KPO by Matthew G. Cohen (best book clubs .TXT) 📕

By M. Cohen


For Yeese with many more to come……


Have you ever thought:

What if I didn’t…..?

or maybe

What if I did…?

“What IFS”….Life is full of them.


Before…….

He wasn’t sure why he volunteered. What if he never volunteered? No, volunteered wasn’t the right word. He wasn’t sure why he signed up. He received an inquiry via email attempting to entice candidates by rewarding them with 3 days of service work. How work can be perceived as a reward was the very question the man pondered. He eyed the email dubiously. Usually a message of this caliber would be deemed trash, annoying spam mail that over-saturates your inbox. But this email was different. The man couldn’t wrap his head around why…..The sender? K.P.O. Its format? Simple, plain terms organized like any brief invitational style letter. The letterhead was non-descript, but bold in its font tattooed across the screen, simply screaming K-P-O to the reader. Its abbreviation spelled out? Negative. No, the only thing clear about this email was its message: congratulatory praise, worthy of celebrating for a “golden opportunity” was offered/

The man stroked his chin that wore a shadow of no fewer than four days. Bleary eyed from dozens of consecutive sleepless nights, his heart, a metronome in his chest as it continued to beat… Hunger picked at his ribs, yet could not eat. His mouth, a haven for cotton balls, his throat, scratchier than sandpaper, yet he would not drink. The stubble on his upper lip and cheeks begged for a shape up, but the normally well-groomed man would not shave. He couldn’t. All he could do was think. A distant alarm sounded in his ears, or was it in his apartment building? He returned to reality escaping his overnight daze. He’d done it again. Another sleepless night. The sound of his neighbor’s auto-drip coffee machine had interrupted his incessant daydream. He cleared his mouse pad which was covered with loose papers, resumes, help-wanted ads, and cover letters. The dim desk lamp shone upon the mess with cascading light seeming to highlight the man’s sorry state of affairs. His eyes returned to the monitor, but his mind had never left. He could read the words off the screen, but it was just a visual fixation at this point, for he knew the words by heart. He read them anyway. “CONGRATULATIONS! “You’ve been selected as a finalist to receive a golden opportunity” This so called “golden opportunity” wasn’t terribly clear, but its potential prize purse was…. “in return for your service work, pending its completion, you will receive a sum of 30,000 “Wow! a whopping figure!” the man thought. “What I could do with that amount of loot!” he thought jubilantly.
For this man needed financial prosperity, the allure of wealth, the jingle of coins in his pocket. But above all, he yearned for material possessions, no matter what the price. Without thinking, he printed the directions to K.P.O. and scribbled down the arrival time and folded the paper up placing it in his shirt pocket. He thought about a shower, but felt that very little at the present moment could upgrade his appearance. A quick Slick Stick under each armpit without removing his shirt was the man’s quick dose of hygiene. He looked at the alarm clock apprehensively that sat on his vertical suitcase that doubled as a nightstand. Just enough time for a cup of coffee” he thought to himself. Fumbling with his keys, he locked the apartment door behind him frowning at what he already decided was a dreary day. “With my luck, this poor excuse for a ride won’t even start…” he murmured to himself. In a dream he drove his 2005 Chevy Malibu to the bypass, following directions inscribed on the paper from his shirt pocket. About 40 miles or so later, (he couldn’t really be sure without his GPS) “I can’t believe I must drive and read these directions at the same time!” he ranted aloud in the car for nobody but himself to hear.
Gone were the days of his trusty GPS and the reassuring sound of a woman’s voice maintaining and monitoring his unfamiliar course. In about half and hour’s time, he arrived at his destination, a building that seemed drastically out of place.
In front of him, stood a sleek modern stone building like any other office building of three stories. The unique feature of this building was noticeable almost immediately. The rear of the building seemed to suspend itself over a mountainous cliff. The building otherwise was as nondescript as his invitation. Simply labeled KPO in red letters above the entranceway. Double-checking his watch, he apprehensively marched forward. A pair of sleek double glass frameless doors opened towards him, as if they were welcoming him to KPO. With some reservation, the man proceeded into the lobby only to have the doors automatically close behind him. Greeting him was absolutely nobody. An empty room without a reception desk or waiting room. The room had not a single ornamental decorative accent save for the fact that all the walls were covered in mirrors. One thing that did strike the man’s eye was a small glass table to the right of the entranceway. On it was a small glass jar. Its contents were empty but a card beneath it simply stated: Tipping for Good Karma”. Shrugging his shoulders the man thought to himself, “Foolish people these creators of these jars are…always seeking a handout. What do they want a tip for anyway? I’m the one who is here to provide service!” A wave of nervousness swept over him as he paced about the empty room, but nonetheless, he offered a meek, “Hello??? only to hear it echo about the room.
“Is anybody there?” his second attempt
Suddenly, a voiced boomed from nowhere in particular, threatening and a tad bit menacing,
“So this is Mr. Turnwell in the flesh… the man who is down on his luck, the man who now resides in a one bedroom demotion from his 10 bedroom house in the hills… The man who works hard, yet hardly works when it comes to the people that matter most. Ah yes William, the voice continued, welcome to the man who burned the candle on both ends while his family floundered…we’ve been expecting you” the voice beamed
“I don’t have to listen to you berate me like this, you have no right!” Will called aloud desperation ringing in his tone.
“Oh but you see, I do” the voice returned. I’d like to welcome you to KPO where your service is required.”
“Alright, enough with the secret codes, where is your voice coming from? and what does KPO stand for? Will asked
“Ahh questions, questions, and you want answers…and you shall have them….. in due time Mr. Turnwell, in due time. the voice maintained casting a smug sense of satisfaction.
“Can’t you at least tell me what I’m doing here?” Turnwell pleaded
“We here at the Karma Police Organization feel that you are a most suitable candidate for our company…
You’ve been summoned here in our ploy to have you rescued.
“Rescued?” Will returned. I’m the one who needs to call the police…I’ve been abducted! You have no right to kidnap me! I’ve been duped!” Will cried wishing to leave KPO at once.
“Let me remind you that you are here on your own accord, and are now in service with us for no fewer than three days….. or however long it takes….The PA system bellowed.
“ I came here to put in my work and leave here with quick cash” Will answered
“It is statements like that that have landed you in your sad predicament. I can see that we’ve got our work cut out for us” the voice continued. Here you will find no stairwell, only an elevator with one option. With you at least we’ve only got one way to go and that’s up! Best of luck to you Will Turnwell...”
With that, the voice was gone. Will, left all alone in an empty room with more questions than answers. Surrounded by mirrors in this modern lobby of a building he was almost forced to look at this reflection. He eyed the mirrors apprehensively for he knew how he looked. His clothing unkempt, his hair disheveled, his face haggard, his being, run-down and weary. Quickly looking away from the far too familiar reflection he’d been seeing lately, his forlorn finger pressed the button offering but one option: UP

I

In less than a minute’s time, the elevator chimed and the doors parted, Will was greeted with yet another reflection of himself as the four walls of the elevator mirrored his sorry stature. The control panel inside has just one button: I “What in the world could that mean?” Will thought to himself wondering if “I” was a Roman numeral.
Before he even took note of the absurdity of this elevator situation, he noticed a most peculiar thing. Adorning the walls of the elevator were photographs. Not just photos of anybody, but pictures of his family… A black and white photograph of his parents on their wedding day, a picture of himself grinning from ear to ear as a toddler missing many teeth. Next to that photo was a copy of his elementary school report card. Grinning the same grin, only with mature grown up teeth, Will strode across the six by six square of a room to push the I button. Just above the control panel was a color photo, nearly 30 years old from his childhood. He, his sister Michelle and his brother Luke were at an amusement park eating ice cream cones. “How odd!” Will thought. It’s almost as if this elevator was customized for me personally.” Adjacent to the picture of he and his siblings were objects of leisure adhered to the wall. A golfing score card from a fairly recent outing on the links, and a magazine advertisement of Dewar’s White, his favorite Scotch. His eyes gazed just to the right of the panel. Will stood stock-still, dumbfounded by the serendipity of such a photo in such an unfamiliar place. A color portrait photo of his wife, Cynthia was smiling directly at him. His favorite photo. It was taken just months before they met as college freshman. Cynthia, smiling and beautiful at the tender age of 17, her senior graduation picture. Will suddenly grew wistful, and longed to speak with her at that very moment.
It had been weeks, or it had it been months since they last spoke? He loved that picture. It had beautifully graced their mantle piece. Before. But no, he mustn’t think about that… He had service work to provide. Money to earn.
Without any further thought he pressed the I button, which he decided was a capital “I”