No More Jingling

Does Jerry resent the gift?

He certainly tries not to. Because, really, it was a thoughtful gift. From his wife. And he loves his wife.

It’s just, well, ever since she gave him the KeySmart Key Holder, things have been different.

It had all started a few months earlier when he’d mentioned his nickname at work. Old Jingling Jerry, on account of the ring of the keys he naturally carried with him at all times, given that he was the night watchman at a cutting-edge pharmaceutical startup’s facility. He’d really meant to emphasize his offense at the ‘Old’ part. The average age of the senior management seemed to be twenty-five at that place, so of course they viewed him as the geezer, but he was only fifty-one, for goodness’ sake!

He really didn’t mind the ‘Jingling’ aspect. It was a term of endearment, he thought. But his wife, seeing his forlorn look as he shared what they called him, had snapped into action. By the next week, he had all his keys conveniently organized in the Keysmart. No more jingling for him.

And this was the problem. What Jerry came to realize was that the jingle of his key ring alerted others to his approach. As such, those engaging in certain unadvisable or unscrupulous or unlawful acts could disperse before he happened upon them.

Not anymore.

No, with the Keysmart, it was every shift that Jerry was stumbling upon teenage pranksters, affairs being carried out in executive offices, or groups of menacing thieves.

It was all becoming so dangerous! And there was so much paperwork! Danger and paperwork he could’ve avoided with a little jingling.

And then came the night when he wandered into a lab and saw the two technicians injecting something that glowed green into feral cats. He’d hidden and watched, seeing the cats’ legs grow muscular, their eyes go bloodshot, their terrified screeches growing deeper and angrier with each passing second.

It was so awful that he’d backed out slowly, without anyone hearing, on account of the key organizer. And he hadn’t mentioned the incident to a soul. Except his wife.

And sure, at this point, it probably warrants mentioning that Jerry’s wife was an award-winning investigative journalist, whose interest areas included corporate corruption and animal welfare. So maybe if he didn’t want much to come of it, he should’ve saved it for a buddy at the bar or something.

Point was, his wife blew the feral-cats-turned-into-super-soldiers story wide open. The company said the procedures were carried out by two rogue employees, claiming no knowledge of the program. They cut Jerry’s shifts to nothing. And no, it didn’t really matter money-wise, because his wife was writing a book-length version of her article on a big advance. And Jerry himself had sold his story to Hollywood for a pretty penny.

But Jerry hadn’t gotten into the nightwatchman business to accrue wealth. He loved walking in the dark. He loved the quiet of the night, the solitude.

So, sometimes now, after his wife falls asleep, Jerry sneaks out of bed. And he walks the halls of the new home they bought with their combined earnings–there are a lot of them; it’s a big house–and he shines a flashlight into each room.

And when he does this, he puts a couple keys on a ring for a pleasant jingle. And he leaves the rest in his Keysmart on the bedside table.