Wendell C. Everly, Esq.
You can’t find Wendell C. Everly, Esq. in a phone book. He won’t show up in a Google Search, either. No, you’d only be able to find him if you were already looking for his employer. If you’re the type of person seeking his services, he’ll find you.
Perhaps you will find an ad slipped under your apartment door, or a piece of paper with phone number strips that you can rip off the bottom hanging from a cork board at your favorite dive bar. It could even be a flyer shoved in your mailbox. One way or another, he’ll make sure you find him. And once you do, you’ll call. Just like I did. He’ll give you a place to meet, somewhere quiet and out of the way. More often than not it’s somewhere abandoned and forgotten, like an old warehouse or a foreclosed house. For me, it was the condemned mall just off the highway.
When I arrived, I felt a knot in my stomach. My car was the only one in the parking lot. Through the dashboard I could see the mall, or what used to be the mall, anyway. Now it wasn’t much more than a massive ruin. I took a deep breath as I got out and shut the door. Before I took a step towards the hollow monolith before me, things already were going wrong.
“Shit,” I thought to myself, “I left my reading glasses at home.”
It was too late now anyway, Wendell was very specific about our meeting time. Upon entering the mall I heard a faint echo of rock music from deep inside. Walking through piles of broken glass, avoiding hanging ceiling tiles and strung out junkies, I followed the sound of the music. It was coming from the second floor. I made my way to the broken escalator and climbed it. When I reached the top I couldn’t help but letting out a chuckle, despite my dire circumstances. The source of the music, my meeting place with Wendell, was a Hot Topic. The old kind with the fake gothic wrought iron fence. At least Wendell had a sense of humor. I reached out and pulled the gate open.
Inside, the store was empty. Paint was peeling from the walls. Power seemed to be working for the store, since the speakers were blasting heavy metal. Despite this, there was only one solitary light on in the rear of the store. It was an old incandescent light bulb hanging from a string. It cast a a a sick yellow around it that was mostly absorbed by the black paint. Beneath the light was Wendell, sitting at a desk with his back facing me. Swinging his arms in the air on his imaginary drum set, he didn’t notice me enter.
“M-Mister Everly?” I stuttered, nowhere near loud enough to compete with the thrashing guitars. Wendell stopped immediately and swung around in his chair. It wasn’t polite, but I stared. Wendell was a good looking man. Or, he would have been five years ago. He looked not unlike a male model who was just beginning to let himself go. Except if the fat was glued on, and in all the wrong places. If you’ve met Wendell, you know exactly what I mean.
He looked at me and waved me off, yelling over the music, “I’m sorry sir, I don’t take walk ins! Besides, my employer doesn’t meet with his clients directly! Too busy!”
“Actually,” I yelled back, still trying to be polite, “we spoke over the phone. About the-um..”
“Ah! Yes! I had some paperwork prepared!” Wendell recalled happily.
He stood up and produced a remote from the breast pocket of his cheap suit, which was about two sizes too small. The music ceased and gave way to an echoing silence. An outstretched hand shot out to greet me.
“Wendell C. Everly, Esquire. Pleased to meet your acquaintance Mr.- Mr.-” he broke his unyielding eye contact to glance down at a coffee stained legal pad on the desk. After a moment, he tracked my name down with his finger. I shook his hand and sat down. Before I could say another word, he spun around and shouted towards the back for a woman named Lacey.
“Damn bitch takes forever,” he muttered to himself before turning around again. “Hey Lacey, let’s speed this up, I’m meeting a Presidential Candidate after this! Boss is gonna be pissed if we’re late!”
“Seriously?” I asked. I couldn’t hold back my curiosity.
Wendell was almost happy I asked. “Yep! Wanna know which one?” he teased with a raise of his eyebrows.
Before he could go on, a stack of papers slammed onto the desk. Behind him stood Lacey. Standing tall at around six feet, Lacey was beautiful. But her eyes betrayed some sort of innocence. Something you would want to protect. This jarred harshly with the trashy stripper outfit that Wendell had no doubt selected for her. She retreated into the back room. While I was watching her, Wendell was flipping through papers.
“Okay, so... let’s go over the terms one more time. You agree to forfeit all previously stated spiritual assets to my employer in exchange for the requested medical benefits?”
“Thats correct.” I replied. I didn’t want any confusion.
“Excellent! Now, you understand this is a binding contract, yes?” He inspected me.
“Yes.”
He handed me a final piece of paper and pointed to some wording at the bottom.
“Could you read this out loud for me, please?”
I began.
"I, the undersigned, hereby transfer possession of all personal spiritual assets in exchange for the medical treatment and healing of my wife, which will be completed immediately upon completion of the contract which...”
Wendell cut me off. “You can skip the legal jargon. If you could please just read that last part for me?”
I did.
He reached into his breast pocket again, this time retrieving a knife, which he then handed to me. I sliced a diagonal cut across the palm of my hand. Blood began to seep out, like sap from a tree. I smeared it on the bottom of the paper. Then, nothing. I felt nothing. Wendell tossed a box of band aids onto the desk. He noticed me blankly staring at my hand. He walked around the table and put his arm around me. Pulling me in nice and close, he began.
“Cheer up! You did a good thing. There’s a lot of....talk about my boss. Lies, mostly. He just wants to help people by you so that you can do right by someone else. Besides, where was the other guy when your wife needed him, huh?”
It was a five cent promise sealed with a ten cent smile. With that, and a pat on the back, I walked out. My fate sealed. I knew deep down it was a lie. My wife was cured, that much was true. She didn’t even make it to the fucking car. She was run over right outside the front door.
I am writing this as a warning. In desperate times, you will look to anything, turn to anyone, just to find a way out. You will thirst for options and feel suffocated. It's only natural, that's how we are. People like Wendell know this, and so does his employer. That's what they feed off of. They feed off the hot stench of desperation that comes from the suffering. I did what I had to do because I thought I had no choice. Please, if you ever feel the need to do a deal with Wendell C. Everly, Esq., or his employer, I implore you not to.
Or, at the very least, be sure to read the fine print.
Perhaps you will find an ad slipped under your apartment door, or a piece of paper with phone number strips that you can rip off the bottom hanging from a cork board at your favorite dive bar. It could even be a flyer shoved in your mailbox. One way or another, he’ll make sure you find him. And once you do, you’ll call. Just like I did. He’ll give you a place to meet, somewhere quiet and out of the way. More often than not it’s somewhere abandoned and forgotten, like an old warehouse or a foreclosed house. For me, it was the condemned mall just off the highway.
When I arrived, I felt a knot in my stomach. My car was the only one in the parking lot. Through the dashboard I could see the mall, or what used to be the mall, anyway. Now it wasn’t much more than a massive ruin. I took a deep breath as I got out and shut the door. Before I took a step towards the hollow monolith before me, things already were going wrong.
“Shit,” I thought to myself, “I left my reading glasses at home.”
It was too late now anyway, Wendell was very specific about our meeting time. Upon entering the mall I heard a faint echo of rock music from deep inside. Walking through piles of broken glass, avoiding hanging ceiling tiles and strung out junkies, I followed the sound of the music. It was coming from the second floor. I made my way to the broken escalator and climbed it. When I reached the top I couldn’t help but letting out a chuckle, despite my dire circumstances. The source of the music, my meeting place with Wendell, was a Hot Topic. The old kind with the fake gothic wrought iron fence. At least Wendell had a sense of humor. I reached out and pulled the gate open.
Inside, the store was empty. Paint was peeling from the walls. Power seemed to be working for the store, since the speakers were blasting heavy metal. Despite this, there was only one solitary light on in the rear of the store. It was an old incandescent light bulb hanging from a string. It cast a a a sick yellow around it that was mostly absorbed by the black paint. Beneath the light was Wendell, sitting at a desk with his back facing me. Swinging his arms in the air on his imaginary drum set, he didn’t notice me enter.
“M-Mister Everly?” I stuttered, nowhere near loud enough to compete with the thrashing guitars. Wendell stopped immediately and swung around in his chair. It wasn’t polite, but I stared. Wendell was a good looking man. Or, he would have been five years ago. He looked not unlike a male model who was just beginning to let himself go. Except if the fat was glued on, and in all the wrong places. If you’ve met Wendell, you know exactly what I mean.
He looked at me and waved me off, yelling over the music, “I’m sorry sir, I don’t take walk ins! Besides, my employer doesn’t meet with his clients directly! Too busy!”
“Actually,” I yelled back, still trying to be polite, “we spoke over the phone. About the-um..”
“Ah! Yes! I had some paperwork prepared!” Wendell recalled happily.
He stood up and produced a remote from the breast pocket of his cheap suit, which was about two sizes too small. The music ceased and gave way to an echoing silence. An outstretched hand shot out to greet me.
“Wendell C. Everly, Esquire. Pleased to meet your acquaintance Mr.- Mr.-” he broke his unyielding eye contact to glance down at a coffee stained legal pad on the desk. After a moment, he tracked my name down with his finger. I shook his hand and sat down. Before I could say another word, he spun around and shouted towards the back for a woman named Lacey.
“Damn bitch takes forever,” he muttered to himself before turning around again. “Hey Lacey, let’s speed this up, I’m meeting a Presidential Candidate after this! Boss is gonna be pissed if we’re late!”
“Seriously?” I asked. I couldn’t hold back my curiosity.
Wendell was almost happy I asked. “Yep! Wanna know which one?” he teased with a raise of his eyebrows.
Before he could go on, a stack of papers slammed onto the desk. Behind him stood Lacey. Standing tall at around six feet, Lacey was beautiful. But her eyes betrayed some sort of innocence. Something you would want to protect. This jarred harshly with the trashy stripper outfit that Wendell had no doubt selected for her. She retreated into the back room. While I was watching her, Wendell was flipping through papers.
“Okay, so... let’s go over the terms one more time. You agree to forfeit all previously stated spiritual assets to my employer in exchange for the requested medical benefits?”
“Thats correct.” I replied. I didn’t want any confusion.
“Excellent! Now, you understand this is a binding contract, yes?” He inspected me.
“Yes.”
He handed me a final piece of paper and pointed to some wording at the bottom.
“Could you read this out loud for me, please?”
I began.
"I, the undersigned, hereby transfer possession of all personal spiritual assets in exchange for the medical treatment and healing of my wife, which will be completed immediately upon completion of the contract which...”
Wendell cut me off. “You can skip the legal jargon. If you could please just read that last part for me?”
I did.
He reached into his breast pocket again, this time retrieving a knife, which he then handed to me. I sliced a diagonal cut across the palm of my hand. Blood began to seep out, like sap from a tree. I smeared it on the bottom of the paper. Then, nothing. I felt nothing. Wendell tossed a box of band aids onto the desk. He noticed me blankly staring at my hand. He walked around the table and put his arm around me. Pulling me in nice and close, he began.
“Cheer up! You did a good thing. There’s a lot of....talk about my boss. Lies, mostly. He just wants to help people by you so that you can do right by someone else. Besides, where was the other guy when your wife needed him, huh?”
It was a five cent promise sealed with a ten cent smile. With that, and a pat on the back, I walked out. My fate sealed. I knew deep down it was a lie. My wife was cured, that much was true. She didn’t even make it to the fucking car. She was run over right outside the front door.
I am writing this as a warning. In desperate times, you will look to anything, turn to anyone, just to find a way out. You will thirst for options and feel suffocated. It's only natural, that's how we are. People like Wendell know this, and so does his employer. That's what they feed off of. They feed off the hot stench of desperation that comes from the suffering. I did what I had to do because I thought I had no choice. Please, if you ever feel the need to do a deal with Wendell C. Everly, Esq., or his employer, I implore you not to.
Or, at the very least, be sure to read the fine print.