The Caretaker — Part 1

“Hhhhhhhhhuuuuuuuu,” Hugh Merritt sighed. He was leaning over his desk with his head propped up in one hand, and the other working his mouse. He was working lackadaisically on the spreadsheets displayed across his three computer screens.

Hugh was a midlevel accountant at Pudding Automotives, LLC. He was a young bachelor at twenty-five years of age and had worked the same job for the last three. He made a decent salary (enough to pay his bills, save for the future, and have a bit left over for spending) and had great health insurance and vacation time. Best of all, he rarely had to interact with other people. Hugh had severe social anxiety that made even small talk a terrifying ordeal. All-in-all, he had the perfect job. There was just one problem. He was bored out of his mind.

When he first started at Pudding Automotives, it had been great. However, as the first few weeks turned into months, and then years, the monotony began to wear heavy. It wasn’t necessarily that he didn’t like the work anymore, it was the pointlessness of it.

Pudding Automotives sold cars (obviously). Hugh had never understood people’s obsession with vehicles. His philosophy had always been that if it had four wheels, a motor, and got you where you need to go, it was good enough. Hugh drove an ancient jalopy. Of course, the product the company sold was all but irrelevant to him; accounting was pretty universal. This disinterest always made him feel like an outsider in the company. The executives were constantly creating catchphrases and internal initiatives to get the employees onboard with their products. They would often say the success of the company hinged on every employee, from the custodians to the CEO, being sold-out for their cars. Pretty much everyone else seemed to buy into this belief (even though the accursed sales people were the only ones that ever got special benefits or monetary rewards for the “companywide” success) and were knitted together with a sense of comradery. Hugh tried his best to join in, but no matter what he did, he just couldn’t get excited about cars. If the company closed tomorrow, would anyone even know or care?

Hugh often felt like his life didn’t matter. His job was irrelevant, he didn’t have any friends (only a few acquaintances he rarely spoke to), and dating was right out. He also lacked any goals to strive towards. Hugh often thought about trying to find a new job or make a new friend, but those thoughts were quickly abandoned. He had grown comfortable in his apathy and abhorred any break in routine. These thoughts were running through his head for the thousandth time when a man stepped into his cubical.

He was a thin, older gentleman with short, white hair and a well-groomed moustache. He was dressed in a black, three-piece suit and had a golden pocket watch, diamond cufflinks, grey gloves, a bowler hat, and a decorative cane. He carried a brown, leather document wallet with a golden clasp on the front.

“Can I help you?” Hugh asked, desperately hoping the man only needed something simple (like directions to another person) so he could get rid of him as quickly as possible.

“Are you Mr. Hugh Merritt?” the man asked. He spoke with an English accent.

“Yes?” Hugh was already starting to panic. Why would anyone come to talk with him, especially a man as well-to-do as this? He rarely even spoke to anyone on the phone, and hated every second of that. His mind raced at what this stranger could possibly want.

“May I sit, Mr. Merritt?” Hugh’s throat went dry and he was unable to get a word out, so he simply nodded. The man removed his hat and gloves as he sat, and laid them on Hugh’s desk. He opened his document wallet and took out a small stack of papers.

Hugh’s “office” was one of eight cubicles that were arranged along the walls in a single room. The dividers reached nearly to the ceiling, and each featured a door to offer privacy (Hugh always kept his door closed). Each cubical was furnished with a desk, a filing cabinet, and two chairs. Hugh’s second chair had only ever been occupied by a colleague coming by to chat about work, never by someone outside the company.

“Mr. Merritt, my name is Bartholomew Barker Esquire.” He paused to hand Hugh his card before continuing. “I am here on behalf of my client, Mr. Edward House. Have you heard of him?”

“No,” Hugh said. His voice came out as a high squeak. His panic built as he continued to puzzle over what this man could possibly want.

“Very good. My client prefers to take his beneficiaries by surprise.”

“Beneficiaries?” Hugh was completely lost.

“Yes Mr. Merritt. Mr. House would like to bequeath you his manor.” With this, Bartholomew produced a stack of photographs from his pouch and handed them to Hugh. He looked at the first one and saw a stately manor on a hill. He sifted through the rest of the photos, which showed a series of rooms (presumably the interior of the manor). They were all immaculate.

“I don’t understand,” Hugh said after finishing with the photos.

“My client, Mr. House, wants to give you that manor.” Hugh tried to puzzle out the meaning of these words, but couldn’t quite do it.

“I don’t understand,” he repeated.

“Mr. House is a wealthy but elderly gentleman,” Bartholomew began. “For his own personal reasons, he has tasked me with finding worthy individuals and giving them extravagant gifts selected by himself. He has decided to give you this manor.”

“So this Mr. House, who I’ve never met, wants to just give me a manor?”

“Yes.”

“For free?”

“Absolutely. And in perpetuity too. Isn’t that marvelous?”

“I don’t understand. Why me?”

“Mr. House has a list of specifications that the recipients of his gifts must meet. You fit the description quite nicely.”

“What specifications?”

“Middle class, no friends or family, working a mediocre job with minimal chance of advancement, little to no presence on social media. Quite frankly Mr. Merritt, he wants someone who has given up. Someone who is a slave to routine. Someone unfulfilled, with no plans or aspirations to speak of. Mr. House wants to…shake things up for that person, as it were.” Hugh said nothing. He should be insulted, but Bartholomew had him pegged. He was just thinking of himself in the same way before the mysterious lawyer entered his office.

“Mr. Merritt, why don’t we go see the property, and then you can make your decision.” Hugh looked at his watch. It was 4:30.

“I don’t get off for another half-hour.” Hugh’s hopes rose. He was sure Bartholomew would insist on him clocking out early, and he suspected the lawyer would leave him alone when he refused. He was to be disappointed.

“Very well Mr. Merritt. I shall wait for you in the building’s lobby. Until then.” Bartholomew collected his papers, donned and tipped his hat, then walked out of the cubical without another word. Great, Hugh thought. He had half an hour to think of another excuse. While the offer sounded good (maybe too good), Hugh was against it just because it involved change. As much as he wanted change (at least conceptually), he had no intention of actually making any. He supposed he would have to go with the lawyer and find a way to politely decline the offer, then he could return to his rote routine in peace.

Read Part 2 here