The Briefcase Crisis

She is coming. Mike knew that of course. The note had been so clear; “DayBreak Café. Noon

Tomorrow. Back table with the white vase with blue flowers. Talk to no one.” He could picture the Coach®

tote slung across her shoulder as she crossed the intersection between 6th and Harbor, slipping through the

sea of pedestrians. There was a gray cat with her three kittens sitting outside the café door just beyond the

entrance when Mike arrived. He could picture the cat scurrying away with her kittens from the clicking heels

that dominated the sidewalk. The door would open to the café. The woman dressed in a navy suit of some

kind would glide through the glass. She would spot Mike and glide over the table where they would conduct

their business. Inside the patent leather tote would be a folder with his name on it. Or so, he had been told

(He had an ordinary name: Mike Thompson. It would look so official headlining a manila folder). Mike

wouldn’t know the women’s name. People of this nature have such peculiar names. Mike wondered if she

would even remember him when he left the café. Once this exchange happened, Mike would be on his way,

away from this mess that nosey nephew of his was in.

He takes a gulp of the coffee in front of him. It is only after the liquid scalds his throat that Mike

remembers his loathing for the liquid. The malt-like beverages drenched in cream and caramel, could not

persuade his stomach into accepting them. So he avoided coffee at all costs, except when certain social

situations provided nothing else, forcing Mike to sip on the bitter bean juice. But today, today is a new day.

An hour from now Mike will be a completely new person. He figured he might as well adjust to a few new

things cold turkey. He might as well pretend to be someone who enjoyed his daily cup. Grumbling slightly to

himself, Mike takes another tentative sip.

It all started with that nephew of his, Barty Minter. The nosey boy had gotten himself into business

school, so he had claimed. Everything that boy did was suspicious. So was the large sum of money he made

in such a short time. Mike’s sister, Elle, was a dotting woman. He had always had a soft spot for his sister,

and when she practically begged him to invest a sizable sum of his retirement savings into a get-rich-quick

scheme (Mike did not know it at the time), there was no way to refuse the woman when it came to her darling

son. That’s what it turned out to be, a stupid scheme with dirty money—Mike’s money filling the pocket of
Wall Street thieves. Sure Mike’s money doubled, but then he started getting suspicious calls. People in trench

coats started following him in unmarked, unlicensed vehicles. Elle died, supposedly from natural causes. She

had a large sum of inheritance from their family. It wasn’t long before Barty used that all up too, lost it or

pocketed it—Mike didn’t know. Then Barty came knocking on Mike’s door begging for more money. Always

more, more, more. Mike forced Barty to admit to the actual use of his money. He found out that his savings

were funding a drug smuggling scheme off the coast. When Mike tried to get out, the death threats started. . .

“Yoohoo!” A voice calls from behind the counter. Mike glances over the barista with the nose ring

and green dreadlocks. She waves her hands in an exaggerated swooping motion. “Is it too hot? The coffee?”

Mike looks away quickly, shaking his head. The note specifically said not to speak to anyone, so Mike wasn’t

going to talk to anyone. The barista doesn’t try to bother him again as she disappears behind the coffee

machines humming to herself.

Mike taps his fingers on the table mentally going over the checklist. Dressed in a traveling suit.

Check. Burned all important documents. Check. Withdrew last several thousand dollars to his name and

closed his account. Check. Grabbed his grandfather’s old briefcase. Arrived early at DayBreak Café. Check.

Sat at the table in the back with the white vase and blue flower. Check and check.

Wait. . .

Mike glances around, first looking to his sides and then standing straight up, nearly knocking the

table over. The briefcase. Mike had forgotten he briefcase, the one thing he needed to carry his documents in!

The briefcase had been his grandfathers, gifted to him a week after he had passed. He thought the bag to be

too bothersome to carry around, never taking the effort to bring it along with him in public. It collected dust

on the shelve in the back of the coat closet. Well, it seemed like a good thing to hold onto seeing that his

grandfather once owned it. Now Mike was regretting ever having it in the first place. It is had been forgotten

all those years so it makes sense as to why Mike forgot it now, on perhaps the most important hour of his life.

Glancing at his watch it reads 3:21. Nine minutes until whoever was to meet him would be here.

Nine minutes was too short to be back to the apartment. Besides, he had already gotten rid of his eyes in the
sewer. Closing his eyes, Mike mentally berates himself for the carelessness of his actions. First his nephew and

his money schemes, then nearly going bankrupt, and finally, being chased by gangs around the city.

Mike glances outside at the crowd of pedestrians. He had forty dollars in his pocket. The rest was in

a cashier’s check that he dropped off at the assigned bank. Beyond that, Mike was on his own with no money

and no resources. Surely forty dollars could get him something suitable. It would have to work. But what

about the woman who is supposed to meet him?

The barista behind the counter looks up startled to see that Mike standing at the counter. Taking a

deep breath, Mike forces himself to talk breaking one of the rules on the note. Hopefully the broken protocol

would be overlooked.

“I-I-I need to grab something. Be right back. If a woman comes in looking for me, tell her I will be

right back.” Mike backs away from the counter.

“How will I know what she looks like?” The barista asks.

“She will look like someone with money.” Mike calls as he dashes out the door. He morphs into a

creature as he tears down the sidewalks weaving between the throngs of people leisurely window shopping at

all of the boutiques. After successfully making it a block and half, the crowd thins out at the curbside. To the

left is west towards downtown. The crowds and people would only get thicker making walking as fast as

molasses on a cold day. No, that wouldn’t do. Mike checks his watch noting the time: 3:23. School would be

ending in two minutes for the elementary school two blocks East. This meant that amidst all of these scurry

people, at least half were parents on their way to collect their little ones. Mike couldn’t afford to wait much

longer. All of this thinking was tiring his brain out on top of the stress and the whirlwind of the last twenty-

four hours. He wanted to sit down on the sidewalk and mope. Better yet, he wanted to build a time machine,

climb inside, and go back to yesterday to turn off his own alarm clock so that the yesterday Mike would be

late, and miss everything. And since everything would have not happened, none of this would be so

frustration.

Mike promised himself that no matter what happened, he would push through. He couldn’t afford

another slip up. It was only a matter of time till someone tried to get ahold of him. Mike glances down at the
watch again. 3:24. The street walk signs had still not moved. Taxis and buses were sitting within in inches of

each other blocking the road between man and destination. A man and his future. A man and a great deal of

money gone. Then a sign catches his eye: Martin’s Second Hand Store. Your treasure is our pleasure.

If the light was going to turn green anytime soon, this was not the moment. Mike turns around,

pushing past the crowd as he beelines straight to the store with the red door. Bursting through into the

unclogged air should have tasted like heaven. The store was empty of people but certainly not of things.

Particularly cats, and clothes, and stuff. Just stuff everywhere. The air smells of moths, grandmother’s house,

and cats. A meow sounds from somewhere behind the giant row of dresses nearly blocking the door way.

Clothing piled on clothing stretches from ceiling to linoleum. Someone had obviously taken the time to throw

things into piles, but beyond that, there was little differentiation between stacks of slacks or fedoras.

“Hello?” Mike asks the wall of clothes. The clothes seem to suffocate the greeting. Mike is greeted by

another meow. Something gray streaks across his feet and disappears under a table dripping with scarves.

Stepping around the first mound, Mike finds himself at a trailhead with two paths, splitting left and right. The

greeting is met with the silence of the clothes. Another meow off in the distance is the only thing that sounds

off against the quiet. Mike, feeling the seconds continue to tick my scans the piles, looking for anything that

represents a briefcase. The first bag he comes across is a pepto-bismal beach bag. The words, “City Gal” span

the side in gold lettering. The next bag isn’t much better. It is a suitcase, a rather large one with only three

wheels and giant brown stain running from zipper to handle. It also smells musky. Next. The third bag is a

gray knapsack with some sort of leather pouch on the side about the size of a manila folder. Mike’s heart

leaps forward. He bends down the grab it. As his hands close around the handles, a threatening hiss moves

through the opening making his leap backwards into the opposite wall of overcoats. Mike looks down at his

watch. 3:25. He had four minutes to find a bag and return to the coffee shop. Seeing no other viable option,

he picks the knapsack up again, opens the flap and tips it over. A gray, long haired cat falls out with a soft

growl as its body lands on the carpet. The familiar green eyes turn and look solemly at Mike. Unblinking, the

cat flicks its tail before walking off, disappearing behind a corner. Stupid creature. Mike liked cats but this

place had certainly seen too many of them. He stuffs the bag under his arm and turns around heading
towards the door before a very important thought comes to mind. Quickly, without thinking, he pulls out his

wallet, reaches in and flicks a bill on the pile hoping whomever would find this money as an exception for his

rudeness. The store obviously would miss the bag very much.

Mike hurries through the crowds. He glances at the intersection to see the very same people still

standing at the very same curb staring at the very same buses. Smirking, he hurries back down the block. The

watch readers 3:30 as he opens the café door once more.

The table is empty. Mike freezes looking around for someone dressed smartly. The café is more

empty than before. His heart sinks. Then his blood boils to a rage. Did they take his money?? Was it another

scam? No, the documents looked official. Everything was spelled right too. The process was too organized,

too professional to have jipped him.

“Excuse me, sir?” Mike whips around to find the barista staring at him, holding out a thick envelope

in her black nails. “The lady you were meeting? She left and musta’ forgot this.” Mike reaches out and

snatches the envelope, not bothering to stop for an explanation or apologize for the rude behavior. The green

dreadlock girl doesn’t seem to mind as Mike disappears from the café.

He ducks into an alleyway after running across traffic. There, Mike opens the folder.

It’s all there. The money he was promised minus the fee for the forging of documents. His new

passport. Official documents with a convincingly real looking birth certificate complete with a real signature

and watermark like the ones were given out the day he was born. A train ticket for bound for Montreal at

4:30. A new credit card under his new name. And a note. Mike opens the note carefully.

Dear Mr. Button,

We are pleased that you have chosen our company to help with your unique circumstances. Please know that

on accepting this envelope, you are giving up everything and everyone you have ever known. The Second Chance program is one

that take dedication and commitment. Please know that at the bottom of this envelope is a key the partially furnished apartment

waiting for you at your destination in Amsterdam, Netherlands. Please know that the landlady is a kind woman but is not part

of our company. She does allow small pets as companions if you so choose. A plane is leaving tomorrow morning at 9 am and the
airport is holding your ticket. On the day after you arrive, you are to report to Grindle Investments as a new agent for the

upcoming bonds company. We wish you well. Welcome to your new life Mr. Button.

Sincerely,

Second Chance Agency—“Opportunities for those that Need It!”

P.S. When you are done reading this, please burn or discard in water.

Mike looks up from the letter. He searches through the envelope to find the apartment key on it. It really was

all there. He takes the letter, shredding it, and then drops it into a puddle of something. As he leans down to

the knapsack, Mike jumps back in surprise.

A tiny gray kitten with emerald eyes stares up at him. Seeing that Mike finally spotted it, the kitten

cries out before beginning to purr. Its paws are soaked from the rainwater. The site of the poor thing makes

Mike’s heart melt. And pause.

Chuckling to himself, Mike carefully pockets some of the money and the credit card. He places the

documents into the leather pocket. of the kitten before cradling the bag in his arms. Mike remembers the

letter mentioning cats are welcome at his new apartment. If he couldn’t take that stupid briefcase, made he

shall take a friend with on this new adventure.

Across the street in an alleyway, the barista watches Mike Button walk south. She certainly didn’t

look like money, the green hair an ugly piercing made sure of that. That was her best weapon, hiding in plain

sight, she reminded herself. Mike Button really was the perfect man for the job. Smiling to herself, she

reaches down to pet a long haired gray cat with green eyes. It seems their work was done. Everything was

going just as planned.