today I followed a lead
the journal of Michael Werneburg
twenty-seven years and one million words
On my desk, when I started my new job recently, was an assortment of clutter from my predecessor. Among this assortment was a sticky pad. A sticky pad that had been cut - as one cuts a deck of cards - and had a sticky note (possibly from the top of the deck) inserted into the 'cut'. And on that beat-up, inserted, secret note?
A phone number.
For weeks it taunted me. Could this be a message from the person who held my position for the three months that lasted between when I first was interviewed and when I was eventually hired? Could it hold the secrets to some big mystery? Was it the lost number of a girl, still pining for the fellow who'd last held my chair?
Today I called it. It was a florist. The woman who answered had an east Indian accent. My predecessor had an east Indian name. I told her why I was calling, but she didn't seem to pick up on what I was telling her. For the sakes of
a) discretion (yes, believe it)
b) not making an ass out of myself (ditto)
c) not wanting to attempt at pronouncing the unusual name...
I simply thanked her and hung up. Yes, I let the trail grow cold.