A Cautionary Tale As a rule, I don’t believe in magic or witchcraft. I am not a religious person, nor am I hedonistic. But after the rather remarkable series of events that befell me, I am more likely to listen with sympathy to anyone who wishes to speak of ‘higher’ or ‘secret’ forces at work in the world. At present, I cannot explain whether my current predicament is the result of random, uncoordinated powers, or the work of one malevolent agency hell-bent on my destruction. I leave it to you to decide. Marguerite and I both worked at the National Bank as tellers. Often when we were side by side, her perfume would drift across the long marble countertop, drowning out the acrid smell of money. Sometimes I would close my eyes and daydream about her, making me lose count of the bills in my hand. She was young, perhaps twenty-three, twenty-four - a brunette with a svelte waistline and an ample bust. Her smile could dazzle, and her laugh, which erupted often at the slightest provocation, echoed in the cavernous marble hall of the National Bank. I did not always feel so strongly about Marguerite. For a long time she was a co-worker, nothing more. We spoke often - always causal, friendly comments to each other in passing. She had a boyfriend, whom she often mentioned, so even though I found her attractive, she was not someone I could even dare hope for. And yet, knowing this, one day I looked at her and all of that changed. It was no more than a sideways glance really, a quick turn of the head while I was counting out bills for an old dowager. But in that moment, I knew I wanted her; I mean Marguerite of course, not the dowager. More than knowing I wanted her, I knew without doubt that I had to posses her or I would never again be happy. The lack of her was suddenly such a gaping void; it astonished me, since only a moment before there had been no such feeling. I knew at once that I would feel its yawning presence within me (and I blush to say this) until Marguerite and I had had carnal relations. Naturally, as with all the ministrations of that odious power which now had me in its grip, I was immediately the victim of the cruelest, most vexing temptation. Marguerite approached and stood very close beside me, asking if she might have several rolls of quarters from my cash drawer. Now this was a thing that had happened before, often in fact; but how cruel to have her lay a hand on my shoulder the very moment when I had just fallen under the mortal spell. How crushing for me to have to feel her fingers brush mine as she took from me the hard, cylindrical objects, improbably and languidly running her fingers along the little ridge on the underside, formed where the paper wrapper closed in upon itself! Feeling feverish, I went home early that day; but as I was to discover over the next several weeks, no remedy (save for the one I have already blushingly proposed) would cure my malady. Even a fool deserves sympathy, although I do not ask it of anyone. And so I will spare you the details of all I went through in the next period of my life, of my blind infatuation with Marguerite. What happened afterwards is unjustifiable, and to a certain extent unexplainable, so you must take on faith how I struggled, how I suffered the slings and arrows of my outrageous infatuation. In the end, having discovered the true nature of the spell that had fallen over me, I can say with confidence that no mortal man could have resisted it. Bending over to reveal a shapely thigh, or leaning heavily on the marble counter so that her breasts seemed to press and flatten out against the cold hard surface, Marguerite was always seductively in the periphery of my vision. The sober and modest attire required by the Bank did nothing to quell my enthusiasm for her. In fact, quite the reverse was true; I found myself idealizing her as some chaste, virginal creature whose only salvation lay in her submission to my ravishing embrace. Wracked and tormented, I spent sleepless nights trying to find a way out of the snare I had become entangled in, but the feeble powers of my intellect were no match for the passion running wildly within me. A flower was beautiful to me also, I reasoned, and yet I could appreciate its beauty in a pure, innocent way, without the urge to part its delicate petals, rending it asunder as I forced myself upon it. If that was so, then why could I not appreciate Marguerite in the same way? Why did this burning, feverish desire for her pull me towards her against all caution? For all my efforts, I could not cajole myself out of wanting her in the most ruinous, the most basely physical way. For all my suffering, all my torment, it is safe to say that Marguerite never became aware of what was going on within me. I was too proud of the outwardly calm demeanor, the cool professionalism with which I have conducted myself all my adult life. It was unthinkable for me to allow myself to slide into the morass, that cesspool of publicly flaunted suffering, weeping on the shoulders of any and all who would listen. I could not bring myself to it, and so I suffered alone, in silence. During this time, my attention to work, always an area of pride in times past, began to slip. My till often turned up out of balance at the end of the day. The customers, many of whom I knew on sight and always greeted by name, became a blur of faceless annoyances. And yet during this time one of them came to stand out. A new account was opened at our Bank in the name of one Dr. Stanic (he pronounced it ‘Stan-ich’). When he appeared at my window I should have been suspicious of him right away - the closely cropped goatee, the glittering eyes. Who wears a pince-nez in this day and age? But I had other things on my mind. And yet something about him stuck with me, in as much as I had room for anything other than thoughts of Marguerite. Dr. Stanic appeared from time to time, always preceded by a premonition on my part. Somehow, I knew he was about to appear, and I would look for him, scanning the line of waiting customers, yet his arrival at my window took me by surprise anyway. I never could figure out how he always ended up at my window, and, now that I think of it, I never saw him deal with another teller. He made a series of innocuous deposits and withdrawals from his newly opened account, never lingering any longer than the business of the day required, always greeting me and taking his leave with the utmost civility. He had a quirky smile that remained in my mind, often for days after I had seen him. Even in the midst of the most torrid dreams about Marguerite, the smiling visage of Dr. Stanic would pop up, unbidden, as if to mock me. One day, when I was on my way home, walking through the banking district of our city, I happened to encounter the doctor, although it might be more fair to say he was waiting for me. Leaning against a lamppost, where a moment before I would have sworn there was no one, he took three quick steps in my direction, whipping the pince-nez from his nose. “Mr. Frost,” he said broadly, extending a hand. “Good evening.” “Good evening Doctor,” I replied somewhat taken aback. “Might I have a moment of your time?” His hand was on my shoulder. “Of course,” I answered. “What can I do for you sir?” “Well,” he looked this way and that with glittering eyes; “I have a business proposal I would like you to consider. I was wondering if you might like to join me for a moment to talk about it.” He was ushering me towards a gaping dragon’s mouth beside the doorway of a Chinese restaurant. I stopped short of the red tiled entryway. “I’m sorry Doctor. Perhaps you should return to the Bank during business hours. I’m sure the proper person will be able to help you. I believe our branch director, Mr. Wilson, would be most appropriate where loans or other transactions are concerned. He...” The doctor stopped me with a look. “You misunderstand me, Mr. Frost,” he said. “I’m speaking of something more personal. A deal just between the two of us.” He leaned very close. I thought I caught a whiff of cinnamon on his breath. With a hand on my back, the doctor guided me into the fiery red glow of the restaurant. I felt as if I had lost control of my legs. It was as if I was gliding along an inch above the ground, moving my feet back and forth in a feeble imitation of walking, but it was the doctor who was actually causing me to move forward, as if by some unseen power. Now I suppose it is needless for me to say what the doctor’s proposal consisted of, and that I leaped at the opportunity he presented. Naturally, it concerned my beloved Marguerite, and specifically a way in which I might unite myself with her forever and find an end to my torment. Those of you clever enough, or smug enough, are probably already laughing at me for entering into such a deal. Transactions of the kind I am describing are always stacked against fools who are lured into them. But I was naive, and in a weakened state - I was willing by then to try anything. Also, the atmosphere in the restaurant had me quite rattled - the light of the dim red bulbs, the burning yellow eyes of the dragons that seemed to be everywhere, the glowing orange billows of steam emanating from the kitchen. It all had me somewhat out of sorts. I found it odd that even though this restaurant was only a few blocks from the Bank, I had never noticed it before. I negotiated with the doctor, even though I had a sinking feeling I was in over my head. Holding out, I insisted a few things be put in the contract that I thought would be to my advantage. I desperately tried to work out all the angles by which he might cheat me, but my mind was racing in a haphazard reckless fashion. I admit that I signed the forms he produced from his leather bag without having read all of the fine print. The means by which I would take possession of Marguerite were somewhat mundane. The doctor produced from his breast pocket an ordinary looking pen. “Now, the method by which she will become yours is actually quite simple. It can be mastered by anyone, but the instructions must be followed precisely, so watch and listen closely,” the Doctor admonished me. “All you need do is click this pen under her nose, my good fellow. Mark me. Not beside her head, or behind her, or in her vicinity, but directly beneath her nose. Do you understand?” I nodded. “But how do I arrange such a thing...” The doctor cut me off with a loud sigh, the kind of sigh a disappointed mother gives her errant child. “Really!” He looked down his nose at me. “After all I have done. After all I am about to give you, you cannot find it in yourself to arrange the last little step?” Embarrassed by his outburst, I was about to tell him I would find a way to manage it when he continued, after another drawn out sigh. “Very well then, a brief demonstration,” he said, snapping his fingers to summon the waitress. After the petite oriental waitress had taken our order, he turned to me. “Now, how likely do you think it would be, under normal circumstances, for that waitress to end up sitting quite close beside me - with her head on my shoulder, let us say - feeding me sweet and sour prawns with chopsticks, one by one? Hmm?” He fixed me with a pointed stare, even slipping his pince-nez back on. “Eh, extremely unlikely, I would say,” I stammered. The doctor’s eyes twinkled. “That’s what you think, is it? Now watch closely,” he said. A moment later, our waitress emerged from the kitchen carrying two heaping plates of food. After they were set before us, the doctor drew out the pen. “Miss? Oh, miss!” he exclaimed to the retreating waitress. “I think there is something not quite right with my order. Will you take a look please? There seems to be something the matter with this prawn here - no, the other one. If you look quite closely... Yes, just a little more closely...” In the blink of an eye, he had clicked the pen right under her nose. I was looking directly at her when he did it and her reaction was most peculiar. She inhaled sharply and her body seemed to grow stiff for just an instant. And then a complete transformation came over her. She gave her head a little shake, as if she had just been daydreaming, then immediately sat down beside the doctor and began cooing and fawning over him like an adorable China doll. He winked at me when she popped the first prawn into his mouth with chopsticks, and his eyes twinkled when she wiped away some of the sweet and sour sauce that had dripped onto his goatee. After the meal, when we were standing in the foyer pulling on our coats, the doctor gingerly handed me the pen. “Now be careful with this, do you hear? It only contains one click. One only!” he said severely. “Waste it, and I can do nothing for you. Do you understand?” With a lump in my throat, I nodded as I took it from him. “Directly beneath the nose,” he said. “Just as you saw me do it.” “Of course, the effect for you will be different. That girl,” he gestured back towards the waitress, still sitting at our table with a dreamy expression on her face, “was only a test. My tastes run, hmm, in different directions.” He cleared his throat. “The pen will work differently with your Marguerite. She will want you, immediately, sexually!” he leaned closer and hissed the word in my ear. “Remember, a lusty sex- drive is one of the things you asked for. You must be ready to act!” As we stepped out onto the sidewalk, the doctor put his hand on my shoulder. “One more thing,” he said with a chuckle. “I almost forgot. The pen will work on any woman you choose: anyone. The effect will be the same; uninhibited sex, an unquenchable appetite, eternal devotion.” He seemed to linger over the word eternal. “Now there’s an important detail, and to think I almost left it out,” he said, as if to himself. “Remember, once you use it you must be prepared!” With that, he whirled away. It would be ridiculous to say he disappeared in a cloud of smoke. A garbage truck rattled past, spewing vile diesel fumes in its wake, sending me into a fit of sneezing and coughing. When I recovered, the doctor had gone. I carried the pen home like it was made of gold and precious gems, placing it securely on my night table so that when I lay down for the night I could keep one eye on it at all times. I was in such a state of anticipation I knew I wouldn’t sleep a wink anyway. Marguerite was to be mine, by the end of the workday, tomorrow! I could hardly believe my luck. For half the night, I lay awake planning the joyous consummation of our relationship, glancing every now and then at the pen, to make sure the instrument of my deliverance was still securely in its place. I would wait until closing time before going to her. I would have her lean over to look at something - just as the doctor had lured the waitress - then click the pen under her nose. We would be back at my place within the hour; and then bliss, indescribable bliss! The next thing I remember is the ringing of the telephone. Instinctively, I looked to my night table. The pen was still in place, but to my dismay, my clock read half past ten! I was very, very late - today of all days! What was to be the happiest day of my life started out on a bad note - I should have taken that as a warning. Mr. Wilson gave me a stern lecture about the Bank policy on tardiness. All morning, and into the afternoon I felt his disapproving eye fixed on me, so that I hardly had I chance to glance in the direction of Marguerite. To make matters worse, she was stationed at the farthest window from my own; even when I did glance in her direction, I could scarcely make her out. At last, the doors were closed and locked, the last customers ushered out. All of us who worked in the Bank were performing our final duties of the day. The plan I had concocted to lure Marguerite was simple, and in spite of feeling extremely nervous and uneasy, I put it into action. Striding over to where she was working, I placed a perfectly valid twenty-dollar bill before her. “I think I’ve found a counterfeit bill,” I said, disingenuously. “Could you double check it for me before I call over Mr. Wilson. You know how angry with me he is for being late and all. I would like some confirmation of what I have discovered.” “Of course,” she said, laying her stack of receipts aside. “Let me have a look.” For some reason, the sound of her voice, usually a seductive contralto, sounded harsh and grating to my ears. Somewhat alarmed by this, I began watching her very closely. Still, I drew the pen from my pocket to use as a pointer, just as I had planned. “Right here,” I said, pointing to the secretary of the treasurer’s signature. “Something about these letters doesn’t seem quite right. If you lean forward and look a little more closely.” As she leaned forward, I caught a whiff of her perfume. Usually that was all I need to transport me to ecstasy, but now for some reason, there was a definite hint of funeral parlor in the scent. I felt the first stirrings of panic beginning to rise within me. The pen felt slippery in my sweaty hand. ‘What is happening to me,’ I wondered? I looked at her cheek, so close beside mine. Her skin seemed less radiant than before. The beauty mark I had noticed before? Nothing more than mole! I recoiled, fumbling with the pen until I had it safely back in my pocket. ‘I’m not well,’ I decided. ‘I must put this off until tomorrow. Neither of us will be going anywhere. Everything will be as it was tomorrow.’ “There’s nothing wrong with this bill that I can see,” Marguerite confronted me with her now churlish sounding voice. “What are you talking about?” She peered at me. “Say, are you all right? You don’t look well.” “Yes, yes, that must be it,” I said quickly. “I’m sorry to have troubled you,” I added over my shoulder as I fled from her. I had hoped a good night’s rest would put things to rights again, but the next day my reaction to Marguerite was the same, perhaps worse. I could no longer understand what I ever saw in her. She seemed little more than a silly girl to me, and not even particularly attractive. I spent a week trying to recapture my passion for her, only to discover that the fire in me had gone out, completely. ‘Well, at least I still have the pen,’ I reassured myself. Indeed, plenty of beautiful women came to our Bank every day. Before falling under Marguerite’s spell, a major pastime of mine had been to size up the various specimens of female beauty I encountered in the course of a day, mulling over in my mind which might make the most entertaining partner. Now that I had in my pocket the power to turn those idle fantasies into reality, I vowed to choose from among them and put the pen to good use after all. But the problem with my plan became apparent almost immediately. Whenever an eligible looking woman would approach me, my hand would instinctively slide to the pen hidden in my pocket and I would draw it out. No sooner had I done that, then the whole cascade of doubts would begin anew: Is this really the one? Forever? Isn’t she just a little too heavy? Too thin? My, her breath is not as fresh as it could be. Only thirty-seven dollars in checking? Heavens, no! All sorts of reservations would crop up, and my sweaty hand would conceal the pen once again. ‘Perhaps tomorrow,’ I would tell myself at the end of each futile day. The absolute and irrevocable power of the pen began to gnaw away at me. I could never forget about it, nor bring myself to destroy it or give it away. Soon enough I began to consider its presence more of a curse than the blessing it had once seemed. If you are a woman who has an account at the National Bank - you know, the large branch, downtown - perhaps you have noticed one of the tellers. He is a sallow faced young man, old before his time, with eyes that seem to roam every which way. He often has clenched in his sweaty fist a pen, which he never uses. Please, if he appears to be staring at you a little longer than is polite, forgive him. And, if you can see beyond the ravaged exterior of a man battling night and day with his own personal demons, have pity on him; take the pen from his hand.