Book 1: Temporary Insanity
Episode 4
Kidnapped
Venelia didn’t care that Dobie was being kidnapped. She was across the street awaiting the WALK signal, ignoring the ambulance completely. Dynamos are taught to ignore unpleasant things. Unpleasant thoughts ruin one’s outlook on life. Had she looked, she might have recognized Dobie, but she never did.
She walked into the office, set her backpack full of weaponry down at her feet, and took a seat at the reception desk. When Ms. Trammel appeared several minutes later wanting to know where Dobie was, Venelia shrugged and said, “In his cubicle, I guess.”
“You’re half an hour late, Venelia,” Ms. Trammel was agitated. “We’ve talked about this.”
Venelia forced a meek, contrite face, but said nothing.
“Forcing me to put temps like Dobie with no receptionist experience at reception ain’t gonna cut it.”
Venelia made a face at the mention of Dobie sitting in for her. She apologized and promised it would never happen again.
“Final warning, Venelia.”
Right back at ya, Venelia smoldered in silence.
~ ~ ~
It wasn’t until Dobie awoke in a strange room on a strange couch that he was told he had been kidnapped for his own good. The man doing the explaining was a short, balding man with a goatee. Dobie surveyed his surroundings as the man spoke. They were in a very nice office with wood-paneled walls – dated, but nice – a large cherry wood desk, and an ornate Persian rug covering half of the hardwood floor.
On the wall behind the desk was a poster with the name JumpStarters in large bold print at the top. Underneath that was a black and white photograph of a monocled, bearded hypnotist holding a stopwatch – presumably swaying – in front of an open-mouthed young subject. Superimposed over the photo was the international symbol for Not Allowed: a red circle with a diagonal line through it. Underneath that was the JumpStarters motto: “We’re The Good Guys!”
Dobie guessed the man addressing him was a doctor. Psychiatrist, maybe. On the wall to the right was an 8×10 glossy of him with the mayor and what looked like Duchinski of TT&D.
“Cigarette?” the doctor asked, pulling two Dunhills from a gold-plated case.
“No thanks, I quit,” Dobie rubbed his temples and wondered why he was so drowsy.
He looked around the room for possible escape routes.
“Do you mind if I smoke?” the doctor asked.
“Well, actually...” Dobie began, then didn’t care enough to finish the thought. He slumped heavily into the deeply cushioned couch.
“I would like to start,” the doctor began the interview, “with a little bit of background information. First of all, what is your name?”
“Dobie Pokorny, Word Processor,” he replied automatically.
“’Dobie’? Is that a nickname?”
“No, it’s my name,” he said. It was short for Dobromir, but he didn’t feel like explaining.
The doctor furrowed his brow, picked up a manila folder and studied the documents within. “So, you prefer the name Dobie then?” the doctor asked.
“Would you prefer another name?”
“No, no, of course not,” the doctor spoke in soothing, measured tones and scribbled a note to himself in the manila folder. Setting the folder down only to replace it with a clipboard, he continued the interview.
“Would you describe yourself as a happy person?” the doctor asked.
Dobie stared blankly at him. “Huh?”
“Happy,” he repeated, taking a drag off his cigarette and staring at its ember as he twirled it between his fingers. “Are you a happy person?”
“What the hell is this?” Dobie shouted, or thought he shouted. Whatever was making him so drowsy took all the force from his voice. He attempted to rise from the couch but could not gather enough strength and collapsed back into it.
“Now, now, uh... Dobie. Just relax. Just a few more questions, then you can be on your way. Okay? Okay.”
Crossing his legs and taking up the clipboard and pen like a secretary about to take dictation, the doctor resumed the interrogation. “Where were you at ten o’clock on the night of February 30th?”
“Huh?” Dobie winced, wondering if this was another one of his stupid dreams.
It wasn’t.
“Just kidding,” the doctor laughed. “I like to ask that to break the ice.”
Dobie shook his head. “Maybe I will have that cigarette.”
The doctor handed him one, lit it for him, and continued the interview. “I will be asking these questions quickly,” he explained. “You just need to nod your head yes or no. Got it?”
When Dobie only stared at him with the cigarette hanging limp out the corner of his mouth, the doctor continued. “Number one: When you see a telephone cord all twisted up into a knot, do you feel the need to untangle it?”
“Mo,” Dobie replied. Lacking the energy to take the cigarette out of his mouth, it slurred his speech.
“If you notice dirt under your fingernails, do you clean them?”
“Yooshly,” he mumbled.
“If you saw someone crossing the street about to be hit by a car, would you: (a) Shout a warning; (b) Run for help; (c) Call the Police; or, (d) Just watch?”
“Just watch,” Dobie sneered. The drugs were wearing off and he was getting surly.
“What do you want more than anything else in the world?”
“The perfect wave,” Dobie replied with a wicked grin. He liked that one. Would have to remember that for his next interrogation.
He dropped his cigarette onto the Persian rug and stamped it out with his foot. The doctor stared, horrified, but before he could protest a bushy-haired man in a suit and tie barged into the room.
“Who the hell is this?” the man pointed at Dobie.
“Venelia Dumas, I’m told,” the doctor explained, “though he prefers to be called Dobie.”
“That’s probably his real name!” the bushy-haired man screamed. “Venelia Dumas is a woman! Whoever he is, get him out of here.” He paused at the doorway, turned back to the doctor and whispered in his ear, “And make him forget he was ever here.”
“Always,” said the doctor.
~ ~ ~
When Dobie came to, he found himself underneath some bushes in the hills above Hollywood. He got up, dusted himself off and noticed several cigarette burn holes down the length of his pants. What the…? Looking at his watch, it wasn’t there but he was too disoriented to care all that much. It was a cheap watch. Judging by the position of the sun, he guessed it was mid-afternoon. What day, he had no idea.
His wallet was also missing. This was more distressing. Frantically checking his pockets, front and back, he discovered a few loose paper clips, the cap to a ball point pen, and fifty-three cents in change. No wallet.
He clawed his way through the bushes and down the hill. With his hair disheveled, his tie loose around his neck, and pants full of tiny burn holes, he straggled down the street to the nearest bus stop. There, he talked an old lady on the bench into giving him the other fifty cents he needed for bus fare back home.
She agreed, on the condition that he not board the same bus as she.
~ ~ ~
“So, you say you were drugged and kidnapped,” Margaret from the temp agency was now asking over the phone, “but you don’t know by whom. You don’t know where they took you. And you were released, unharmed, somewhere in the hills above Hollywood. Is that what you’re telling me?”
Dobie was sitting in his apartment, on the edge of his bed, phone in one hand, glass of orange juice in the other. “Yeah, that’s basically it.”
“And you expect me to believe that?!” she shrieked.
“It’s the truth,” Dobie croaked and set his juice down on the nightstand.
Margaret sighed deeply and said, “Dobie, I’ve dealt with all kinds in this business, but you take the cake. Don’t bother calling us for any more temp assignments.”
Before he could respond, she hung up.
So, Dobie had blown it with yet another temp agency. It was not the first time, and would not be the last. Too bad, too. He’d been thinking of asking her out.
Flopping down on the bed for some much-needed rest, he resolved to find a new temp agency first thing in the morning. Then he remembered Venelia still had his car. He thought about reporting it stolen, but didn’t want to get her into trouble.
~ ~ ~
That night, technically the next morning, Venelia showed up at Dobie’s door, wearing a fisherman’s hat – replete with fishhooks – and a dark blue trench coat. Half asleep and still in his underwear, he thought nothing of her strange attire.
“They’re after me, Dobie!” she hissed and pushed her way inside. “But there’s no time to talk.” She pushed him onto the bed.
He happily fell back asleep. She didn’t let him sleep long, taking off all her clothes and jumping into bed with him. Before he knew what was happening, they were having sex. He’d had imaginary sex in dreams, of course, but to have actual sex while still asleep was something new.
It wasn’t long before he was an enthusiastic participant. He wondered what color his aura was now. Afterward, he fell quickly back to sleep. A couple hours later, she was on top of him again, wanting more. He groaned and performed as best he could.
Around 8 that morning, to Dobie’s complete shock and disgust, a man from another temp agency called to say they had a temp assignment for him. It was at another law firm, but at least it was on this side of town.
“This is strictly a day-to-day thing,” the man said.
That went without saying. Every job was day-to-day for Dobie.
After hanging up the phone, he realized Venelia was nowhere to be found. That was fine. If she was around, she would have wanted more sex. The problem was that she still had his car.
~ ~ ~
On the bus ride to this next temp assignment, Dobie listened to the news coming out of a fellow passenger’s phone.
“The fire,” said the newsreader, “that swept through the 23rd and 24th floors of the 444 South Flower building yesterday has been officially deemed arson. It appears to have been started by – now, get this – a flame thrower. How they can deduce that, well, I’m sure that’s a trade secret. But, for you firebugs out there, watch out! These investigators know what they’re doing! Miraculously, no one was seriously injured. Police are now on the lookout for a large brunette woman seen leaving the scene in a fishing hat and dark blue trench coat.”
They didn’t mention it by name, but Dobie knew TT&D was on the 23rd floor of that building. Not sure who was on the one above. He thought of Cassie and that so-called cigar lounge.
The fishing hat and overcoat sounded familiar, but he shrugged it off. He hoped Cassie and Ms. Trammel were okay.
At the end of the day, he skipped the bus ride home in favor of a nice long walk. It was only a few miles and, after his recent spate of partying, a good long walk would do him good.
Turning onto his normally quiet street, proud of himself for such a hike, he found a police barricade around his apartment building. A helicopter buzzed overhead. Law enforcement vehicles of every sort covered the area.
It ruined his good mood.