Matthew
Matthew Greyson was all about numbers: learning numbers, manipulating numbers, exploring numbers. In grade school, his classmates had shortened his name to "Math" instead of "Matt." Not the most clever pun, but Matthew appreciated it more than some of the other names he was called. His knack for numbers helped him glide through school relatively easily. Sure, English class was difficult. Teachers never really knew what to make of his precise and unfeeling essays. But math was easy. Science was just applied math. Even geography could be broken down into numbers in his mind.
And so it was no surprise that after Matthew graduated from college at an early age, he found himself working with numbers. Taxes, to be more precise. He handled taxes for people who had trouble handling taxes. It was a luxurious job, according to everyone else. Just run the numbers (which he was good at), and get paid fabulously large amounts of money. His hourly rate was in the hundreds, and people willingly shelled out. Tax season was always busy, but the rest of the year brought in fewer proceeds. Matthew knew how to budget, and he always doled out his money carefully and precisely. He had never found himself in a situation of want, but he rarely spent anything outside his most basic needs. He spent most of his time in relative solitude, away from other people, but he always wanted more. Numbers were easy. People were difficult. They were inconsistent, and sometimes very frightening to be around. They were the one puzzle he'd never be able to figure out. They were also the one thing he desperately wished he understood. As scary as people were, he longed to be able to speak to them without driving the conversation into the ground. He never knew the right thing to say, or when to smile, or when not to. There was no formula for that. At least, not one he had ever figured out.
Grandfather knew the formula, he thought to himself as he shuffled a deck of cards. His grandfather had been a successful magician back in his heyday, and Matthew had seen every one of his tricks. As a kid, he'd watch enthralled as his grandfather would produce objects seemingly out of thin air, or perform impossible feats on stage. It didn't take Matthew long to piece together how the tricks worked, but he soon found himself even more impressed by the skill and ingenuity that went into developing illusions. For him, seeing HOW a trick was done was even more impressive than the actual trick. The creativity and physical skill necessary to produce an image that broke the rules of reality left him in awe. That, and the easygoing way his grandfather could befriend seemingly anyone. That was the real magic in Matthew's eyes. It didn't matter who granddad spoke to. In no time at all, he would be chatting with someone about their favorite sports team (Matthew had memorized every score from every sports team in his city for the past fifty years, but it still hadn't helped conversations much), or how a person's children were doing (Matthew didn't understand the appeal of children), or even something as mundane as the drive home from work (Matthew quickly discovered that people didn't like talking about traffic accident statistics). He checked the top card of the deck in his hands and nodded. It was the card he had expected. Grandfather had taught him all the tricks of the trade when it came to sleight of hand. Forcing cards, palming items, even lifting items off unsuspecting onlookers. All it took was a little practice to master those skills. If only talking to people were that easy.
Matthew tucked the deck of cards into his pocket and took a deep breath. The small cafe he stood in front of had a flowery painted sign over the door. "Maid Latte." He'd read about this place on the internet. Cafes like this were popular in Japan (Population: 126 million, GDP: $4.628 trillion), but he had never heard of one open in the states until now. According to the blogs he'd read, the maids working at cafes would spend time talking to customers in a safe and non-threatening environment. If this visit went well, he would take up a regular patronage at the cafe to practice the art of conversation. To Matthew, it seemed an excellent plan. But all plans must be tested thoroughly. He pushed the door open slowly and was immediately greeted by a brown-haired maid with a cheerful smile. "Welcome home, Master!" She beamed, looking genuinely happy to see him. "Would you like to relax for a bit?" Matthew nodded, unsure of how to respond. The maid seemed comfortable with his silent affirmation. She lead him to a small table and placed a menu on the table. "I'll give you a moment to decide what you want."
Matthew shook his head and handed the folded card back to her. He had already examined the menu on the website and chosen his nourishment. "I would like a black coffee, and the omelette, please." He made sure to smile while he spoke. A smile is a sign of sincerity. The maid smiled back and bowed.
"I'll be right back, Master." The maid hurried to the kitchen, each lively step causing her frilled skirt to bounce. Matthew watched her with a keen interest. Her clothing and mannerisms were that of a teenaged girl, but her smooth diction and confident manner hinted at someone older.
The front door swung open, and a young man with gelled hair and a nervous expression slunk in. He wore expensive clothes, tailor made to fit his slim, but well sculpted body. The jeans he wore had been torn in strategic places to give the illusion of an active lifestyle, but Matthew noted the fading pattern on the denim did not mark natural wear and tear of years. The pants were new. The shirt probably was too. The man paced back and forth, trying to hide his face from other customers. Matthew wondered momentarily if this man also came to practice social interaction, but the idea was quickly squelched. Someone who looked this good didn't need help. And despite his anxious desire to hide his face, his posture was still elegant. Someone from a rich lifestyle, then? The dark-haired maid approached him and quickly escorted him to a back room. Matthew felt a tinge of envy, despite knowing that the feeling was of no practical use. This man was privy to the back room. Maybe I'll work my way up there one day, Matthew considered. The hope was faint, but he was determined not to let go of it.
The maid reappeared at the table bearing his order. She gently set his drink and food in front of them, then offered another polite bow. "How was your day, Master?"
Matthew was pleased that he was ready for this question. "I feel it was very successful. I have been working very hard on a project for several weeks. The details, of course, are confidential, but suffice it to say that there was a certain level of difficulty involved." The project he spoke of was sorting out taxes for a family that had done a very poor job of keeping track of their finances. He'd devoted weeks to sifting through their records ? the few they had managed to keep ahold of, at least ? and it had been a very trying experience. He was relieved to be finished.
The maid nodded, pleased. "That's great! I'm very proud of you."
Despite knowing she was only performing her role in a delicately built improvisational play, Matthew felt good to hear that someone was proud of him. His parents were always proud of him, of course. But no one else ever said they were proud of him. This was a good moment. His phone rang, and he glanced at the screen. "Ah... This is... the client I was talking about. I should..." he frowned, but the maid understood. She held up her hand and respectfully stepped away from the table. Matthew pressed a button on the screen and lifted the phone to his ear. "Yes?"
"Mr. Greyson!" A voice chirped on the other end. The matriarch of the household. "I just got your email, and I don't know how to thank you! Everything is perfect!" The woman went on, "So... how many hours was it in the end? How much do we owe you?"
Matthew hesitated. He'd devoted a significant number of hours of his life to this, but he knew this family couldn't afford his fee. The weeks he'd spent combing through their finances had proven that emphatically. Matthew quickly calculated the highest amount they could afford. "Oh, it was only about three days," he lied. The lie sounded weird in his ears. Did it sound weird to her? He held his breath.
"Only three days?" the woman sounded shocked. "Um... well, I'll be by tomorrow to write you a check, then! Thank you!"
"You are welcome," Matthew replied before hanging up. He looked up and saw the maid eyeing him carefully. She seemed to be trying to piece together something in her mind.
"Master?" she stepped forward. "I apologize for the intrusion, but didn't you say you spent weeks on that client? Why did you say it was only three days?"
Matthew clenched his fists in his lap. "I cannot say. The reason is confidential." The maid nodded understandingly and dropped the subject. Matthew carefully maneuvered through the rest of his meal, pleased to have a conversation with someone, even though it was for a fee. When the check arrived, he was surprised to see that his charge was $0.00. "Miss. I am afraid there has been some sort of accounting error."
The maid smiled and shook her head. "No error, Master. We just hope you come again." She tilted her head toward the back room. "Next time, I think the back room might be more suited for you."
"The back room?" Matthew suddenly understood the idiom of one's heart skipping a beat. Although his heart maintained its rhythm, he felt an excitement he had not expected.
"See you next time, Master."