What if a phone call from the future forced you to blackmail the woman you love?

I was about to find out…..

On a clear, cool morning in mid October I watched Julie quickly take a dollar bill off the table and put it into her skirt pocket. She then deftly scooped up the rest of the change and brought it to the cash register.

This was a part of my Tuesday and Thursday morning ritual. I’m Jim, a college English professor at SUNY Old Westbury. I teach literature from the English Romantic period. I enjoy eating at Munday’s diner on Main Street in my hometown of Huntington, Long Island when I don’t teach an 8 am class. I’m a single guy with no kids and I like the feeling of being around other people while I’m waking up with a cup of coffee and scrambled eggs.

“How’re you doing?” I asked Julie as she walked past my booth, ponytail bopping up and down.

She looked at me, grinning.

“Hi, Jim. I’m good. And how are you this fine, beautiful morning?”

Julie doesn’t know that I know she steals tips. I’ve watched her do this for a few months now, when she began working here in July.

“Tired,” I reply. “I was up until 2 am grading midterm papers.”

Julie poured freshly brewed coffee from the carafe she held.

“I don’t miss writing papers, that’s for sure,” she said cheerfully. “What can I get for you?” she asked. “The usual?”

Julie graduated from Yale in June. She had told me once that she majored in art history and had no clue in hell what to do with that.

“Yes, please,” I answered, and she left to place the order.

Julie has a friendly, bubbly personality. She must be at least somewhat intelligent, since she went to Yale. She’s attractive, with shoulder length wavy brown hair and a good figure. Why does she reduce herself to petty crime?

After I ate and paid, I walked towards the door of the diner. I hesitated, then turned back to walk towards where Julie was leaning against the wall sipping her own cup of coffee in the quiet diner.

“Hey Julie,” I said. “When do you get off of work today?”

“4 PM, why?”

“Can I pick you up and take you out for a late lunch? Or an early dinner?”

Julie smiled kindly. “Are you asking me on a date, Jim? You’re a little old for me!”

I’m 20 years her senior.

“No, I would just like to treat a nice person who takes care of me in the morning.” I meant it that way.

She smiled again, looking like a combination of a wide eyed 10 year old and a young woman in love at the same time.

“Sure,” she said. “That sounds really nice. Just hold on for a sec.”

Julie put her coffee cup on a table, reached into her shirt pocket to pull out her pen and order pad, and quickly wrote something down. She handed me the piece of paper.

“This is my address,”. She said. “Pick me up at 6 so I can shower and change first, ok?”

“Ok,” I said, somewhat reluctantly. “This really isn’t a date you know.”

I added quickly, “You look great just the way you’re dressed now.”

Julie smiled widely. “Don’t worry, Jim. I know you’re not making a move. But I want to get out of this uniform before I walk into another restaurant. Would look kinda weird, don’t you think?”

I laughed. “Well, yes, I have to agree.”

I drove to campus thinking that I’m going to get to the bottom of why she steals. I felt determined to help this kid out.

Later on, I entered Julie’s apartment complex in Woodbury. It’s located on a spectacular piece of property. The vast lawn is lush and freshly mowed, with artfully manicured bushes. A floral garden decorates both sides of the path to the entrance. It’s the only place in the area with a doorman and concierge service. Wondering how many roommates are jammed into her apartment so she can afford this place, I announced who I am. The doorman called up and promptly waved me on.

When she opened the door I was momentarily speechless. She’s cute, but I wasn’t prepared to see her dressed for an evening out. She had on a floral print shirt and black jeans with cute black pumps. She wore more makeup than at the diner. Her hair was loose, shiny brown, and fell just below her shoulders. She looked good.

“How are you?” I asked when I stepped inside. Julie kissed me on the cheek.

“Really good.” She smiled.

Following her in, I noticed right away that the living room was large. Two sweaters were hanging off the armrest of a large and soft looking chair. A second matching chair was placed opposite the first. In between, a matching couch faced the centerpiece, a TV hanging on the wall that was at least 85 inches. The coffee table contained a few picture frames, an art book about Impressionism, and an ash tray.

“You smoke?” I asked.

“Sometimes, but I mostly get high on edibles nowadays.”

I took her to Rothmann’s Steakhouse, a century old institution in the area. After small talk and an appetizer, I asked, “So, what’s your story?”

Julie rolled her eyes.

“I’ll put you to sleep, Jim. My life is a bore.”

But she went on.

“I grew up in Glen Cove. Near where the movie “Sabrina” took place. My parents are filthy rich. I have an older brother who followed my dad into his real estate business. He went to Harvard. I went to Yale. Had to keep the Ivy League thing going, you know.”

She continued.

“I’m not interested in real estate at all so I decided to major in art history. I like art and I like history. Then I graduated and here I am.”

I hesitated.

“What are you planning to do now?” I asked.

Julie shrugged. “I don’t know. My father set up a trust fund for me so I don’t have to do anything at all.”

That explains her apartment.

She took a long sip of red wine.

“Except be a good person.”

I said, “well, that’s a good goal for all of us.”

Julie shook her head.

“No, you don’t understand. I reaaally have to be, like, a decent human being.”

She laughed when she saw the confused expression on my face.

“My father said I only get money from the trust fund if I do something to ‘contribute to society’.”

She held up her hands and mimicked air quotes.

“Which means going into the family business. But I was never interested and my dad never had the patience for that. So I think my father just gave up on me, pretty damn quickly I might add, and told me I have to do work somewhere. I can’t sit on my butt all day and do nothing. Waitressing counts. As long as I’m employed, I also get the trust money each month. If I stop working, I don’t.”

“While I’m single, anyway,” she continued. “If or when I get married, my father said we’ll talk.”

She looked at me expectantly.

I wasn’t quite sure how to respond as I processed what she said.

“Julie, why do you steal money?”

Oh no. That was not what I meant to say. Not now. Not yet.

Julie straightened instantly, mouth agape, eyes wide, looking shocked.

A full two minutes later, she finally recovered.

“How do you know?” she asked quietly.

“Julie!” I said, somewhat exasperated, “I can see you! I’ve been watching you do it for months!”

She looked at me sheepishly, but also with a hint of defiance.

“Why didn’t you tell me? Or my boss?”

I shook my head.

“I like you,” I said. “You have such a bright future ahead and I don’t want to jeopardize that. But if you don’t stop, sooner or later someone will see you and won’t care about you at all.”

The waiter chose that moment to place our meals in front of us. I looked down at my sizzling, juicy steak, and buttery soft mashed potatoes, not feeling too hungry anymore. Julie picked up chopsticks and started eating her sushi platter.

When I entered the diner next Tuesday morning, I saw Julie notice, then look away. But she surprised me by coming over anyway.

“Jim, I want to apologize for putting you in the position that you were in. And I want to thank you for keeping it to yourself. I really mean that.”

I knew she did.

The next several times in the diner were awkward. I continued to sit at the same table and Julie continued to serve me, but our conversation was limited to customer/server talk. I did observe, however, that she stopped taking tip money.

In December, when I was once again losing sleep due to correcting final exam papers and drinking lots of coffee, Julie approached and grinned.

“Jim,” she said, “I want to take you out for dinner on Friday. I want to make it a date.”

I looked at her. What happened? And when?

She continued. “I like you. I think you like me. No, wait,” she put out her hand as she saw me about to speak. “Who cares about our age difference? I don’t. I know you want to help me out because you’re a professor and reaching out to kids is what you do, but……”

She stopped. And honestly, she didn’t have to continue.

Six months later, we were blissfully in love. Her father certainly never made it a secret that he hates me, but to his credit, he never gave Julie an ultimatum or threatened to end the trust money over this. Unfortunately, her mother flirts with me. I playfully flirt back to stay on her good side.

I proposed on July 4th, and we celebrated by creating our own coloful fireworks that night. After an evening of lovemaking, I was sleeping like a rock, my hand draped over Julie’s back. Suddenly, my cell phone rang loudly and consistently.

I bolted upright and rubbed my eyes.

“Hello?” I answered sleepily.

Only static.

“Hello, hello, hello!” I yelled each hello louder than the last, feeling very irritated now.

“Dad? Dad? Is that you?”

I moved the phone away from my ear and held it in front of my face, glaring at it, wishing I could slam the receiver down in anger rather than gently and politely tapping the red circle.

“Dad, it’s Oliver! I need you to come home now! Mom’s on the floor! She’s bleeding horribly!”

My finger hovered over the red circle while I felt chill’s running up and down my spine. I stared at the phone, my heart pounding. I know this child. But, I dont.

“Who is this?” I finally asked.

The boy started crying. Then, sounding like a middle schooler whose voice is in the process of changing, “Dad! It’s me! Mom’s on the floor and she’s not moving. Where are you? It’s 2 o’clock in the morning. Come home now!!!”

I swallowed. “Oliver,” I said slowly and calmly, “call 911 right now. Tell them your address. They will come over to help your mother.”

The boy continued crying, worse now. “Dad! I’m shaking mom and she’s not waking up! Please come home. Why are you talking like you don’t know us? Come home now!”

He hung up.

A few seconds later, I received a picture on my phone. I looked in horror.

Julie was lying on the floor, bleeding immensely from her wrist, hair matted, lifeless eyes boring straight into my soul.

I couldn’t fall asleep. I closed my eyes and saw images of Julie and I at our wedding, Julie holding our beautiful baby in the hospital bed, Julie dressed in a gown hosting a charity event and expertly swiping a gold watch from a man’s wrist, Julie arrested, in handcuffs at the police station, Julie’s face in court the moment after the jury found her guilty of third and fourth degree grand larceny, and petit larceny.

I jolted awake. The clock read 9 AM. I must have fallen asleep after all. Rubbing my eyes and yawning, I tried to feel normal and failed.

A half an hour later at the kitchen table, I breathed in the delicious aromatic coffee still in my cup while the caffeine from the multiple cups of coffee I already had ran through my brain and bloodstream. I sat ramrod straight, staring straight ahead, not seeing a thing, tapping my foot incessantly. I was afraid to look at the phone.

Julie walked into the kitchen, sexy as hell in her black linen nightgown and hair still tussled from sleep.

“Good morning, sweetheart! I can’t wait to tell everyone we know we’re engaged!” She bounced to the coffee machine.

Then she turned around and looked at me oddly. “Are you ok, Jimmy?”

I looked at her. “I didn’t sleep well. I’m going to take a shower.”

Later that morning, I sat in my backyard watching her water the flower garden. The water drizzled soothingly.

“Julie, what do you think you want to do with your life? Do you want to stop working at the diner and do something else? Do you want to go back to school?”

Julie put down the watering can and straightened up. She shrugged.

“I don’t know. I have to find out what my father says about the trust fund. I have to work as long as I’m single but that’s no longer the case.”

She smiled.

“I was thinking of going into organizing fundraisers for charity, like my mother. She does it for kicks so she can show off her own wealth.”

I shuddered, thinking of the image in my nightmare of her stealing a gold watch at a charity event.

Before I could respond, her phone rang. She squealed and answered, describing to her friend in rich detail how I proposed last night on the beach.

I looked at my phone for the millionth time that morning knowing that if I don’t check it soon, my own friends and family will think I’m dead.

I walked into the house, found her waitress uniform slung over my living room chair, and picked it up. As I did so, lots of change and a few dollar bills fell out of the pocket.

I dropped the outfit like a hot potato on steroid fire.

I walked into my bedroom in a daze and sat on the bed. I quickly responded to the text messages from friends. Then I looked at the history of incoming calls. It was there. An unrecognizable phone number at 2 AM. Before I allowed myself to think, I called the number.

Static. I hung up and called again. Static, then dead air.

My heart beat so fast it felt like it was outside of my body. Do I dare look at the picture? Is it there? My eyes scrolled down the row of text messages. It was there. Not allowing myself to think, once again, I tapped on the text. Then I threw up. No Julie, but an empty bathroom floor and the edge of the bathtub from last night’s picture.

I found Julie sitting on the lounge chair in the backyard, reading People Magazine.

“Are you still stealing money?” I demanded.

Julie froze for a second.

“Yes.”

I looked at her incredulously.

“That’s it?” I said. “You admit you’re stealing money and you don’t care to elaborate?”

“What’s it to you?” she said coldly. “So, I take tip money for kicks. Would you rather I turn to drugs and alcohol?”

I suddenly saw the proverbial lightbulb go off in my head. I instantly knew what I had to do.

“I’ll keep my mouth shut if you pay me $5000 a month. Otherwise, I’m telling your boss and your father what you’re doing and I’ll make sure you lose everything. We’re over.”

“Are you fucking insane?”

“No, I’ve never been more saner.”

“You can’t do that.”

“Yes. I can. Now get out of my house.”

“I’m not paying you a dime. I’ll stop taking tip money. It’s not a big deal.”

“How can you say that? It’s stealing.”

Who is this person, I thought.

Julie rolled her eyes. “It’s tip money, Jim. It’s meaningless.”

“It may mean nothing to you but to people who don’t have daddy’s trust fund, it means a lot.”

“Who are you?” Julie spit my own thoughts out.

“I’m an idiot. Julie, we’re done. You need to leave. Take your stuff. And if I dont get a check on the first of the month, and every month after, I am going to ruin your life.”

I cried silently when Julie slammed the front door.

Two years later.

The elevator chimed as the doors opened. I stepped into the lobby of Big Brothers Big Sisters of NYC and announced my presence to the receptionist. She called Angela Roberts, the coordinator. A minute later, Angela opened the door

“Thanks for coming in today, Jim. Let’s meet your mentee, Oliver.”