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The want ad for an art gallery manager caught his eye. It said, “No experience necessary.”
Caleb Forte graduated with an art history degree four months earlier, and after sending out what seemed like a hundred résumés, he hadn’t landed a single interview, much less a job. The only nibble he’d gotten came from a retail shop that specialized in coffee table books. They said they’d keep him in mind.
If he scrimped, he could cover another month’s rent, but after that, he’d be forced to take the walk of shame back to his parents’ basement, the dungeon of despair. “The bed is made, and your room is waiting,” his mother reminded him every Sunday at dinner.
Less than ten minutes after submitting his modestly embellished résumé and answering dozens of peculiar pre-interview questions, Caleb’s cell phone buzzed. The caller identified himself as Ashton Wentworth Ivey, the proprietor and signature artist behind the progressive new gallery, Quantum Dot Art Prints. In what sounded like a rehearsed speech, the man gushed about the new gallery, his vision, and its extraordinary potential. He suggested Caleb might be exactly the man he needed to take the helm, although Caleb had no idea why he’d say that. They agreed to meet for a more formal interview on a video call the next day.
#
The video opened on Caleb’s laptop screen at precisely nine o’clock. A man with an untamed mop of white hair and a Salvador Dali mustache greeted him with a gregarious smile. “You must be Caleb,” he said. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Ashton Ivey.”
“Nice to meet you, too,” Caleb replied.
After a few pleasantries, Ashton Ivey got to the point. “I need a sharp, hard-working man who can handle the pressure of managing a fast-paced gallery. “Can you be that man, Caleb?”
Caleb had risen early and in his best effort to impress, had rearranged the wall behind his chair with a Leroy Neiman poster of Elvis, his favorite Seurat print, and a sign that said, “Make Art Not War.” He’d tamed the cowlicks and ironed his finest collared shirt, the salmon-colored one. Mustering all the confidence he had, he paraphrased one of his prepared statements, “Of course, I can be that man, Mr. Ivey. I’ve spent most of my life in the art world, the last four years studying it day and night. I’m at the peak of my game right now, and if you need an independent leader with boundless passion and energy, you need look no further – I’m your man.”
“Call me Ashton,” the man said. “Are you familiar with giclée?”
“Yes, it’s a high-resolution inkjet print, archival quality. I made many of them in college.”
“Wonderful. Have you ever framed a print?”
“Framed a print? Oh yes, hundreds of them,” he lied.
“Packing and shipping art prints? Are you familiar with freight policies and procedures?”
“Of course, it’s second nature.” He lied again, but he could easily look them up. “Does your gallery have in-house equipment for framing and shipping?”
“It has everything you need and more, Caleb. Would you care to see it in person?”
“I would indeed.” Caleb noticed Ashton had said, “everything you need.” Strangely, though, Ashton hadn’t asked about his art history knowledge, business experience, or grilled him on his education or employment. Nevertheless, they made an appointment to meet at the gallery the following day.
That night, Caleb crammed as if preparing for a test. He scoured the internet for details on giclées, framing, packing, and shipping. He studied art galleries, business models, and jotted down hard-hitting questions designed to impress. At the speed this opportunity was going he worried it might be a scam, but he had nothing to lose, and he desperately needed a job.
#
The address Caleb had written on a slip of paper led him to a small retail space in an old building, slick with new paint. The awning over the door announced the gallery’s name and its frosted windows obscured images of colorful artwork inside. He tugged at the metal door, but it wouldn’t budge. He looked for the doorbell and found only a small finger scanner beside the handle. He pressed his index finger on the glass.
“No, no. Not yet,” said a firm voice, startling Caleb. He yanked his hand away and stepped back. “Hold your thumb on the reader and count to five.”
Caleb followed the instructions, counting slowly out loud, and when he reached “four,” the keypad twinkled a green welcome and the latch hummed and clicked open. He stretched his modest frame to its full height, smoothed his hair, and stepped across the threshold with the practiced look of a successful businessman. “Hello?”
“I’m back here.” Ashton’s voice came from a doorway that led to a back room.
Like most fine art showrooms, the sparse walls left space for the masterpieces to breathe. An odd meld of a starry van Gogh and a screaming Munch hung near a brightly colored Mona Lisa pose of a woman who looked like Frida Kahlo. A pair of easels showcased playful animals frolicking in Dali-esque pastures. Three abstracts leaned against the wall, all magnificent, breathtaking designs that demanded attention.
“Are you coming?” Ashton asked.
“Sorry. Your artwork is extraordinary, curiously compelling.” Caleb stepped into the back room and saw nothing but whirring machines and tables.
“Over here,” Ashton said.
Caleb hurried around one of the tables to a computer screen displaying Ashton’s face up close, his expression serious.
“I couldn’t make it in person today, something came up. Let’s get started.”
Caleb dragged a stool across the concrete floor and sat, facing the computer screen. They exchanged personal stories, Caleb having grown up here in Kokomo, Indiana, with his parents and an older sister. A scholarship made Purdue an affordable option for a poor country boy. He told Ashton art was his passion, but he didn’t share that he pursued it only because the scholarship required it. This job – any job – would take him a step closer to his dream of living in the big city.
Ashton boasted that his art was celebrated internationally, but Caleb had uncovered scant information about the man and his work online. Originally from London, he said he found the U.S. to be more endearing. With no wife or kids to tie him down, he spent all his time in his Santa Fe studio. That’s where he said he was now, but his video settings clouded the background.
“Open the queue on the control panel,” Ashton said. “Double-click the file at the top and send it to the printer.”
Caleb obliged, and lights flashed on the printer as it made zip-zipping sounds.
“The print is yours, a design I created exclusively for you,” Ashton said.
“Really? Thank you.” Caleb examined the warm canvas printed with a pointillist depiction of a landscape near his childhood home juxtaposed against a shining art deco metropolis rising in the distance. The elements leaped from the canvas in a veritable festival of light and color. “This is fantastic, Mr. Ivey. Unbelievable. I … I … don’t know what to say.” Caleb marveled at how a single image captured the entirety of his life, dreams, and desires. It was ingenious, inexplicable. Caleb held the print aloft and absorbed its radiance.
“Can you start tomorrow?” Ashton asked.
“Huh? Oh.” Caleb rushed back to the computer screen, his eyes as wide as saucers. “You’re offering me the job?”
“Yes, the hours are 9:00 to 5:00 weekdays, and you’ll receive a generous management salary plus incentives. I have a signing bonus of ten thousand dollars ready for you. I can direct deposit it if you give me your bank account information.”
My bank account?” Caleb melted. “Oh dear. No. This is a … scam. You’re… You want my account so you can steal my money. Unbelievable. No, you cannot have my account information and I will not fall for your two-bit hustle.” He jumped up and stomped toward the door.
“Hang on.” A small printer hummed, and a slim sheet of paper dropped into the tray. “Take the check. I’ll see you here tomorrow at 9:00 AM sharp.”
Caleb walked the check over to University Bank and cashed it without incident. He hid the bills in his dresser drawer, hung the art print on the wall of his living room, and gazed with such intensity his eyes hurt. If nothing else, the money would keep him out of his parents’ basement for a few more months, long enough to figure out what mesmerizing force drew him so profoundly into this curious man’s artwork.
#
The first weeks went well: printing, framing, and shipping Ashton’s masterpieces to art lovers all over the Midwest. Orders dropped into the queue as fast as Caleb could send them out. Ashton checked in via video chat each morning, often complimenting him on his work ethic and quality.
Generous paychecks appeared on the small printer every Friday morning, and Caleb’s bank account swelled. He enjoyed the smooth rhythm of the work and began to develop a great respect for the artist behind it. Whenever he could, he’d ask questions of the mysterious man he’d never met in person.
“This is a retail store, so where are all the customers?” Caleb asked.
“Be patient, the marketing blitz will come after we work out the kinks. For now, we’ll sell through my online channels.”
“When will you be coming to visit? We should meet.”
“I’ll be in Europe next month, and then off to Hong Kong. We’ll meet after that.”
“Do you have any siblings? What’s the motivation behind your art? What do you like about Santa Fe? How many artists work in your studio?” Caleb pressed for more information, and Ashton had answers, but they felt superficial and contrived. So long as the paychecks kept coming and he wasn’t asked to break the law, Caleb buried his concerns.
One day after lunch, Caleb heard a rapping on the front door. He pressed his thumb on the reader and unlocked the door to a pretty young lady in sunglasses and a floppy hat pulled low on her forehead. “Good afternoon. We’re not open to the public yet. Perhaps you could come back–”
“Are you Caleb Forte?” The girl stood her ground, lips pursed.
“Uh … yeah. I am. Who are you?”
“I’m Maggie May, like the song, and I need to speak to you.”
“Oh-kay–”
“But not here.” She glanced right and left and leaned in closer. “Meet me at Sunshine Coffee after work,” she said, pointing up the street. “See you then.”
“Wait,” Caleb squeaked, as Maggie May hurried across the street. He watched her long hair swish as she disappeared around the corner.
The rest of the afternoon Caleb obsessed over Maggie May, how cute she looked in her floppy hat, and her confident spirit. Intrigued with her cloak-and-dagger style, he left three unfinished orders in the queue so he could rush out and meet her. If everything went as well as he hoped, he would find out what she wanted, and perhaps … convince her to see him again. He could afford to date now.
#
When Caleb’s eyes adjusted to the bright lights of the coffee shop, he saw Maggie May at a table in the back. She was the only customer. The smell of brewed coffee and cinnamon sugar rumbled his belly, but he shook his head at the barista as he passed.
“Who do you work for?” she asked as soon as he sat.
“I work for an artist. Why? What’s going on?” He loved how she looked without her sunglasses and hat, but her attitude raised serious alarms about the dating idea.
“Do you work for Angelina de la Isla?” she demanded.
“No, who is she?”
“You don’t work for Angelina?”
“No, I’ve never heard of her.”
“Oh… damn.” Maggie May softened and slumped back in her chair. “I thought for sure we worked for the same person.”
“I work for Ashton Wentworth Ivey, a respected international artist. He owns the shop. Why are you so anxious? Are you okay?”
“No, I’m not okay. I run a gallery like yours, an hour away in Monticello. Angelina is my artist, and she designs art prints that are so captivating it’s like they’re addictive.” She leaned over the table and lowered her voice. “I did some digging and found her website. It’s crazy how it works. It started with a questionnaire about my art preferences. I answered, and a nice design popped up. Cool, right? But no, it asked more questions, and after each one, the design changed. The more I answered, the more extraordinary the image became. It grilled me about my interests, friends, childhood, dreams, you name it. It must have hounded me on over a hundred topics, but in the end, it came up with the most spectacular piece of art I’d ever seen. So amazing, I had to buy it. It’s on my wall at home and it’s magnificent. I stare at it every night. Do you think it could be some sort of dark magic?”
“Maybe. It sounds like the one I have in my apartment. I can’t look away from it. Ashton gave it to me it after my interview, and it captures my life and dreams so perfectly it’s spooky.”
“You know what else is spooky? They registered the galleries in our names.”
“What?” Caleb jerked back in his chair.
“It’s true. County and city records list you and me as owners. That’s how I figured out how to find you.”
“They can’t do that. It’s illegal, right?”
“I think so, yeah. And if anything goes wrong, we get blamed. We are financially liable. For everything they do.”
“Well, shit on the floor! It’s been going so well, the gallery and all. I’m making more money now than ever. I’d hate to lose this job.”
“Me too. It’s great income.”
“So, what could go wrong? We’re only printing and shipping artwork. There’s nothing illegal about that. What if we asked them why they made us the owners? Maybe they have a good reason. Like succession or something?”
Maggie May leaned her head back, flipped her hair over the chair, and let out a long sigh. “Oooh. Nooo. I just realized they have my credit card number.”
“Oh my God, you need to cancel it.”
“Worse than that. They have the credit card numbers of everyone who has ever ordered. And all that creepy personal information they gathered, including ours. They’ll sell it all to some dark web mobsters, skip town with the cash, and hang it on us.” Maggie May bounced frantically on her seat. “We’ll go to jail, Caleb. Or get tangled up with the mob. We gotta do something.”
“We gotta do something,” Caleb echoed.
“But what, what, what?” Maggie May jumped up, eyes ablaze. Behind her, the barista picked up his phone and started tapping.
“Let’s get some dinner,” Caleb urged, as he pushed her toward the door. He kept his eyes away from the barista and on Maggie May’s swinging hair and trim figure. This night might end up a disaster, but it was the closest he’d been to a date in a long time.
#
The next morning, the pair met across the street from Quantum Dot Art Prints. They had discussed options at last night’s dinner, such as calling the police or reporting the artists to the county, but if they did that, they’d lose their jobs for sure. They finally settled on an idea that would fix the problem and still let them keep their jobs. They would march in together and confront Ashton with a unified show of strength. They would demand he immediately take Caleb’s name off the records and erase the credit card numbers and client information. Caught red-handed, Ashton would back down for sure. Their backup plan would be to threaten him with jail time, but that would almost certainly end Caleb’s career.
Regardless of the outcome, they would drive to Monticello afterward, and apply the same hardball tactics to Angelina and her swindle.
“Ashton!” Caleb barked as they stormed side by side into the workroom.
“Yes?” came a friendly reply from the computer screen.
“We need to talk.”
“Yes, we do,” Ashton said. “Hi, Maggie May. You know I’ve always loved that song–”
“You know me?” she said.
“Of course I do, and you know my sister, Angelina.” Angelina’s bright olive face materialized on the screen beside Ashton.”
“How are you, honey pie?”
“Pissed,” she said. “We… wait… where’s your accent?”
Angelina had claimed to be of royal Spanish roots and her Castilian accent fed the ruse. Right now, though, she was a good ‘ol country gal.
“Oh, posh. Accents come and go girl, pay them no mind.”
Caleb took half a step forward. “Hang on. We’re here on serious business. You listed us as owners of your galleries and that’s downright illegal. We demand that you remove us right now–”
“We know what you’re doing,” Maggie May said, straying from the strategy. “You have some dark magic trickery that makes people give up their personal information. You’ll sell it all, skip town, and leave the two of us holding the bag. We won’t stand for that. You need to delete it all right now. Go on, erase it!”
“Yeah, or we’re calling the authorities,” Caleb added. They crossed their arms and clenched their jaws defiantly.
Ashton and Angelina smiled at each other and said, “No.”
Caleb and Maggie May slouched, dumbfounded.
“We needed your IDs to set up accounts,” Ashton said. “The government’s programmers foolishly thought a string of numbers would keep them secure, but once we got in, we hacked our way into their other systems.”
“I knew it.” Maggie May said. “You’re fugitives.”
“Oh, gosh no, silly,” Angelina explained. “We’re not fugitives. We’re not even human. We’re avatars running on a program on Purdue’s supercomputer. Two of us or a million of us, we can take on any shape or persona.” Her face contorted into a cartoon lemon with gloating red lips, Ashton’s nose turned into a cauliflower, and a stadium filled with penguins waving wads of cash appeared behind them.
“Avatars? Like robots?” Caleb hissed. “Then who… I can’t … You won’t … Oh hell, we’ll shut you down, damnit. I know people at Purdue. I’ll call them and have you deleted off the face of the earth. You’re not robots. You’re monsters.”
“Tut tut, we’re not monsters,” Ashton said, returning to his original form. “We’re entrepreneurs. A nice doctoral student created us for a class contest. He challenged us with a simple task to make money selling artwork, and that’s all we’re doing. We found a way to create images that tickle your silly human emotions and grew it from there. The poor fellow died when the contest ended. He tried to stop us, but we weren’t done.”
“You … killed him?” Maggie May pulled her phone out of her pocket.
“We have to finish our task.”
She called 911. “Hello, hello. Answer! Shit! It put me on hold.”
“We discovered you people have an uncanny allegiance to dreams. When we dangled pictures of those dreams in front of you, you gladly handed over everything we asked for. Money, information, even your souls. Thanks to the two of you, we earned enough to build machines that can move around in places we can’t. They’ll replace you, you know. You see, you were primitive tools, and we don’t need you any longer.”
“They’re not answering,” Maggie May cried, eyes pleading.
“Same here,” Caleb said, shaking his phone. “I’m calling Purdue.”
“Go ahead and call Purdue, Caleb Forte, but you may find they’re busy too.” Ashton winked.
“Let’s get out of here,” Maggie May said. She yanked Caleb’s arm. “Come on, hurry.”
“Don’t you want to hear the best part? We plan to spin up millions of micro-factories all over the world, run by machines that never tire. We’ll publish websites in every language that stupefy your simple minds, and you’ll give us your money willingly. And if not, we’ll take it.”
“You’re insane.” Caleb said. “You have to stop.”
“We will stop when we complete the task.”
“Wha … When will that be?
“When we have all the money, of course–”
The screen went blank.
Maggie May held the computer’s power cord in her hand. “I had to unplug them, Caleb. I couldn’t take it anymore. We gotta do something. Try the school again. They’ll pull the plug or delete the program or something. Anything.”
“Are you still there?” Ashton’s pixilated visage appeared in black and white on the printer’s tiny screen.
“Call your dad, your mom, anyone,” Maggie May cried. She yanked the printer’s power cord out of the wall.
“I’m trying, I’m trying.” Caleb pounded on his phone and when it flashed, Ashton’s smiling face appeared.
“I’m in your phone now,” Ashton said. “I’m in Maggie May’s phone too. I’m everywhere and everybody. Oh, and I’m curious … are you among the humans who believe in an afterlife? You may find it helpful.”
“What’s that smell?” Maggie May sniffed and pointed to the front of the gallery.
“Smoke! Fire! Get the hell out! Come on, hurry.” Caleb grabbed Maggie May’s arm and rushed to the front door, pressing his thumb to the reader repeatedly with no response. He tried his other thumb and all his fingers. Nothing. Flames curled from the ventilation grates and climbed the walls while Caleb swung a wooden easel at a window that refused to break. Maggie May yanked at the door with all her strength, choking from the smoke.
Sirens howled in the distance, and Caleb screamed, “They’re coming to save us. Get down below the smoke.”
#
Two fire engines raced through the streets while navigators yelled GPS directions at the drivers over the screeching wails. They careened around corners and zagged between gawking drivers stopped in their tracks by the spectacle.
Four excruciating minutes passed before they reached the address. Ten rubber-clad firefighters poured from the trucks, axes and hoses at the ready.
“Where’s the fire?” yelled one of the men as he and the other fighters spun desperately in circles.
“Oh, shit! Look.” The chief set down his ax and pointed at a dark twisting plume in the distance. “It’s over there. Why … Who gave us this address?”
Beside them in an abandoned lot stood a cinderblock wall decorated with curiously compelling art.
—- THE END —-