort of unobtrusive red. He carries himself almost like a tree, swaying in the wind, moving much more than the average person does in the course of any particular conversation. And he is always smiling. Sometimes its a smirk, sometimes an almost unnoticeable curve of his lips, but he always looks, to some degree, pleased.

It was not like Justin to form such concrete images of people, especially not from single-paragraph letters. He had less well-formed visuals of people he actually knew. Chadwick, he realized, was a genius. He sent a mysterious letter brimming with exceedingly personal yet headache-inducingly vague sentiments asking for something he of course would not discuss but that he felt needed five hundred dollars of encouragement for Justin to do. And all the while, Chadwick must have known that the reader would be able to form such a complete picture of him; he seemed like the type who selected every word, controlling absolutely the content and interpretation of what he wrote.

As he predicted, Justin found it difficult not to think about Chadwick, his letter, or his money for the next day. At first, he tried to force all of it out of his mind; just forget that he'd ever read it. However, he found it was easier to let the thoughts mull around in his head, and managed to work it down to a low nagging, thinking around it while always aware of its presence.

Monday came, and Justin woke up at 11. He didn't usually get twelve hours of sleep, but having a person he'd never met in his head all day must have taken quite a bit out of him. He drank a glass of orange juice extremely slowly, taking in the waking world gently. Still unable to shake off his sleepiness, he jumped in the shower. The warm water only made things worse, so he turned down the temperature, which is to say he actually fell asleep and hit the water control with his hand, and somewhere between hitting the floor and the shards of icy water assaulting him, he woke up substantially.

After his shower, Justin applied a pertinent but modest amount of gel to his hair, brushed his teeth, and went to his closet. Recalling his image of Chadwick and his wardrobe, he felt an overwhelming need to dress fancy himself. Unfortunately, Justin was not the type to wear anything fancy and thus put on a white buttoned-up shirt and a black pair of pants. That was about as complicated as his wardrobe got, if one was to speak generously. Once he was ready, he read Chadwick's letter once more. He still found it hard to believe any of what had been written.

Even so, at exactly 12:59 and 38 seconds, he arrived at Au Lait.