Nominative determinism

Arnold’s eyes flicked open as he regained consciousness, but that was about the only part of his body he could easily move. His nose was squashed into his face by a wooden board and all he could feel with the rest of his body was hard wood. When he had fully recovered his senses, he realised he was entombed in a wooden crate. Arnold had mixed feelings about his predicament. Although he wished he could turn back time, he had to admit, this was, so far, the most successful of all his Get rich quick schemes.

         Earlier that day, Arnold had been sat in the waiting room of his dentist. As usual the time of his appointment was only a rough guide as to when the dentist would see him. He whiled away the time casually flicking through a Reader Digest that was so old Shakespeare was the guest editor. He sat up-right when one article caught his attention. It was titled Nominative Determinism – How your name impacts your fortune. The article was full of examples of how people had successful careers doing jobs that matched their names. Examples included Jack Forrest the owner of the largest lumber business in Montana, John Kitchin a famous New York chef and Janet Bird, the head of nature conservation for the state of Florida. It wasn’t all good news though. There was the case of Arsene Dubois, the infamous French firefighter, who had lost his job after an investigative journalist started asking why Paris had so many fires. Arnold sat back, laced his fingers across his chest, stretched out his legs and contemplated his future.

‘Arnold,’ called the dental nurse as she came into the waiting room. ‘Arnold Judas?’

Arnold sat up, not sure if he’d heard right.

‘Arnold Judas?’ she repeated as their eyes locked. ‘The dentist will see you now.’

Arnold followed the nurse down the corridor, watching her hips sway under her starched uniform. Then it hit him.

‘I should be a police informant,’ Arnold thought. His pace quickened until he walked shoulder to shoulder with the nurse.

‘Have you been working here long?’ he asked. To a police informant information was currency. He needed to collect as much dirt as possible, as soon as possible. At present, he had little to sell except a suspicion that his neighbour was putting his garbage into Arnold’s bin even when his own wasn’t full. Hardly crime of the century.

‘Forever,’ she said with smile, opening the door to the dentist’s examination room and waving him in. ‘It’s a family business.’

Arnold settled into the dentist chair, scanning the room for anything out of place. The dentist had his back to him and was typing into a computer ignoring his nurse. Frosty, Arnold concluded.

‘I hope I’ve not walked into the middle of something,’ said Arnold inviting a confession.

‘Not all,’ said the dentist, spinning around on his swivel chair. ‘Sorry about that,’ he continued. ‘Damn government, always on your back about taxes. I’m Dr Tutorri.’

‘Italian American. Interesting,’ thought Arnold. ‘Taxes isn’t that how they got Capone?’

‘Last time, I think you saw my predecessor, Dr. Piccione,’ continued Tutorri.

‘What happened to him?’ said Arnold thinking he could be on to something.

‘Retired to Florida,’ said Tutorri.

‘Swimming with the fishes,’ said Arnold. The nurse handed Arnold a plastic beaker of pink fluid.

‘Excuse me?’ said Tutorri.

‘Can you just rinse, and spilt into here,’ the nurse said pointing to a ceramic funnel beside the chair. Arnold thought he’d take a punt.

‘Do you know Tony Knuckles?’ he asked. The nurse dropped a tray of implements and exchanged a quick glance with the dentist.

‘Jimmy the fence?’ probed Arnold.

‘Can’t say that I do,’ replied the dentist. The nurse stood on a button on the floor and the chair Arnold was in started to slowly recline.

‘So, you don’t know nothing about nothing,’ said Arnold noticing that the nurse had filled a syringe and was tapping the needle to get rid of the air bubbles.

‘Tutorri, torturatore, torturer. Extracting teeth to extract confessions.’ thought Arnold, as the nurse slipped the hypodermic needle into his arm.

Then everything faded to black. The next thing Arnold knew he was in the box, with his nose pressed against wood.

‘I knew I was onto something,’ Arnold said into the lid.

There were three air holes drilled into the crate, so he assumed his captors didn’t want him to die straight away. Good, and probably also bad, he thought.

Arnold slid himself down in the box until his eyes were level with the air holes. Peering out he could see steel joists and the type of corrugated cladding that was usually found on warehouse roofs. He pushed against the lid but it didn’t move. He tried to kick the bottom. The wood was solid, but he thought he felt the box shift a bit. He kicked again and bucked his body at the same time. The box definitely shifted. Again and again, he bucked, and each time the box moved until finally he felt it teeter on the edge of whatever it was sat on.

Then Arnold froze. He heard a door open and then footsteps on a concrete floor. The voices were muffled even when they appeared to be coming from directly below him. Arnold shifted slightly hoping to hear better. As he did so, the box tipped and slid into an apparent abyss. The fall was short, however, and when the box hit the floor, it split open causing Arnold to tumble out at the feet of a man with his hands in the air. They both looked over towards the box which, before hitting the floor, had hit another man. One of his arms stuck out from underneath the splintered remains of the box, and a gun sat in his hand. The fingers now only loosely gripped the handle.

        Arnold looked up at the man who lowered his hands, straighten his kippa and hugged his prayer shawl around himself and then fell to his knees.

        ‘Thank you, thank you my son,’ said the Rabbi. ‘Please tell me, what is your name?’

         ‘My name is Arnold Judas,’ he replied, trying to recover his senses.

         ‘That’s a coincidence,’ said the Rabbi. ‘Did you know that in Hebrew Judas means Let him be Praised.’

               ‘It does,’ said Arnold. ‘Can you make any money at that?’