This story is from 2020 and was originally published on Medium. It was part of a series of challenges I completed. The genre was mystery and I needed to incorporate these things: Hat, Magnesium Citrate, and Taking a Nap (Specifically on a Patio Next to a Box Fan)
"Nice Guys"
“Police have identified the man as Thomas Keen, a 28-year-old whose parents reside in a rural suburb. On scene with the mourning parents is Marcus,” says the female newscaster.
“Hey, that’s the guy you were telling me about,” calls Sally from the living room.
“What?” I say, making my way to the TV from the bathroom where I took the Magnesium Citrate to help me poop since it has been a few days. “Did they get his pic off Tinder or something?”
The profile picture of the young man being displayed next to the male newscaster is indeed the man I had been talking to on one of those dating sites. He had seemed so kind and like a promising date until he asked me out. I ended up blocking him.
Him: Hello?
Him: U there?
Me: Sorry about that I was working. I’d recommend asking. She sounds like a keeper.
Him: Its ok
Him: The place we talk bout
Him: Monday @6
Me: I can’t do that. I don’t get off work until 6:30.
Him: 6:30
Me: I need time to change and get there, let’s say 7.
Him: Leave early
Me: I can’t.
Him: 1 time?
Me: I barely know you, I don’t want to risk my job for a date.
Him: U don’t want out with me
Him: Just say it
Him: Stop wasting my time
Me: I didn’t say that. I still want to meet you.
Him: Wutev
Him: U hate me
Him: Its ok. Everyone does.
Me: What?
Him: I’m a nice guy.
Him: I shuld of known u wood hate me.
Him: No one like me
Him: Y don’t u respond?
Me: I don’t date self-proclaimed “nice guys”. I’m sorry, but we’re done.
Him: I AM a nice guy
Him: Go head
Him: Whore
Him: Were u at? Ill kill myself if u dont respond
Me: You have been blocked.
I feel awful, but some part of me wonders if maybe he ticked off the wrong girl and she decided to off him.
“That’s what he gets, huh?” Sally says with a chuckle, reminding me why we make such good friends
“Just wish it had been me,” I joke back.
“Eh, you don’t wanna do jail time for that jerk.”
“You make a good point.”
Sally turns the TV off and reminds me, “Don’t forget tonight is movie night.”
I try to ignore the weird feeling that comes with knowing the dead man was not as kind as the news is making him seem as I make my way to work where I sit behind a desk doing nondescript data entry all day. We’re allowed to use our phones as long as we meet our quotas, and since I always surpass mine, my boss is a lot more lax when I check my phone before the quotas are met. He’s found that most of us are more productive this way, but he still walks around to check on us occasionally. He is doing one of these checks when my phone starts going off like crazy, vibrating on the desk and banners popping up to let me know which apps wanted my attention.
“Do you think you can add those two folders to your day, or should I split them up?” he asks, punctuated by the vibrating of my phone.
“I’m most of the way done and I’ve got…” I say, looking at the clock on my phone as it goes off once more, “… three hours left. Yeah, I can manage.”
My phone goes off again and we silently keep eye contact.
“Tinder wants your attention,” he says, walking off.
I’m irritated now because I hate that I always have to do more work. My boss likes to take credit for it and I keep getting looked over for promotions. My head starts to ache and things get a little fuzzy. I recognize these symptoms as ones that lead to passing out, so I try to calm myself by checking my phone. There are six messages from one guy who I had matched with earlier.
Him: Hay
Him: Hello
Him: Were r u
Him: Hello
Him: U there
Him: hay
Me: Hay is for horses. Are you a horse? LOL
Him: Wth
Him: No
Me: It’s a joke. How are you?
There are two messages from another guy which I check a little later on a bathroom break when the Magnesium Citrate hits me harder than usual. I finished my work and the extra stuff my boss gave me, but I still let him know I’ll be away from my desk for a little while. I have stomach issues, which I have been transparent about, so my boss is pretty understanding as long as I accomplish my work.
Him: I was really thrilled to see we matched, you’re gorgeous. Your profile said you like gardening. What’s your favorite flower?
Me: You know, I’m not much of a flower planter. I like to plant more useful things. But, if I had to pick, it would be roses I know it sounds cheesy
I find myself appreciative of the effort this man seems to have put in and find myself hoping to hear from him again soon. I wait a bit to make sure my intestines are cleared, and a little in the hopes of hearing from him again, before I get back to work where I will ignore my phone until I’m sitting in my car.
Only one of the men has responded, and it’s not the one I’m hoping for.
Him: Good . U?
Me: Not too bad. Just leaving work.
Him: Were u work?
Me: I don’t know you yet, so I’m not going to tell you. Sorry.
Him: U think ima hunt u down @ work
Me: Maybe. I don’t know you.
Him: Im a nice guy
Me: I don’t know that yet.
Him: U do. Cuz I told u
Me: So you’re a self-proclaimed “nice guy”
Him: No
Me: Well, if you were a nice guy, you wouldn’t have to tell me.
Him: Cmon
Him: tell me were u work.
Me: I like the hat in your profile picture. Where did you get it?
I stop texting and put on some music for my drive home, which is interrupted several times by messages that I ignore.
When I get home, Sally is watching the TV again, they’re retelling the morose story of the young man who died too soon. He’s the fourth in a series of murders via drowning in the area and they say there are three other potential victims who had drowned unexpectedly in tubs at home.
They display images of each of the men and they all seem familiar, but I can’t place where I know them from.
“Aren’t you tired of hearing that drivel?” I ask, grabbing the remote.
“Oh, c’mon. Isn’t it the least bit weird that you knew the guy?”
“No, but it is nice to see serial killers take a break from females and joggers,” I joke. “What movie are we watching?”
“A comedy. That’s as far as I got.”
“Well, get it set up and figure it out.”
Sally gets the movie up and going while I make popcorn, cut some sharp cheddar cheese, pull out the cookie dough, and warm up the leftover mini pigs-in-a-blankets. I place our feast on the coffee table and she starts the movie.
The phone in my pocket buzzes a few more times and I check it.
The man I wanted to respond still hasn’t, but the other has.
Him: Its custom. Cost like 300
Him: Its my logo
Him: I sing my own song
Him: U there
Him: Hello
Him: Hay
Me: Hi, sorry it took so long. It’s really cool. So are you into cartoons then?
Him: No?
Me: You know that’s the road-runner on it, right?
Him: Oh, i though it was cool.
Him: Its my logo.
Me: It’s copyrighted. You might have to have someone make one.
Me: A logo
Him: Wut
Him: No
Him: I got it on google
Him: U wanna talk dirty
Me: What? No.
Him: Its because u hate me.
Him: U tink im ugly
Him: I new it
Him: U a bich
Me: No. I just don’t want to.
Him: U suck in bed
Me: How would you know?
Him: Ur a hore
Him: An ugly Fat bich
Me: Ok, you need some spelling lessons. Leave me alone.
Him: U all say u wan a nice guy than you ignor one
Him: U deserve too be raped
Him: Hore
Him: Whore
Him: Ima hunt u down i now were u work
Him: U dont want a nice guy
Him: Ur ignoring me
Him: For some other dude
Him: I hop he raps you
Rage fills me as I begin to type back. The movie credits are rolling so I march back to my room. I start to feel dizzy and the blurry tunnel vision sets in before it all goes dark.
When I come to, I’m lying on the patio with the box fan, which I didn’t know I owned, blowing in my ear. I pull out my phone to check the time, but it's flashing the battery symbol to tell me I need to charge the phone. I’m in a bathing suit, covered in mud lying on a towel.
“Where are you?” Sally is yelling, panicked, inside.
“I’m out here,” I respond.
Sally hears me and runs to the patio door, shouting, “What is your problem? Why are you out here? How’d you get that hat?”
I feel my head and pull the hat off. It’s the one the man from yesterday had in his profile.
“I don’t know. Last thing I knew, I passed out in my room,” I finally reply.
“That’s the hat from the dead guy.”
“No. That guy didn’t have one,” I say, thinking back to the news story from yesterday.
“You’ve been gone for two days. You left the front door open and I thought someone broke in this morning.”
She yanks me up by the arm and takes me to her room where the TV is on commercial. I try not to get mud all over.
“Police are asking for any information related to the murder of this man,” the lady says, showing a picture of the man I had been talking to. The one who made me angry.
“That’s his hat. He tweaked the road-runner for his logo. How did you get it?” Sally demands.
I explain that I had been talking to him and show her the messages. She says that she hates these guys as much as I do and offers to help me clean up and burn the hat. We get rid of all the evidence with the plan to monitor me more carefully in the future. Neither of us thinks I’m the murderer, but it doesn’t look good for me.
When all is said and done, I delete any dating apps from my phone, scared of what I might do next.
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