The Joy of Bureaucracy, or, How To Become A New Man In The Space Of A Month

I spend most of the next month cooped up in my apartment flat. Some days, I send out job applications. These are largely bogus so I can keep on claiming unemployment benefits, and so that it looks to Vidocq like I’m doing something with my time.

In the meantime, I’ve been building up a small collection of documents. A new Social Security Card, driver’s license, New York State Common Benefits Identification Card (got to collect on those food stamps still), birth certificate, passport, the whole shebang, all of it in Claude Ashworth’s name. My name.

I also spend a large quantity of time doing research. All of it is conducted over the new phone that Mr. Samuel has given me, on the unlimited data plan that it comes with. I’m reasonably sure that my old electronics, router included, aren’t bugged, but one can never be too sure.

The research I do comes in many varieties. One big part of it is getting up to speed with the art that Claude Ashworth supposedly purveys. I am, according to ARTnews, supposed to one of “the last artists still living and creating the truths and untruths that Marcel Duchamp sought to champion,” which seems like kind of a high bar to meet. Mostly, though, I wonder how Mr. Samuel managed to get a fake identity featured in one of the most respected art magazines in the world.

The thought occurs to me: could it be that there is a real Claude Ashworth producing art out there, one who, should I try to take his place, would expose me for the fraud that I am? The Claude Ashworth who is featured in ARTnews and exhibited in dozens of underground galleries around the world is a secretive person. I wasn’t able to dig up a single picture of him on the internet. In that way, he’s a bit like Banksy—a tad more low profile, with fewer people trying to dox him and fewer conspiracy theories surrounding his real identity, but every bit as elusive, and much more avant-garde. The closest I came to finding the person behind the mask was two interviews posted online to smaller periodicals; both were conducted over email, terse, and to the point.

Those same emails appear in the inbox of the phone that Mr. Samuel gave me, the replies sent by the account that I now control.

As I stare out of my window, watching lazy snowflakes drift thorough the smoggy air in quiet zigzags, I contemplate sending Mr. Samuel a message. How did he manage to create this identity? Did he create this identity? Am I still expected to produce art? There’s an email from a curator of some museum down in Houston that’s asking if she can display a new piece of mine for a special exhibit in three months. But my email inbox is full of unanswered emails. Most of them, in fact, are left unread. I haven’t touched those. I spent a while looking at the email subjects and senders, trying to figure out if there was a deep pattern to it, but most of the unreads look like advertisements or blast emails containing information I don’t have a use for.

I double take as I scroll through the emails again.

There’s an email from a month ago sent by Greyhound Lines, which on its own wouldn’t have caught my attention. What does is the sender’s email address: [email protected], a clear misspelling, and a sign that the sender is not, in fact, Greyhound Lines. Perhaps it’s just a scam, but I click in anyways.

The email is titled Stay In Touch and You Could Save 50% or More!, which doesn’t bode well for its authenticity, but then there’s the little paragraph beneath the Greyhound Lines header image:

You never know who could be out there reading your emails or the emails that you send! Stay safe, and exercise caution with your communications.

Not what you’d expect from your typical spam message. Then, there’s the body of the email itself:

Introducing our latest promotion, the Long Distance Tour! Looking to get away from home? Look no further than us at Greyhound Lines. Just reply to us within three months, and we’ll sweep you away to your home away from home with minimal hassle, at dirt cheap prices!

This deal sponsored by Samuel Adams. America’s World Class Beer.

My first instinct is to think that this is a trap. Scarlet must have tipped Mr. Samuel off, telling him that I was looking to get out of town, but would Mr. Samuel be so blunt? Using both greyhound and his name seems a bit much. But then again, would Father, or one of his other Outside Men be so blunt? And if this Claude Ashworth identity were already compromised, what could they gain from sending me this email?

I decide to reply with something non-informative.

Hey, saw the deal, looks interesting! How’s tomorrow work for a trip?

That should do the trick.

Finally, I check my Affection Multiplier. It’s been looking largely the same lately:

Jessica Najbreit, Score: 1 (+1)

Scarlet Najbreit, Score: 55 (+15)

Mr. Samuel, Score: 80 (+0)

The bump in Scarlet’s score feels like it’s teasing me. How much of that was the kiss, and how much of that was simply proximity? The 50 extra points I get to spend on perks is nice, but what I really want to know is the answer to my question. It’s been bouncing around my head for days, and I’ve been replaying that moment… Why do I keep thinking back on that kiss?

I’m distracted from my thoughts by the buzz of my phone. The Affection Multiplier, still open in front of me, has just updated:

Mr. Samuel, Score: 83 (+3)

A second later, an email notification chimes in. It’s a reply to the email I just sent, and I open it up:

Sure works with us! Where to? And you can wire us $50 at the bank account linked here.

I click the link, but it goes nowhere—a dead URL. I pause, thinking. There’s no way that Mr. Samuel’s score just happened to increase at the same time I sent that email, right? Surely, surely it’s a sign that this is his work?

Fuck it. If it’s not, I’m screwed anyways. I reply with just three words.

Grand Central Terminal

The reply comes less than ten seconds later.

Amazing! Thanks for the payment. We will pick you up tomorrow, provided you send your address. Dress warmly, weather forecast is looking cold!

I stare at the email for a second, puzzled. Then, it clicks. Mr. Samuel’s still pretending to be a scammer. An outsider looking at the email chain will think I’ve just fallen for a stupid scam. And since he already knows my address, I don’t need to provide one to him.

Instead, I draw the curtains on my apartment and get to packing my life’s possessions into a backpack. It’s almost time to leave this apartment for good.