The Rodent Conundrum

Ongoing Committments to Privacy

Photo by Huzeyfe Turan on Unsplash

The list of requirements was sent by first class mail.

A chipmunk ran along the Walker’s fence and Rosalind Stammens almost dropped the letter in a puddle.

When Rosalind stopped shivering from seeing the nasty little beast (how did people think those things were cute? Yuck!) and opened the envelope her watermarked name was so prominent she felt it on her retinas.

The club was Torrin.

She didn’t know what that meant.

She didn’t know why she wanted to be a member, beyond the intrigue of the mystery surrounding the club.  

The information came slowly, as most good mysteries do.

She first saw the name as the sponsor of a play at The Bonstelle.

Candace Enright told her it was a private social club in which no one with a Master’s Degree or higher was granted membership.

Erich Loos told her holding any type of public office immediately disqualified anyone.

Neither admitted to being in Torrin. But they were. She knew they were. She could feel it.

Ingrid Valeya sent her the email. THE email.

Torrin believed that her award nominated play “The Yonic Burlap” made her a perfect fit for Torrin.

It was rumored that everyone in Torrin contributed to the arts in some way.

No one admitted being in Torrin, not even Ingrid after she sent the email.

Torrin was sponsoring things, building things.

A percussion ensemble made up of sightless citizens.

A new amphitheater in Ecorse.

Those things were lovely, but did she need to be part of this club?

Could she not support those things, and ventures like it, without being a member?

She accepted the invitation, following detailed instructions.

The follow-up email was from an intricate email address that would have seemed spammy had she not been advised it was coming. The email contained a word puzzle.

Rosalind solved it, or thought she did.

Two days later the mail came.

Not once had they asked for a mailing address.

But they sent her mail.

There were ten requirements, ten challenges she needed to complete. 

She could complete them in any order she wished. She was to pick the required challenge and request the instructions.When the challenge was completed, and Torrin acknowledged the completion, she could request her next instructions.

Rosalind held the paper in her hand, her name crisscrossing at odd diagonals.

She had completed nine of the ten requirements.  

Number three on the list had been her first choice:

The Depths: 

The instructions returned via email within the hour: Take an underwater photo. 

The most infuriating, yet undoubtedly mysterious element was that there were no deadlines.

Torrin was not in a hurry to have new members.

She took the underwater photo, not in her skill set, but made it the best she possibly could, never having taken one prior.

Rosalind invited Candace on a wine stroll. Again she would not admit to being in Torrin. This time, however, Candace told Rosalind that if she asked anymore Torrin questions, Candace would leave.

The whole thing felt ominous.

Rosalind requested the instructions for her next requirement:

Scaling the Heights.

Rosalind didn’t love heights, and quietly hoped it wasn’t parachuting. When the instructions came she was nearly orgasmic.

Video of singing and playing one musical instrument for residents of a convalescent center.

Rosalind’s performance ran over the 40 minutes allotted to her by the Hillside Retirement Villa.

She eagerly uploaded the video.

It took Torrin a day to respond. 

When they responded that her task was completed (completed? you jerks! I did Andrew Lloyd Webber’s greatest hits on piano plus Somewhere Over the Rainbow on violin! My voice was exquisite!) she requested the next instructions.

Weak in the Knees and Elbows.

Rosalind guessed it was a dance routine of some sort.

The instructions were to check her mail.

Two days later she received a fitness tracker. 

The instructions read: Run or Wheel 10 kilometers. Return tracker.

Rosalind wasn’t in great shape, but in shape enough.There was no target time or other instructions.

She decide to enjoy herself, not worry about it. If being in Torrin required a lot of running, she didn’t want to be in the club anyway.

She ran laps in Everett Park for a warmup. Three days later she donned the tracker and completed her 10k, stopping for a few brisk walks.

The minute she sent in the tracker she wanted badly to be in Torrin. She had come this far.

Three days later she received an email.

This one included the scariest thank you note she had ever received.

It read, in part: You honor us by completing the requirement yourself. The tracker matches your DNA and overall body composition. It’s alarming how many applicants attempt to circumvent this element.

Rosalind spun in her kitchen. Where did they get my DNA? I haven’t submitted DNA!

She hesitated.

For a few hours she was angry and confused.

Then she realized she shouldn’t fight it. 

Hell, if Torrin had gotten her DNA from law enforcement after her DUI seven years ago, the DUI hadn’t disqualified her for membership.

Still, she perused the internet for mentions of Torrin, for allegations of abuse or cult-like behavior. Nothing.

The deepest she found was from a symphonic music magazine calling Torrin ultra-secretive, exclusive and generous.

Rosalind basically knew all those things.

She invited Erich Loos out for ice cream. 

She asked about Torrin.

Erich went silent.

Before the third lick of her cone he said, “I don’t and won’t discuss Torrin.Period.”

That night she requested the next instructions, the ones for Hotter than Hell.

Within the hour the instructions were emailed. 

Prepare enough baked vegetarian pasta to feed thirty people. Deliver it to the table next to Bay 16 at the Rosa Parks Transit Center within 24 hours.Leave after the food is claimed.

Rosalind could handle that. She assumed that some applicants ordered the pasta from a caterer and were disqualified.

She went to the best stores and got top of the line ingredients. She mixed sauce recipes from a few popular TV chefs.

She bought a warming unit for the back of her car.

At the transit center,the table sat by Bay 16, empty. A man nearby sold incense.

Rosalind carried the trays of pasta to the table.

Two people in hoodies and wraparound sunglasses swooped in and grabbed the trays.

They said “thank you” in unison.

Rosalind watched to see what kind of vehicle they would get into.

Her instruction was to leave.

She looked over her shoulder one last time and swore one of them got on a bus.

Did they wait there all day?

What if she had never come?

From her car she looked at the remaining tasks and decided on “Internal Combustion.”

She hoped it wasn’t some sophomoric eating challenge, though Torrin didn’t seem like the type of group to encourage gluttony or the killing of insects or reptiles for sport.

The instructions were to purchase 10 radio controlled cars and leave them on a picnic table near the Belle Isle Casino.

Gifts for kids. She liked that idea.

Task completed, Rosalind drove home and looked at her list.

There was only one she was sincerely afraid of.

Now she opted for Choking.

As ominous as it might sound, she knew by now they weren’t going to send someone to choke her.

The instructions came back.

Knit two scarves and drape them over the northwest corner of the fence at Edison Elementary.

Shit!

Rosalind watched hours of online tutorials, bought a book, then called Trina Sanchez to sit at her dining room table and talk her through it as she went , without actually touching the needle. Trina almost insisted she do it.

Rosalind told Trina about Torrin. Swore her to secrecy.

“It’s cool Rozzie. My dad went to his grave nobody in the neighborhood knowing he was in Narcotics Anonymous..”

If Torrin knew that Trina was in Rosalind’s dining room, she was going to be too spooked to continue.

Trina gave both scarves an A+ for a first timer and a C- in general. Rosalind hung them at Edison and left immediately as instructed.

Would the poor quality of the scarves be her undoing?

Why did she want to be in this club again? 

She stopped near Edison for a drink, just one. Would someone from Torrin see her in this place?

Rosalind realized that her life had become wrapped around attempting to join a club she knew very little about.

She had the theater. That was her club. But…this was…something else. And she was close. 

She knocked out the rest of the requirements.

She saved some of the scarier sounding ones for last.

Now it seemed silly.

Blood on the Pavement was donating blood.

She did, happily. Rosalind awaited confirmation that her blood donation was registered.

She was down to the very last.

The Rodent Conundrum.

None of the other challenges had been very daunting. 

Whatever this one was she would embrace it, her requirements would be done, and she could have a good laugh with Erich Loos at the club.

Where was the club?

What was it like?

Was it a stately old home?

Or some bland converted K of C Hall where painters and musicians and playwrights just drank free wine and bragged about their latest projects?

Rosalind checked her email.

Nothing from Torrin.

She double checked that her blood donation email had gone through.

Now she began to worry about the final requirement.

Delivering Guinea Pigs to a grade school?

Rolling around with a live porcupine.

Her imagination mocked her.

Hamsters were her Heffalumps. Rats were her Woozles.

Rosalind checked her email a dozen times before bed. 

Nothing from Torrin.

She wondered if Torrin was an acronym.

She wondered if Ingrid had started Torrin and Erich and Candace were the only members and she was caught in some elaborate prank.

She wondered again about the Rodent Conundrum.

Rosalind fell into a troubled sleep.

If she dreamt, she didn’t remember it, but she didn’t feel rested either.

Before even starting the coffeemaker she checked her email.

In between an ad for gardening tools and a dentist appointment reminder was an email from Torrin.

There was nothing in the subject line about her blood donation. The subject line was empty.

The body of the email read:

Applicant:

Based on your social media history, you have a phobia/severe dislike of rodents.

Torrin only admits members who are eager to confront their fears.

Your application for Torrin is irrevocably denied.

There is no appeals process.

Do not contact us in the future.

Rosalind grabbed her phone and called Ingrid. She braced herself for the call to go straight to voicemail, to Ingrid’s overly upbeat outgoing message.

Rosalind would be calm, just say something like “Hey, Ingrid, it’s Roz, gimmie a call.”

The phone beeped.

The number you have reached is no longer in service.

It was a mistake. Except it didn’t feel like a mistake.

Rosalind needed coffee.

She walked into the kitchen and started the coffee maker.

It looked like she spilled instant coffee crystals on the counter, but that was the case because she ground her own beans.

No way were those mice droppings.

No way.

She looked closer.

They weren’t coffee grounds.

She thought she heard a squeak.

“You’re losing it Roz,” she said out loud, laughing.

She’d call Erich, shake it off, have a good laugh.

“Guess what, Erich,” she’d say with a smile, “I’m not a member of Torrin either.”

She scrolled to Erich’s number, hit the phone icon.

She was pissed about the Torrin thing. But she was an actress, a playwright. She could act not pissed.

Phone between her ear and her shoulder, she reached for the coffee beans.

The phone beeped.

The number you have reached is no longer in service.

Rosalind Stammens stumbled. She felt dizzy.

She had never given blood before. Was this a delayed reaction to that?

Rosalind backed up.

Her house felt altered in some way, like everything was off by an inch or two. 

She braced her ass against the dining room table and tried to steady herself with her hands. Something bit her.

Rosalind screamed.

She had slapped her hand down on a knitting needle. A knitting needle she only bought for…

Her hand was bleeding.

When she went to grab a bandage from the junk drawer, she noticed the oven was on.

Rosalind almost snapped off the oven knob turning it off. 

She opened the oven and waves of heat poured from it, as though it had been on full blast for days.

The last time she used it was for…

Rosalind called Candace.

Candace always answered her phone. 

If Candace’s phone was not in service, Rosalind was going to drive to Ingrid’s house.

She sent the invite.

She got this whole thing going.

Rosalind braced for the recording.

Candace answered, very quietly, “Roz, sweetheart?”

“What the screaming fuck, Candy? You know why Erich and Ingrid’s phones are off?”

“Oh…Roz…I…”

“You what, Candace? What’s going on? I tried to join Torrin and now…I don’t know. Maybe I’m losing it.”

“Their phones are off?”

“Yes. Both of them.”

“Oh…oh no…” Candace sounded weak.

“You ok, Candace? You sound…”

“I have one too, Roz. “

‘You have one what?”

“A phone.”

“Everybody has a phone, Candy, why–”

“Mine is still on, Roz.”

‘Why wouldn’t it be?”

“They…I…I gotta go, Roz.”

“Why do you have to go, Candace? Huh? I have some questions.”

“I wanted to answer…I wanted to tell you…”

“Tell me what? About Torrin?

“I’m not in Torrin, Rosalind. I’m not…but…you should have done the rodent thing first.”

“How did you know about–”

The phone went dead.

Rosalind staggered, looked at the phone. No active calls. Just her wallpaper.

She hadn’t changed her phone wallpaper from the poster for her play. But there, on the phone, was the photo she had taken underwater.

And there, on the counter, next to the coffeemaker, was a mouse.

***