Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 44, No. 6, June 1999

Tooth Fairy by Gary Alexander

There’s a lot to be said for transferring out of Production to Claims. You might look at it as being grounded, but Management strongly prefers that you do not. You’re not fighting to meet quotas as they constantly raise the bar. You’re relying on your problem-solving skills rather than blinding, mindless speed. You’re now a professional/technical employee. You’re empowered.

At least that’s how Management sold it to me. Not a tough sale when you’re no longer as, well, sprightly as you used to be. And not when you consider the alternative, which is downsizing.

What they don’t tell you is that you’re pulling files out of the archives as green around the edges as a spoiled block of cheese. The trunk of my company car is so full of these it’s dragging on the ground, flattening near-bald tires. But off I go, not exactly dawdling, squinting through rock-chipped glass, pumping a roostertail of blue smoke. After budgets are written, Claims always seems to end up on the hind teat.

Bob Pat Hoopsma of Various Falls, Oregon, drove an eighteen-wheeler. I finally caught up with him at a forlorn truck stop off I-84. Bob Pat was in the lounge. Cigarette smoke hung like a temperature inversion, and the jukebox lamented lost pickup trucks, dogs, and loves, usually in that order.

To insure that I’d have his attention, I sashayed in with big hair and small clothes. Though Bob Pat was one step from geezerhood, I recognized him from the file description. The pencil neck and jug hairs were in place, the cowlick presumably squashed under his John Deere cap.

I took the stool next to him. Bob Pat undressed me with his hemorrhaging eyeballs. That’s okay. I can live with a few minutes of degradation. When they’re three sheets to the wind and lust-crazed, it’s easier to get to the bottom line.

With no time to waste I said, “Bob Pat, on 11 September 1952 you lost a lower incisor. Still young enough to believe in the Tooth Fairy, you placed it underneath your pillow and fell fast asleep.”

“Huh?”

I sighed and repeated myself.

“A Kenworth’s a lot roomier than some folks think,” he said, leering. “Yes, I know,” I said provocatively.

“Whoo-ie! Whatcha drinking, toots?”

I ignored him and dug into my purse/briefcase for file notes and pocket calculator. I said, “You awoke in the morning. Your tooth was gone, and you had not been compensated.”

“Don’t I know you from someplace way back when?”

“No. In the early 1950’s, my territory was in the Midwest Division,” I lied. “Standard compensation in the chronological-geographical zone was either a dime or a quarter. You can’t be expected to recall. We’re giving you the benefit of the doubt by assuming the larger denomination.”

Bob Pat Hoopsma gulped his beer and said, “Them was the days. They made coins out of real silver.”

I swatted his paw from my knee and began crunching numbers. “Yes, they did, Mr. Hoopsma. For that reason, we’re basing our offer on a quarter-ounce of silver at today’s closing price, pegging interest at prime rate plus two percent, compounded daily. I’m figuring it for you on the spot to give you the accrual benefit of every day.”

I showed him the result: ninety-four dollars and thirty-one cents.

He frowned at the readout and shook his head. “No way. Sure, I bought it before, but I never paid no gal no ninety—”

“Excuse me, Mr. Hoopsma. You’re not paying me, I’m paying you.”

His mouth dropped, but when he saw the cash, he slid it over with his bar change and signed the Release of All Claims, no questions asked. I was out of there lickety-split, on to my next call. Until I was called on the carpet, I thought I’d closed out Hoopsma and his family’s file.

But there it was, moldering on the boss’s desk.

She thumbed an edge. Cardboard and paper corners flaked off, sending up dust motes. “I thought in Orientation I covered the necessity of reading the files.”

“You covered reviewing the files. Scanning for pertinent—”

She raised a hand. “Date of client’s complaint?”

I was so proud I remembered. Perhaps it was because ’52 was my rookie year, freshly trained and new in the field. “Eleven September 1952. The following morning. Bob Pat cried his eyes out. His mom alleged the Tooth Fairy visited. The quarter, however—”

“Dime, incidentally. The client’s memory is selective.” She pushed the file toward me. “Read on. Actually read.”

I flipped the pages with trembling fingers. Regardless of years of service, there was no such thing in this outfit as a buyout package, a golden handshake. You were a team player until death did you part.

It was obvious. How could I have missed it? On 11 September 1952 Mrs. Hoopsma beat a confession out of Bob Pat’s older sister, Mary Pat, that she had stolen the dime. I recognized my initials in the margins. Even in those days, though, quotas were high. I couldn’t be expected to remember each and every call.

I shoved the folder aside. I knew I was in for it. Management wasn’t paid to be reasonable and sensitive.

“You were a Production Field Agent in that territory in the 1950’s. According to these records, you serviced the Hoopsma children on one unspecified occasion.”

“I’m sorry. Obviously I had serviced the Hoopsma household. Whether or not I made this particular call, I simply don’t remember.”

“You couldn’t be expected to. Not when you make scores of calls per night. Furthermore, in the precomputer era, we didn’t document our files as thoroughly as we do now.”

How true. Now Production staffers scanned bar codes on orders when they completed an assignment. The transaction was fed into our mainframe. Precise data has cut the incidence of new claims dramatically.

“This, however, may have been the seminal event that propelled Mary Pat from this dysfunctional family full tilt into a life of crime,” she went on.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. Not our problem. Our problem is our backlog. You’re aware of the upcoming audit?”

Certainly I was. How did she think I got into Claims so easily? Personnel allocations quintupled overnight when the date of the auditors’ visit was announced. Every century Auditing sent Quality Teams around. Woe be it to Management if they were carrying too many open claims. This battleaxe sitting across from me was a world-class procrastinator who entered Management Training right out of school without working one single solitary night in Production. They were responsible for letting this slagheap of files build up, not me.

“But,” I pleaded, “doesn’t the fact that Mary Pat confessed prove that the assignment was completed?”

“It proves nothing. Number one, it was a coerced confession, its accuracy in question. Second, even if it were true, we paid the claimant twice,” she said, ticking off her objections on sausagelike digits. “That means subrogation.”

“Oh well, then we can ship the file to Subrogation?”

She looked at me like I was dumber than moss. “Please think proactively. Where have you seen a subro unit in the budget? And this isn’t exclusively about money, you know.”

I knew. It was about a higher, loftier principle: Cover Thy Backside.

At her suggestion I volunteered to spend three days at Excellence School. Mostly we memorized our mission statement and rehashed it article by article. This was sold to me as “personal enrichment,” but it was hard to see it as anything except penance.

Freshly enriched, I headed back into the field. I either had to cadge a refund from Bob Pat or take a statement from Mary Pat recanting her confession to her mother. The former would be no cinch; Bob Pat was so blotto he wouldn’t remember our encounter. If I demanded a ninety-four dollar thirty-one cent refund, him and his dirty mind, he’d try to negotiate me into the cab of his Kenworth.

But at least I had a general idea where to locate him. I hadn’t the foggiest where Mary Pat was. I did read the Hoopsma jacket this time. Cover to cover. Maybe I’m prejudiced because I was a contributor, but I’ve seen sloppier files. Each deciduous incisor and cuspid was logged for both children, but some dates weren’t recorded and notes were illegible. Perfection is difficult to attain when you’re in such a hurry.

The last entry was 9 January 1954, a voucher checkoff, ten cents compensation for a first molar. Bob Pat had reached a skeptical age, and his active file was closed. The narrative stated that his parents, Patrick and Patricia Hoopsma, were divorcing. Mary Pat was rumored to be incorrigible, a devious tomboy who’d graduated to truant and shoplifter. We knew all this because with two children of similar age we visited Hoopsma household frequently and we often recorded our observations. It is a common complaint of Management, somewhat justified, that while Production whines that it is too rushed to follow company policy, staffers have plenty of time to snoop and gossip.

Bob Pat proved too easy to trace. The previous Thursday, when descending a mountain pass, he’d hit a patch of ice and jackknifed his double semi. The graveside memorial service was held at a parched, windswept cemetery on a plateau. If there were waterfalls thereabouts in Various Falls, they had dried up.

It was a sparse turnout. Bob Pat Hoopsma was remembered by trucker buddies and a couple of sentimental hookers. They’d passed the hat and hired a minister. During the ten minute service he alluded to beloved family members, but none attended. Older sister Mary Pat was conspicuously absent.

Thanks to downsizing and consolidation, Clerical Support was becoming an endangered species, so I personally formalized my report on standard forms and delivered them to Management. She made several helpful criticisms of my typing and adherence to procedures, then slid aside the inch-high stack of documents and said, “Sad.”

“Yes, it is,” I agreed. “I think he was a decent man. He died alone and middle-aged—”

“No, I mean your inability to close the file. I’m not necessarily blaming you. For the moment we’ll blame bad luck. However, Auditing will not be so understanding.”

That was my marching order. On my hands and knees I begged an expense voucher to replace the tires on the company car before I met Bob Pat’s fate. At the brief memorial service I had overheard Mary Pat’s name. She was said to have recently lived in or near Grand Peaks, a neighboring and larger town. I was unable to locate her; the best I could do was a few vague recollections of her name. Though she had not lived in Grand Peaks “recently,” I felt she might in some way remain connected.

At the boss’s behest I represented myself as an attorney retained to discharge Bob Pat Hoopsma’s estate. I don’t know what was more loathsome, the subterfuge or the persona. But it worked.

I took a room at a motel and ran advertisements in the local newspaper. There was no estate. Bob Pat’s landlady at his rooming house gave his clothing to Goodwill and a neighbor at whose curb it was parked had Bob Pat’s old pickup truck towed off.

The word “estate” is magical. The advertising attracted a succession of ne’er-do-well chums and shirttail relatives. Finally Mary Pat showed.

“You’ve changed,” she said, taking a seat without being invited.

“I beg your pardon.”

“Small world, ain’t it? I rarely forget a face,” she cackled, lighting a cigarette before I could protest that this was a nonsmoking room. “You’ve put on some pounds, but hell, who am I to talk?”

Stocky, in jeans and logger shirt, Mary Pat Hoopsma was a rough-looking character. I said, “I’m sure we haven’t previously met.”

She shrugged and blew a smoke ring. “It’s been awhile. How a nice girl like you got into the stinko lawyer racket is none of my business. What is my business is this estate thing. You can take my word for it, I’m his sole survivor.”

“Why weren’t you at the memorial service?”

“The world’s been none too kind to me. I’m not saying it’s not part my fault, but I decided fifteen years ago I wanted as little to do with it as I could. I been living in the hills and didn’t hear he’d died till I came into town for supplies this morning. My Jeep needs a carburetor, and I damn near didn’t make out of the woods. Let’s cut to the chase. What did Bob Pat leave his big sis?”

“In a manner of speaking, ninety-four dollars and thirty-one cents.”

She smiled sadly. “That’s more than I expected he’d leave behind. Me and Bob Pat, we’re a pair to draw to.”

“You didn’t stay in contact over the years?”

“Nope. Him and me, we were wild as kids, especially me. We left home young. I had some petty scrapes with the law and three bad marriages. He was a lifer in the military and went on to drive trucks. We were both cut out to be loners. An extra ninety-four thirty-one won’t hurt a bit. When do I get my money?”

“Mary Pat, on 11 September 1952 did you or did you not steal from under your brother’s pillow a dime payment for a lost lower incisor?”

She nodded appraisingly at me. “Yep. Like I said, I rarely forget a face. Tell me, how’d a tooth fairy go sour and become a lawyer?”

“Nobody has ever seen a tooth fairy,” I said indignantly.

“Yeah? Well, what I seen come sailing through the window trailing all that twinkly stuff wasn’t a B-29.”

“Impossible!”

“Maybe nobody ever woke up during the switcheroo. I never did,” Mary Pat said. “That don’t mean you weren’t spotted from time to time. C’mon, how would anybody believe in a tooth fairy unless there’d been a spotting or two? Kids don’t just take their parents’ word for everything, you know.”

I had no response. The Tooth Fairy was assumed to be mythical when a child reached an age when other fantastical delights such as Santa Claus became suspect. Yet we were expected to perform in a real world context. This was an edgy paradox that troubled me throughout my years in Production.

“I heard that tinkling sound you made and crouched behind Bob Pat’s dresser before you landed. I must of made noise, too. You grabbed his tooth and took off like a bat out of hell, no offense.”

“You then stole the dime I left?”

“You didn’t leave a dime, you were in such an all-out hurry. I’d gone into his room to steal it, but it wasn’t there. You bugged out so fast you must of gotten rattled and forgot to leave the money.”

My heart sank. I didn’t think I’d bungled the transaction, but it was entirely possible. The most stressful aspect of Production next to achieving quotas was fear of discovery. I was young and skittish then, not as clear-headed and confident as I grew to be in later years. I said, “You were punished for the theft and confessed to it.”

“If I hadn’t, Mom would of turned me over to Dad. He was drinking awful heavy. It was a no-win situation. When did you say I was getting my ninety-four bucks?”

I violated every confidentiality rule in the Employee Handbook. I told her everything I’ve told you. I told her I was sorry about the ninety-four thirty-one. A duplicate payment was out of the question.

“Wait a second,” Mary Pat said. “You think you’re off the hook on account of you paid Bob Pat the money plus interest you didn’t pay him back then?”

“Essentially, yes.”

She laughed. “Listen, if you close out your file by telling the truth, and this hatchet squad you got paying you a visit is half as nasty as you claim, girlie, you’re in deep doodoo.”

She was absolutely correct. I had brought the file to resolution, yes, though at great expense incurred due to my original botching. I’d done a terrible job of cleaning up my own mess.

“There is another possibility. I did do my job correctly, and you stole the money upon my departure.”

“You’ll never know, will you?”

I had a hunch she was bluffing but no proof. I could only shake my head.

“Cheer up,” Mary Pat said. “I got an idea that’ll make us both happy. Once in my misspent youth I did ninety days at the county farm for check forgery.”

“Keep talking,” I said.

We reached an agreement in principle, although “principle” was a misnomer for what we concocted. Mary Pat signed a statement admitting that she had pilfered the dime received by her brother for a lower incisor on 11 September 1952. She had an assortment of check stock in her tote bag and wrote one to “cash” for ninety-four thirty-one. The corporation upon which it was drawn would suffer no loss, for I would hold it in the file and conveniently lose it after the Quality Team had cut their swath through our repository.

I don’t think you will be surprised to learn that there was a quid pro quo. I had no personal funds and, in the given situation, no scruples either. Under the circumstances please do not expect an expression of guilt.

Mary Pat had admired my brand-new tires and appraised them as the only items of value on my company car. Since they were of no use to her and her Jeep, we drove into an alley to an associate of hers in the automotive parts profession. He looked around furtively, ushered us into a garage, and quickly substituted my tires and wheels for replacements of an earlier vintage. For this consideration Mary Pat received a secondhand carburetor guaranteed to fit in her Jeep.

Everyone was happy. Temporarily, that is. The Hoopsma file and others I handled passed the Quality Team muster, if not with flying colors, with a grudging acceptance. My boss wasn’t as fortunate. In fairness to her, the accumulated bureaucratic snafu was really quite impossible. Nevertheless, she racked up a record number of demerits and was transferred from Management to Production.

They told her not to look at it exactly as a demotion. There was a push on to get as many employees in the field as possible. After all, the corporate mantra of the nineties was “customer service”.

Don’t quote me as saying the transfer was ill-advised. Everyone deserves a chance. Not everyone is as lithe and graceful as they used to be, and one shouldn’t pass premature judgment.

Please permit me to offer a caveat, though. If you see a sputtering object hurtling low in the night sky, don’t jump to the conclusion that it is a killer meteor or comet. And if a child of yours just lost a tooth, open his or her window a crack.