“What you got?”
“Ten bucks and a bottle of whiskey.”
“You can leave the whiskey with me. The ten bucks you will need over there.I am supposed to ask you if you realize what you are getting yourself into, but by the looks of you I would say that you already know. Go on.”
“Thank you.”
Dexter Posh opened the door that led to a closet sized office. A man in glasses and a charcoal grey suit ushered him to sit in the opposing chair.
“I assume you have something for me?”
“I was told the going rate was ten dollars and a tip for the door man.”
“What did you bring him?”
“A bottle of whiskey.”
The man in glasses nodded. He leaned back in his chair. He glanced up at the single light bulb hanging over his desk for a moment then back at Dexter.
“You realize that the service we are providing here is not assisted suicide. We merely provide guidance to those who need help in ensuring a smooth process.”
“I understand”
“Good. Now explain to me why you want to do this?”
“I’m tired of helping people and not getting any reward for it.”
“But that is the way the world works.”
“That’s just it. Why bother putting all your time and effort into it when people are going to ruin everything anyway?”
“That is why they need you.”
“I think it would be worthwhile for all of us if we stopped helping them. Let them fend for themselves.”
“They would die. And that would create a whole other problem for us.”
“I suppose.”
“Maybe all you need is a nice vacation.”
“It wouldn’t help. Look I gave you my ten dollars, now do I have your cooperation or not?”
“You understand why we provide this service?”
“Yes.”
“I have convinced many others like you against taking such drastic actions.”
“You’re not convincing me of anything. I want out.”
“You realize that you will, in the future, be adding to the problem? And you will be back.”
“It is no longer my problem and I won’t ask you for anything more. “
“Oh but when you're there, you will."
“I won’t be back. I’ll find a way to stop that.”
“That’s an interesting idea. I look forward to hearing all about it when you come back.”
“If we’re done, I think I’m ready now.”
“Good then you will need this.”
The man handed him a dark blue suit.
“Just put this on and you’ll be all set.”
Posh held the suit out, considering it a moment. He looked down at his own white robe, now frayed and graying.
“There is a restroom in there if you’ll feel more comfortable.”
The man gestured to a door to his left. Posh went into the restroom. He emerged wearing the suit.
“You are free to go.”
Posh opened the door to the office. He looked back at the man for some further indication, but the man’s face remained passive. Posh stepped out into the hall and closed the door behind him. He was instantly met by the stone cold glare of the door man.
“That way, Mr. Posh.”
The doorman gestured to a door at the far end of the hall.
Posh stepped slowly past the door man fearing some opposition but there was none. As Posh walked he began to feel that the hallway was getting longer and longer before him. Just when he was starting to wonder if he would ever reach the end, all at once the hallway shortened. Posh took one last look at his dark surroundings and opened the door.
Dexter Posh found himself standing on a busy street corner. He couldn’t immediately recognize which city he was in nor did he care. He already knew they were all the same anyway. He looked up at the sky. Up where they were. He felt victorious. Looking up there now, he no longer wondered what he was missing, but realized what he had lost when he left.
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
Thursday, September 20, 2007
Tom and Gerald
Gerald McLachlan was not particularly fond of his next door neighbour. Granted, they lived in as close proximity as any two strangers could and yet still be expected to co-exist. The not so luxury town homes afforded residents individual driveways, but not much else. Not that Gerald was opposed to compromise. He had worked in the same box of an office with mostly the same people for nearly twenty years. But work was work. The fact that the guy who sat next to you was close enough to pick the lint off your shirt mattered little when you were nose deep in paperwork.
But home was different. For Gerald it was not so much the lack of physical space, but having to watch the ways in which people chose to live their lives. He hated all of the personal habits that people had. All of the annoying things they did that sometimes seemed to make absolutely no sense at all.
Tom was a single man in his fifties. He was tall and thin with frizzy white hair at the sides of his head. He always had the same closed mouth grin on his face. Tom never said much, only nodded. Unlike Gerald, Tom had not chosen the single life. The single life had chosen him when his wife died five years earlier. A Chartered Accountant, Tom left his house at five every morning and returned at six every night. On weekends he carried in boxes.
One Saturday, Gerald watched as the man carried in eighteen boxes, each one waist to chin high. The most puzzling thing for Gerald was that he never saw the man carry anything out. Ever. Not so much as a lunch bag or briefcase. And yet every weekend, there was Tom, carrying in boxes of all different sizes.
Gerald was out watering his lawn when he overheard his neighbour from across the street calling across to Tom.
“Moving in Tom?”
Tom only smiled, nodded and continued to carry in boxes.
Now and then when Gerald would be out pruning his shrubs, he would attempt to sneak a peek into Tom’s window. To his frustration, he was never able to see much of anything before Tom returned with another armful of boxes.
This went on week after week for a year. Then the following March Tom had to go away for a week on business.
Gerald sat in his kitchen the day after Tom had left. He stroked his hand through a mop of brown hair. He straightened his glasses and took a long drag of his cigarette.
Even as a kid, Gerald had never stolen anything, trespassed or got into a fight. This time though, his curiosity got the better of him. In Gerald’s mind there was no other option. That night he would slide open a basement window in Tom’s house. He would see for once and for all how it was that his neighbour Tom lived.
Gerald waited until the last of his neighbour’s lights had gone out. He crouched beside the back basement window, but the window was jammed. Gerald knelt down to get a better grip cursing as the wet grass soaked through his jeans.
The window creaked and skidded along the dirty track. Gerald took one last look around and lowered himself in.
Gerald was barely able to get two feet on the floor before his back thudded up against a wardrobe-sized box. He crouched low and flipped on his pocket light. Gerald had never in his life been claustrophobic until that moment.
Packed from floor to ceiling, were boxes. While there were many different sizes it was the waist to chin size that Tom seemed to favour.
Gerald followed a narrow footpath through the basement. He made his way up the stairs. Every floor was the same with only one narrow footpath throughout the house. At last Gerald could stand this madness no longer. He opened his pocketknife and sliced a careful opening into one waist high box in the living room. He pulled the side of the box open.
A stream of photographs poured out at his feet. Gerald pulled one out of the heap and held it up to his pocket light. It was a picture of Tom, smiling that same closed mouth grin. He aimed his flashlight down at the pictures as he sifted through them. In some pictures Tom stood beside a tree. In others, he leaned up against a fence. In one he stood alone in a room, stark naked.
Gerald ran his knife along the boxes. Box after box contained only pictures of Tom. Most were self-portraits of that same closed mouth smile that Tom had displayed every box carrying Saturday.
Gerald eased his way along the footpath and out of Tom’s house as fast as he could manage. He locked himself in his house and drew the blinds.
A week passed and Tom had not returned. Instead, a Real Estate Agent pulled up in a red Jaguar and nailed a “For Sale” sign on the lawn.
The following week, a work crew showed up. They parked an industrial sized bin in the driveway. For the next three days, they hauled out box after box. When the bin was full, they towed it away and replaced it with another one. The following week a young couple moved in. No one ever heard another word from Tom.
About three months later, Gerald had a knock on his door, as he got ready for work one Tuesday morning. It was a courier. He handed Gerald a pad to sign, then he handed him a box. Gerald set the plain brown box on the table. He opened his pocketknife and carefully
sliced open the top of the box. He pulled open the flaps and looked inside.
But the box was empty.
But home was different. For Gerald it was not so much the lack of physical space, but having to watch the ways in which people chose to live their lives. He hated all of the personal habits that people had. All of the annoying things they did that sometimes seemed to make absolutely no sense at all.
Tom was a single man in his fifties. He was tall and thin with frizzy white hair at the sides of his head. He always had the same closed mouth grin on his face. Tom never said much, only nodded. Unlike Gerald, Tom had not chosen the single life. The single life had chosen him when his wife died five years earlier. A Chartered Accountant, Tom left his house at five every morning and returned at six every night. On weekends he carried in boxes.
One Saturday, Gerald watched as the man carried in eighteen boxes, each one waist to chin high. The most puzzling thing for Gerald was that he never saw the man carry anything out. Ever. Not so much as a lunch bag or briefcase. And yet every weekend, there was Tom, carrying in boxes of all different sizes.
Gerald was out watering his lawn when he overheard his neighbour from across the street calling across to Tom.
“Moving in Tom?”
Tom only smiled, nodded and continued to carry in boxes.
Now and then when Gerald would be out pruning his shrubs, he would attempt to sneak a peek into Tom’s window. To his frustration, he was never able to see much of anything before Tom returned with another armful of boxes.
This went on week after week for a year. Then the following March Tom had to go away for a week on business.
Gerald sat in his kitchen the day after Tom had left. He stroked his hand through a mop of brown hair. He straightened his glasses and took a long drag of his cigarette.
Even as a kid, Gerald had never stolen anything, trespassed or got into a fight. This time though, his curiosity got the better of him. In Gerald’s mind there was no other option. That night he would slide open a basement window in Tom’s house. He would see for once and for all how it was that his neighbour Tom lived.
Gerald waited until the last of his neighbour’s lights had gone out. He crouched beside the back basement window, but the window was jammed. Gerald knelt down to get a better grip cursing as the wet grass soaked through his jeans.
The window creaked and skidded along the dirty track. Gerald took one last look around and lowered himself in.
Gerald was barely able to get two feet on the floor before his back thudded up against a wardrobe-sized box. He crouched low and flipped on his pocket light. Gerald had never in his life been claustrophobic until that moment.
Packed from floor to ceiling, were boxes. While there were many different sizes it was the waist to chin size that Tom seemed to favour.
Gerald followed a narrow footpath through the basement. He made his way up the stairs. Every floor was the same with only one narrow footpath throughout the house. At last Gerald could stand this madness no longer. He opened his pocketknife and sliced a careful opening into one waist high box in the living room. He pulled the side of the box open.
A stream of photographs poured out at his feet. Gerald pulled one out of the heap and held it up to his pocket light. It was a picture of Tom, smiling that same closed mouth grin. He aimed his flashlight down at the pictures as he sifted through them. In some pictures Tom stood beside a tree. In others, he leaned up against a fence. In one he stood alone in a room, stark naked.
Gerald ran his knife along the boxes. Box after box contained only pictures of Tom. Most were self-portraits of that same closed mouth smile that Tom had displayed every box carrying Saturday.
Gerald eased his way along the footpath and out of Tom’s house as fast as he could manage. He locked himself in his house and drew the blinds.
A week passed and Tom had not returned. Instead, a Real Estate Agent pulled up in a red Jaguar and nailed a “For Sale” sign on the lawn.
The following week, a work crew showed up. They parked an industrial sized bin in the driveway. For the next three days, they hauled out box after box. When the bin was full, they towed it away and replaced it with another one. The following week a young couple moved in. No one ever heard another word from Tom.
About three months later, Gerald had a knock on his door, as he got ready for work one Tuesday morning. It was a courier. He handed Gerald a pad to sign, then he handed him a box. Gerald set the plain brown box on the table. He opened his pocketknife and carefully
sliced open the top of the box. He pulled open the flaps and looked inside.
But the box was empty.
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
Short Story: Nathan Finch
The following is an excerpt. To read the full version please write to me at: geppettoslab@yahoo.ca
The wiry red-haired woman stared listlessly out the train window, as if fixating on a place she had never been or where she would rather be. Oversized sunglasses hid the fading pigment of what had been one serious shiner. Much like the black eye that no one could see, such were the dark blotches up and down her sides and across the insides of her thighs. Luckily, it was October in rural Ontario; long skirts and baggy sweaters covered things like that nicely.
Nathan Finch had been in the process of removing his overcoat when she had stepped on at the Guildwood stop. He removed the contents of his coat pockets - a map and a package of Beeman’s Peppermint gum - before folding it neatly and tucking it into the overhead bin. It wasn’t until he began to open the map, that Finch was attuned to the woman who now sat kiddy corner to him. Though he had yet to lay eyes on her, already his mind was a flood of images.
Finch knew about the bruises; all twelve of them. He also knew about the scars that lined her left forearm like tiny tributaries of a creek. He looked across at her, through the sunglasses into her eyes. Now came the hardest part.
Dull, burning pain coarsed through him from the inside out. Each blow increasing in proportion to the drunken assailant’s frustrations. Over and over he was beaten to the floor, only to be pulled back up again. His lungs longed for breath; legs would no longer hold him. His face felt crushed, disfigured beyond repair.
To any of the train’s occupants, he was a man possibly in his early sixties; tall and dignified with a neatly pressed suit and a small thin moustache. A calm, patient man who had been in the process of unfolding a map of Northern Ontario when he was distracted by the young red-haired beauty who sat across from him and the subject of his unchanging gaze. They knew nothing of the bruises or how they had gotten there. It was not their job.
As quickly as it had happened it was over. Nathan was again staring intently out the window at farms that had long been cleared of their bounty. The woman was not going as far as he was. She now readied herself for her departure as the train roared into Kingston station. She longed for escape and inner peace. At that moment, though she herself may not have felt it yet, Nathan was quite certain she would find it.
As the woman stepped out onto the platform, Nathan reopened his map. He had chosen a small town called Gatineau in the province of Quebec. Or rather it had chosen him. At any rate, he determined an approximate half hour cab ride from Ottawa station would get him there.
Nathan chose a bachelor apartment in a four story building in the town’s aging downtown core. It was simple and he could rent it on a monthly basis which suited him fine. The building manager was a man who looked far beyond his actual age of fifty-two. Waking up with a fresh bottle of bourbon every morning would have that effect. In any case he was sure to be the type of man who would be far more trouble to himself than he could be to anyone else.
Nathan’s room was the last one at the end of the hall. Nathan took in all of the sounds and odors as he carried his single bag down the hall. Local news, soap opera, gratingly loud rock music, someone had burned lunch again, and in the apartment across from his a woman was crying.
Nathan paused for a moment before opening his door. The crying had reduced to a sobbing moan. She sounded young; maybe in her twenties, early thirties. This was not the first time in recent days that she had been this way. He longed to know more. He would have to see her to do that. He could try. Then just as quickly he decided against it. There would be time for that later.
He unlocked his door and set his bag down. The room had come with a pull out couch, a half mutilated pine dresser, a small round kitchen table and a fridge and stove - both relics from the 50’s. Abandoned by the previous owner they were all his for the taking if he wanted. If not the building manager would be more than happy to assist in disposal. That is, if he were asked before noon, Nathan had thought. The unfortunate sod wouldn’t be much good after that.
It didn’t matter, for what they were worth Nathan was keeping them anyway. He hadn’t any need for subtleties. If the folks from Better Homes happened to be conducting any reviews he would just be sure not to answer the door.
Nathan picked up his bag, set it down on the couch and began emptying its contents. Four cotton button downs, two pairs of gabardine pants, some dark socks, white boxers and two pairs of flannel pajamas. All of this, he tucked neatly into what had once resembled a dresser. He returned to his bag, unhooked the button on the inside carry pouch and removed a leather bound folder.
Nathan took the folder to the kitchen table. With a black Mont Blanc pen he made two notations. First, the details of his present location, including length of travel time and mode of transportation. In his second notation he wrote himself a reminder to check in on the sad woman across the hall.
He closed the book. On the wall below the window was a flat steel plate covering the space that had been left when a wall mounted air conditioning unit had been removed. Nathan pushed up on the bottom edge of the plate and eased it off. The opening on the outside wall had been sealed off by a much heavier bolted version of the plate that Nathan had just removed.
Nathan placed his folder inside the makeshift vault and replaced the steel plate. He picked up his keys and headed out of the apartment. As he fitted his key into the lock he noted that the sobbing across the hall had stopped.
The streets were all but silent, with most folks at work or tucked away in warm homes. Two blocks from his apartment, Nathan found a small diner. He went in and chose a table by the window.
The restaurant had obviously been run by the same family for a number of years. All bore a similar resemblance but at different stages of their lives. And all looked as equally displeased as those who suffer minimal wages to work the family business. Nathan could never understand why people treated strangers better than their own.
A shy girl of about sixteen came to his table, pulling out a notepad with a cover that had been nearly obliterated by nervous doodling.
“What can I get you today sir?”
Her eyes were downcast as though she were focusing on a point somewhere around the middle of his chest. Nathan sunk back slightly in his chair and peered up, forcing her to look him in the eye. Now the girl smiled nervously. Nathan smiled.
“I’ll have a toasted western sandwich, an apple juice and a newspaper.”
“Thank you.”
Within seconds the girl hurried back with his apple juice and a copy of the local daily. Now she smiled and looked him in the eye, though she was still nervous.
Nathan sipped his juice, glancing across the restaurant. A man sitting at a table across from him was making train tracks in his mashed potatoes. The man seemed unaware that as he was raking his fork back and forth he was sending mashed potatoes over the side of his plate and onto the table.
There was a gun in the man’s car. At this point the mashed potato masher was debating if he should use it or not. The problem was he loved his wife far too much and any such course of action would undoubtedly change their relationship, whether he got caught or not. She would find out, potato man thought and then she wouldn’t love him anymore. Although at this point there was nothing more he would like than to see than the bastard’s nuts sprayed all over his pants.
Nathan’s thoughts were interrupted when an older woman, the girl’s mother, appeared with his western sandwich.
“Here you go sir, anything else you’d like?”
“Oh no, no thanks.”
Nathan waited until she had turned around before he took his black pepper shaker and hid it behind the napkin dispenser. He stood up and walked over to the table where the man continued to rake his fork through his mashed potatoes. He stood solemnly over the man who hadn’t yet noticed him.
“Excuse me sir, but were you going to use your black pepper?”
The man dropped his fork startled. Their eyes met. The man looked puzzled, as if he were sorting a confusion of thoughts. Eyes locked, for a moment neither man blinked. Slowly the man’s eyes widened and he smiled. He offered the pepper shaker to Nathan.
“Sure thing buddy.”
“Thank you sir, I appreciate it.”
“No problem.”
The man tidied his fork, wiped his hands and pushed himself back from the table. Nathan removed the top slices of bread from his sandwich and shook the pepper liberally onto his eggs. He didn’t need to glance over his shoulder to realize that the man was getting set to leave and already in a slightly better mood than when he left. Somewhere in town a particular adulterer would never know how close he came to having his life ended that night.
On his way back to his apartment Nathan had purchased two postcards, these he now placed on the kitchen table. Removing a pen from his coat pocket he addressed both identically, while writing nothing on the inside. He placed the postcards on the edge of the kitchen table facing the front door.
He hung his coat in the front closet, once again listening for the woman across the hall. Just as when he’d come in, he now heard nothing.
At 3:00 am Nathan was awakened by a loud thumping on his door. While he struggled to gain his senses he peered through the viewer in his door. Outside, a short balding, stocky man was stamping his feet and shuffling in nervous little circles. Nathan unlocked the deadbolt and opened the door.
The man lunged forward, hands clenched at his sides.
“Where’s Chester?”
“Chester?”
“You know, Chester.”
The man paused, waiting for Nathan’s recognition. Then in a moment of sudden awareness, the man leaned back and loudly slapped his hand against the side of his face.
“Oh that’s right, you don’t know Chester.”
“I’m afraid not,” Nathan extended his hand; “I’m Nathan Finch.”
“I’m Bill Price.” He shook Nathan’s hand excitedly with both hands.
“Would you care to come in for a moment Mr. Price, so that we might sort this out?”
“Sure, sure, glad to.”
The man shuffled past Nathan and sat down at the kitchen table. Nathan followed.
“My apologies, but I don’t have anything to offer you to drink, except maybe water. I just arrived in town this afternoon and haven’t had the opportunity to pick anything up.”
“It’s okay, don’t need anything.”
“So you are looking for a man named Chester?”
“Yes, Chester Davis.”
Nathan eyed the man levelly. It turned out this Mr. Price had quite a history that he was keeping to himself as well as a fairly serious drug problem. Good old Chester had been more than happy to provide Price with his daily essentials, in exchange, sometimes for money but more often for sex. Price had gone away for a while when he became paranoid that Davis would kill him. But as it turned out someone had gotten to Davis not too long after that. The building Super had found him in the parking lot, apparently bludgeoned with a hammer. These were facts of which Mr. Price was well aware, but he was too dim witted to get past his own denial.
“Was this Chester Davis a friend of yours?”
“A friend? Yes, yes you could say that. A good friend yes. I mean he gave me things.”
“What things?”
“You know? Stuff.”
The man looked puzzled at Nathan’s lack of comprehension. A look of understanding passed over the man’s face.
“Oh, I get it,” Price laughed a squeaky laugh, “of course, you’re just letting on.”
The man now got out of his chair and knelt down in front of Nathan. He began working away at the drawstring of Nathan’s flannel pajamas. Nathan pushed him back with one hand to the middle of his chest.
“That won’t be necessary”
“What do you mean? You don’t have the stuff? Because I’m sure you do. You wouldn’t be joking about something like that.”
Price drew a knife. He lunged at Nathan, clutching him by the throat.
Nathan placed his hand underneath Price’s chin and tilted his head upward. Price dropped the knife. A smile came over his face.
“Sorry, to have bothered you Mr. Finch. I think that I’ll be going.”
The man headed toward the door. He placed his hand on the knob, and then turned toward Nathan.
“By the way, does that crazy bitch still live across the hall?”
Price made circling gestures with his finger at the side of his head and started in with his squeaky laugh as he left the apartment. Nathan removed his journal from its hiding place and made a few quick notations, before going back to bed.
Three months had passed since Nathan had first arrived in Gatineau. Even in that short period of time, he believed that he had managed to cross paths with a good majority of the people that lived there. With the exception of a few isolated incidents all had been fairly smooth.
The building’s super had passed a month earlier of a fatal heart attack. A tenant on the second floor had found him when he went down to deliver a late rent check and pushed the unlocked door open. The man, who could not believe that he had found himself in the local newspaper, went as far as to say that he had gone in and turned off a still playing radio before Merle Haggard could finish singing “Tonight the bottle let me down.”
The old super had been hastily replaced by a tart that couldn’t face the fact that she was twenty five years older than twenty five. To Nathan she seemed to wear at least twelve coats of make up. She would answer her door wearing see through camisoles and make awkward passes at male tenants.
The restaurant where Nathan had eaten lunch nearly every day, closed for two days due to family crisis. It had been discovered that the sixteen year old daughter who had brought Nathan his Western sandwich was three months pregnant. Her raging father immediately closed the restaurant and threatened that he would not reopen it until his unfortunate daughter revealed who the father was. In an unexpected turn the girl and her father agreed to quietly put aside their differences when he promised to cease his actions if she promised not to reveal that it was his brother’s years of abuse that had finally put her in the predicament.
It was there that Nathan now decided to return for lunch, only partially due to the fact that they had quite possibly the best Western sandwich he had ever tasted. As he locked the door to his apartment he once again heard the sobbing across the hall.
This time, Nathan turned and knocked on her door. The sobbing ceased and Nathan could hear footsteps on the tile floor. The door was slowly opened by a short, frail looking woman in her mid thirties. Her dark stringy hair was sweaty and matted to the sides of her face, her dark eyes ringed black by her sobbing. She wore a torn nightgown several sizes too big that trailed the floor behind her. Nathan smiled warmly.
“I’m terribly sorry to have bothered you miss. I don’t believe that we have met, I’m your new neighbour across the hall.”
The woman simply nodded her gaze unchanging.
“My name is Nathan Finch.” He extended his hand.
The woman remained motionless.
“I wouldn’t have bothered you, but I have a bit of an urgent problem. I’m waiting on the phone repair man to fix my line. In the meanwhile I have an urgent call to make. If I go off in search of a payphone, I’m liable to miss him. Would you mind if I use yours?”
The woman said nothing but turned and led him to a phone hanging on the wall in the kitchen. The sinks were not piled with dishes as Nathan expected, in fact the kitchen looked hardly used. The smell that hung pungent in the air was that of a woman who rarely left her apartment or took the time to bathe.
Nathan picked up her phone and dialed his own number. He let it ring several times before returning to the living room.
“Didn’t seem to be any answer.”
Now his eyes were fixated on a wooden table in the center of the room. On the table were two piles, each close to three feet high. A gigantic pile of envelopes was matched by an equally enormous pile of loose-leaf advertisements. The table was flanked by six boxes, three on either side looming over it.
“I’m Brenda.”
She stood to the left of the table, hands at her hips, clearly measuring his curiosity.
“Yes. Well it’s good to meet you. And thank you for the use of your telephone.”
“I stuff envelopes. That’s what I do.”
Now it was Nathan’s turn to nod.
“It gets very upsetting. But I don’t like to work outside of the home.”
Nathan smiled awkwardly.
“I can understand that. I am very private at times myself.”
Brenda nodded and smiled slightly.
“I don’t know what I have to offer you. I don’t get many visitors.”
“Oh really I should be getting back to my apartment.”
“I think you should stay. We’ll hear the repairman when he knocks across the hall. The walls are so thin in this place.”
Brenda was already heading toward the kitchen.
“I have a fresh pot of coffee, how do you take it Nathan?”
“Just black for me please.”
Brenda returned with two cups of coffee and sat down on a threadbare couch in the corner of the room. Nathan followed.
“I get twenty-five cents for each envelope. A man comes once a week and delivers those,” she gestured to one pile of boxes, “then another man comes and delivers those,” she gestured to the other pile of boxes.
“Looks very tiring.”
“It gets very upsetting.”
Nathan was lost in her sad dark eyes. He quickly turned and sipped his coffee.
“And what do you do Mr. Finch?”
Nathan focused his attention on an advertisement poking out of the middle box on the floor facing him. From the top of it dangled an ad boasting a free buffet at the Sparkle Club.
“I travel mostly. I was a Doctor for some time, a Psychologist. Although I suppose it’s a profession you never stop being a part of. I published a few journals. The big problem was, I didn’t like being in one place”.
Nathan returned to sipping his coffee. He could feel her gaze upon him and continued.
“They offered me a position, traveling to different places and giving conferences, but I had my own plans.”
“What was that?”
“To simply meet as many different people as I could before I died.”
Both of them were quiet for some time, before Brenda broke the silence.
“I guess your repairman isn’t coming.”
“I guess not.”
Nathan looked up, meeting her stare. And now his eyes were inside hers, seeing as she did. Seeing through years of self imposed isolation and delusion. Brenda McCallum had been twenty-three when she first realized that she could no longer venture out into the public without all eyes staring at her. They laughed at her inside and thought of her as an unstable person who would at any moment break down into a trembling quivering mass. She would tremble, and then she would shake, sometimes when her nerves gave out, her legs wouldn’t move at all. And she would be stuck standing there while they watched.
They followed her into her home while she sat alone. She could feel them in the room watching her every step, making it an effort to move around at all, even within her own tiny space.
She was forty and had been living inside her own prison for seventeen years. Aside from the deliverymen from the advertising company and a friend on the first floor who ran errands for her, Brenda had almost no contact with the outside world.
Nathan took both of her hands in his and smiled. Brenda smiled too.
“Thank you so much for the coffee. Now I really should be going.”
Brenda pulled away from him. “Okay. It was nice meeting you."
“Likewise.”
Nathan moved toward the door, while Brenda remained seated. Nathan paused as he opened the door. He turned to Brenda.
“Please stop in and visit me if you like.”
Brenda nodded.
Back in his apartment, Nathan began packing his clothes into his suitcase. There was a knock at his door. Nathan opened the door to find Brenda. Her hair had been combed back from her face. Her eyes were bright and she smiled warmly. The bright light from Nathan’s apartment revealed a truly beautiful woman who needed only to enjoy life again.
Brenda contorted her face slightly as she struggled to find the words.
“I wanted to know why I started to feel better when you were in my apartment.”
“I mean it wasn’t just that you were a visitor. I sometimes do get them. It had to be something else.”
“Won’t you come in?”
Nathan noticed that she had tied the bottom of her nightgown up to just below her knees for a less cumbersome length. It pained him to see her in clothing so dirty and worn.
Brenda took a seat on his couch.
“Is there anything I can get you?”
“No thanks, I’m okay.”
Nathan sat down beside her. He watched as Brenda curiously surveyed his apartment. Her attention focused on the two postcards that Nathan had neglected to mail. She turned to him anxiously.
“Friends back home?”
“No actually I don’t have a home anymore. I gave it up a number of years ago to travel full time. Those postcards are for an accountant I have that maintains my estate. Let’s her know I’m still kickin around.”
She smiled and leaned back against the couch, likely the most at ease that she had felt in years. A beautiful, intelligent woman who looked as though she were about to break through the bonds of the monster that had held her captive and regain the person she had been in her youth.
“You never married?”
Nathan met her curious glance with a shy grin.
“I guess I kept to myself mostly.”
As she stretched back against the couch, Nathan felt guilty that in the bright daylight of his apartment he could see her dark nipples through the worn paper thin fabric of her tattered nightgown. Now Brenda sat up straight.
“The question I was asking you before. Why did I feel so different when you were in my apartment? When you looked at me I swore you could see right through me. And when you left I felt as though I had woken from a crazy dream, wearing someone else’s clothes and living in an apartment I never would have chosen for myself. It was as if I had been hypnotized for so long and now I’m free.”
Nathan leaned forward, resting his chin on his clasped hands. His face bore the approving grin of a magician who had been found out by the one member of his audience who was able to keep up with him.
“I’m wondering what kind of world is out there and if I step back into it, will I be taken prisoner by it again.”
The wiry red-haired woman stared listlessly out the train window, as if fixating on a place she had never been or where she would rather be. Oversized sunglasses hid the fading pigment of what had been one serious shiner. Much like the black eye that no one could see, such were the dark blotches up and down her sides and across the insides of her thighs. Luckily, it was October in rural Ontario; long skirts and baggy sweaters covered things like that nicely.
Nathan Finch had been in the process of removing his overcoat when she had stepped on at the Guildwood stop. He removed the contents of his coat pockets - a map and a package of Beeman’s Peppermint gum - before folding it neatly and tucking it into the overhead bin. It wasn’t until he began to open the map, that Finch was attuned to the woman who now sat kiddy corner to him. Though he had yet to lay eyes on her, already his mind was a flood of images.
Finch knew about the bruises; all twelve of them. He also knew about the scars that lined her left forearm like tiny tributaries of a creek. He looked across at her, through the sunglasses into her eyes. Now came the hardest part.
Dull, burning pain coarsed through him from the inside out. Each blow increasing in proportion to the drunken assailant’s frustrations. Over and over he was beaten to the floor, only to be pulled back up again. His lungs longed for breath; legs would no longer hold him. His face felt crushed, disfigured beyond repair.
To any of the train’s occupants, he was a man possibly in his early sixties; tall and dignified with a neatly pressed suit and a small thin moustache. A calm, patient man who had been in the process of unfolding a map of Northern Ontario when he was distracted by the young red-haired beauty who sat across from him and the subject of his unchanging gaze. They knew nothing of the bruises or how they had gotten there. It was not their job.
As quickly as it had happened it was over. Nathan was again staring intently out the window at farms that had long been cleared of their bounty. The woman was not going as far as he was. She now readied herself for her departure as the train roared into Kingston station. She longed for escape and inner peace. At that moment, though she herself may not have felt it yet, Nathan was quite certain she would find it.
As the woman stepped out onto the platform, Nathan reopened his map. He had chosen a small town called Gatineau in the province of Quebec. Or rather it had chosen him. At any rate, he determined an approximate half hour cab ride from Ottawa station would get him there.
Nathan chose a bachelor apartment in a four story building in the town’s aging downtown core. It was simple and he could rent it on a monthly basis which suited him fine. The building manager was a man who looked far beyond his actual age of fifty-two. Waking up with a fresh bottle of bourbon every morning would have that effect. In any case he was sure to be the type of man who would be far more trouble to himself than he could be to anyone else.
Nathan’s room was the last one at the end of the hall. Nathan took in all of the sounds and odors as he carried his single bag down the hall. Local news, soap opera, gratingly loud rock music, someone had burned lunch again, and in the apartment across from his a woman was crying.
Nathan paused for a moment before opening his door. The crying had reduced to a sobbing moan. She sounded young; maybe in her twenties, early thirties. This was not the first time in recent days that she had been this way. He longed to know more. He would have to see her to do that. He could try. Then just as quickly he decided against it. There would be time for that later.
He unlocked his door and set his bag down. The room had come with a pull out couch, a half mutilated pine dresser, a small round kitchen table and a fridge and stove - both relics from the 50’s. Abandoned by the previous owner they were all his for the taking if he wanted. If not the building manager would be more than happy to assist in disposal. That is, if he were asked before noon, Nathan had thought. The unfortunate sod wouldn’t be much good after that.
It didn’t matter, for what they were worth Nathan was keeping them anyway. He hadn’t any need for subtleties. If the folks from Better Homes happened to be conducting any reviews he would just be sure not to answer the door.
Nathan picked up his bag, set it down on the couch and began emptying its contents. Four cotton button downs, two pairs of gabardine pants, some dark socks, white boxers and two pairs of flannel pajamas. All of this, he tucked neatly into what had once resembled a dresser. He returned to his bag, unhooked the button on the inside carry pouch and removed a leather bound folder.
Nathan took the folder to the kitchen table. With a black Mont Blanc pen he made two notations. First, the details of his present location, including length of travel time and mode of transportation. In his second notation he wrote himself a reminder to check in on the sad woman across the hall.
He closed the book. On the wall below the window was a flat steel plate covering the space that had been left when a wall mounted air conditioning unit had been removed. Nathan pushed up on the bottom edge of the plate and eased it off. The opening on the outside wall had been sealed off by a much heavier bolted version of the plate that Nathan had just removed.
Nathan placed his folder inside the makeshift vault and replaced the steel plate. He picked up his keys and headed out of the apartment. As he fitted his key into the lock he noted that the sobbing across the hall had stopped.
The streets were all but silent, with most folks at work or tucked away in warm homes. Two blocks from his apartment, Nathan found a small diner. He went in and chose a table by the window.
The restaurant had obviously been run by the same family for a number of years. All bore a similar resemblance but at different stages of their lives. And all looked as equally displeased as those who suffer minimal wages to work the family business. Nathan could never understand why people treated strangers better than their own.
A shy girl of about sixteen came to his table, pulling out a notepad with a cover that had been nearly obliterated by nervous doodling.
“What can I get you today sir?”
Her eyes were downcast as though she were focusing on a point somewhere around the middle of his chest. Nathan sunk back slightly in his chair and peered up, forcing her to look him in the eye. Now the girl smiled nervously. Nathan smiled.
“I’ll have a toasted western sandwich, an apple juice and a newspaper.”
“Thank you.”
Within seconds the girl hurried back with his apple juice and a copy of the local daily. Now she smiled and looked him in the eye, though she was still nervous.
Nathan sipped his juice, glancing across the restaurant. A man sitting at a table across from him was making train tracks in his mashed potatoes. The man seemed unaware that as he was raking his fork back and forth he was sending mashed potatoes over the side of his plate and onto the table.
There was a gun in the man’s car. At this point the mashed potato masher was debating if he should use it or not. The problem was he loved his wife far too much and any such course of action would undoubtedly change their relationship, whether he got caught or not. She would find out, potato man thought and then she wouldn’t love him anymore. Although at this point there was nothing more he would like than to see than the bastard’s nuts sprayed all over his pants.
Nathan’s thoughts were interrupted when an older woman, the girl’s mother, appeared with his western sandwich.
“Here you go sir, anything else you’d like?”
“Oh no, no thanks.”
Nathan waited until she had turned around before he took his black pepper shaker and hid it behind the napkin dispenser. He stood up and walked over to the table where the man continued to rake his fork through his mashed potatoes. He stood solemnly over the man who hadn’t yet noticed him.
“Excuse me sir, but were you going to use your black pepper?”
The man dropped his fork startled. Their eyes met. The man looked puzzled, as if he were sorting a confusion of thoughts. Eyes locked, for a moment neither man blinked. Slowly the man’s eyes widened and he smiled. He offered the pepper shaker to Nathan.
“Sure thing buddy.”
“Thank you sir, I appreciate it.”
“No problem.”
The man tidied his fork, wiped his hands and pushed himself back from the table. Nathan removed the top slices of bread from his sandwich and shook the pepper liberally onto his eggs. He didn’t need to glance over his shoulder to realize that the man was getting set to leave and already in a slightly better mood than when he left. Somewhere in town a particular adulterer would never know how close he came to having his life ended that night.
On his way back to his apartment Nathan had purchased two postcards, these he now placed on the kitchen table. Removing a pen from his coat pocket he addressed both identically, while writing nothing on the inside. He placed the postcards on the edge of the kitchen table facing the front door.
He hung his coat in the front closet, once again listening for the woman across the hall. Just as when he’d come in, he now heard nothing.
At 3:00 am Nathan was awakened by a loud thumping on his door. While he struggled to gain his senses he peered through the viewer in his door. Outside, a short balding, stocky man was stamping his feet and shuffling in nervous little circles. Nathan unlocked the deadbolt and opened the door.
The man lunged forward, hands clenched at his sides.
“Where’s Chester?”
“Chester?”
“You know, Chester.”
The man paused, waiting for Nathan’s recognition. Then in a moment of sudden awareness, the man leaned back and loudly slapped his hand against the side of his face.
“Oh that’s right, you don’t know Chester.”
“I’m afraid not,” Nathan extended his hand; “I’m Nathan Finch.”
“I’m Bill Price.” He shook Nathan’s hand excitedly with both hands.
“Would you care to come in for a moment Mr. Price, so that we might sort this out?”
“Sure, sure, glad to.”
The man shuffled past Nathan and sat down at the kitchen table. Nathan followed.
“My apologies, but I don’t have anything to offer you to drink, except maybe water. I just arrived in town this afternoon and haven’t had the opportunity to pick anything up.”
“It’s okay, don’t need anything.”
“So you are looking for a man named Chester?”
“Yes, Chester Davis.”
Nathan eyed the man levelly. It turned out this Mr. Price had quite a history that he was keeping to himself as well as a fairly serious drug problem. Good old Chester had been more than happy to provide Price with his daily essentials, in exchange, sometimes for money but more often for sex. Price had gone away for a while when he became paranoid that Davis would kill him. But as it turned out someone had gotten to Davis not too long after that. The building Super had found him in the parking lot, apparently bludgeoned with a hammer. These were facts of which Mr. Price was well aware, but he was too dim witted to get past his own denial.
“Was this Chester Davis a friend of yours?”
“A friend? Yes, yes you could say that. A good friend yes. I mean he gave me things.”
“What things?”
“You know? Stuff.”
The man looked puzzled at Nathan’s lack of comprehension. A look of understanding passed over the man’s face.
“Oh, I get it,” Price laughed a squeaky laugh, “of course, you’re just letting on.”
The man now got out of his chair and knelt down in front of Nathan. He began working away at the drawstring of Nathan’s flannel pajamas. Nathan pushed him back with one hand to the middle of his chest.
“That won’t be necessary”
“What do you mean? You don’t have the stuff? Because I’m sure you do. You wouldn’t be joking about something like that.”
Price drew a knife. He lunged at Nathan, clutching him by the throat.
Nathan placed his hand underneath Price’s chin and tilted his head upward. Price dropped the knife. A smile came over his face.
“Sorry, to have bothered you Mr. Finch. I think that I’ll be going.”
The man headed toward the door. He placed his hand on the knob, and then turned toward Nathan.
“By the way, does that crazy bitch still live across the hall?”
Price made circling gestures with his finger at the side of his head and started in with his squeaky laugh as he left the apartment. Nathan removed his journal from its hiding place and made a few quick notations, before going back to bed.
*************************
Three months had passed since Nathan had first arrived in Gatineau. Even in that short period of time, he believed that he had managed to cross paths with a good majority of the people that lived there. With the exception of a few isolated incidents all had been fairly smooth.
The building’s super had passed a month earlier of a fatal heart attack. A tenant on the second floor had found him when he went down to deliver a late rent check and pushed the unlocked door open. The man, who could not believe that he had found himself in the local newspaper, went as far as to say that he had gone in and turned off a still playing radio before Merle Haggard could finish singing “Tonight the bottle let me down.”
The old super had been hastily replaced by a tart that couldn’t face the fact that she was twenty five years older than twenty five. To Nathan she seemed to wear at least twelve coats of make up. She would answer her door wearing see through camisoles and make awkward passes at male tenants.
The restaurant where Nathan had eaten lunch nearly every day, closed for two days due to family crisis. It had been discovered that the sixteen year old daughter who had brought Nathan his Western sandwich was three months pregnant. Her raging father immediately closed the restaurant and threatened that he would not reopen it until his unfortunate daughter revealed who the father was. In an unexpected turn the girl and her father agreed to quietly put aside their differences when he promised to cease his actions if she promised not to reveal that it was his brother’s years of abuse that had finally put her in the predicament.
It was there that Nathan now decided to return for lunch, only partially due to the fact that they had quite possibly the best Western sandwich he had ever tasted. As he locked the door to his apartment he once again heard the sobbing across the hall.
This time, Nathan turned and knocked on her door. The sobbing ceased and Nathan could hear footsteps on the tile floor. The door was slowly opened by a short, frail looking woman in her mid thirties. Her dark stringy hair was sweaty and matted to the sides of her face, her dark eyes ringed black by her sobbing. She wore a torn nightgown several sizes too big that trailed the floor behind her. Nathan smiled warmly.
“I’m terribly sorry to have bothered you miss. I don’t believe that we have met, I’m your new neighbour across the hall.”
The woman simply nodded her gaze unchanging.
“My name is Nathan Finch.” He extended his hand.
The woman remained motionless.
“I wouldn’t have bothered you, but I have a bit of an urgent problem. I’m waiting on the phone repair man to fix my line. In the meanwhile I have an urgent call to make. If I go off in search of a payphone, I’m liable to miss him. Would you mind if I use yours?”
The woman said nothing but turned and led him to a phone hanging on the wall in the kitchen. The sinks were not piled with dishes as Nathan expected, in fact the kitchen looked hardly used. The smell that hung pungent in the air was that of a woman who rarely left her apartment or took the time to bathe.
Nathan picked up her phone and dialed his own number. He let it ring several times before returning to the living room.
“Didn’t seem to be any answer.”
Now his eyes were fixated on a wooden table in the center of the room. On the table were two piles, each close to three feet high. A gigantic pile of envelopes was matched by an equally enormous pile of loose-leaf advertisements. The table was flanked by six boxes, three on either side looming over it.
“I’m Brenda.”
She stood to the left of the table, hands at her hips, clearly measuring his curiosity.
“Yes. Well it’s good to meet you. And thank you for the use of your telephone.”
“I stuff envelopes. That’s what I do.”
Now it was Nathan’s turn to nod.
“It gets very upsetting. But I don’t like to work outside of the home.”
Nathan smiled awkwardly.
“I can understand that. I am very private at times myself.”
Brenda nodded and smiled slightly.
“I don’t know what I have to offer you. I don’t get many visitors.”
“Oh really I should be getting back to my apartment.”
“I think you should stay. We’ll hear the repairman when he knocks across the hall. The walls are so thin in this place.”
Brenda was already heading toward the kitchen.
“I have a fresh pot of coffee, how do you take it Nathan?”
“Just black for me please.”
Brenda returned with two cups of coffee and sat down on a threadbare couch in the corner of the room. Nathan followed.
“I get twenty-five cents for each envelope. A man comes once a week and delivers those,” she gestured to one pile of boxes, “then another man comes and delivers those,” she gestured to the other pile of boxes.
“Looks very tiring.”
“It gets very upsetting.”
Nathan was lost in her sad dark eyes. He quickly turned and sipped his coffee.
“And what do you do Mr. Finch?”
Nathan focused his attention on an advertisement poking out of the middle box on the floor facing him. From the top of it dangled an ad boasting a free buffet at the Sparkle Club.
“I travel mostly. I was a Doctor for some time, a Psychologist. Although I suppose it’s a profession you never stop being a part of. I published a few journals. The big problem was, I didn’t like being in one place”.
Nathan returned to sipping his coffee. He could feel her gaze upon him and continued.
“They offered me a position, traveling to different places and giving conferences, but I had my own plans.”
“What was that?”
“To simply meet as many different people as I could before I died.”
Both of them were quiet for some time, before Brenda broke the silence.
“I guess your repairman isn’t coming.”
“I guess not.”
Nathan looked up, meeting her stare. And now his eyes were inside hers, seeing as she did. Seeing through years of self imposed isolation and delusion. Brenda McCallum had been twenty-three when she first realized that she could no longer venture out into the public without all eyes staring at her. They laughed at her inside and thought of her as an unstable person who would at any moment break down into a trembling quivering mass. She would tremble, and then she would shake, sometimes when her nerves gave out, her legs wouldn’t move at all. And she would be stuck standing there while they watched.
They followed her into her home while she sat alone. She could feel them in the room watching her every step, making it an effort to move around at all, even within her own tiny space.
She was forty and had been living inside her own prison for seventeen years. Aside from the deliverymen from the advertising company and a friend on the first floor who ran errands for her, Brenda had almost no contact with the outside world.
Nathan took both of her hands in his and smiled. Brenda smiled too.
“Thank you so much for the coffee. Now I really should be going.”
Brenda pulled away from him. “Okay. It was nice meeting you."
“Likewise.”
Nathan moved toward the door, while Brenda remained seated. Nathan paused as he opened the door. He turned to Brenda.
“Please stop in and visit me if you like.”
Brenda nodded.
Back in his apartment, Nathan began packing his clothes into his suitcase. There was a knock at his door. Nathan opened the door to find Brenda. Her hair had been combed back from her face. Her eyes were bright and she smiled warmly. The bright light from Nathan’s apartment revealed a truly beautiful woman who needed only to enjoy life again.
Brenda contorted her face slightly as she struggled to find the words.
“I wanted to know why I started to feel better when you were in my apartment.”
“I mean it wasn’t just that you were a visitor. I sometimes do get them. It had to be something else.”
“Won’t you come in?”
Nathan noticed that she had tied the bottom of her nightgown up to just below her knees for a less cumbersome length. It pained him to see her in clothing so dirty and worn.
Brenda took a seat on his couch.
“Is there anything I can get you?”
“No thanks, I’m okay.”
Nathan sat down beside her. He watched as Brenda curiously surveyed his apartment. Her attention focused on the two postcards that Nathan had neglected to mail. She turned to him anxiously.
“Friends back home?”
“No actually I don’t have a home anymore. I gave it up a number of years ago to travel full time. Those postcards are for an accountant I have that maintains my estate. Let’s her know I’m still kickin around.”
She smiled and leaned back against the couch, likely the most at ease that she had felt in years. A beautiful, intelligent woman who looked as though she were about to break through the bonds of the monster that had held her captive and regain the person she had been in her youth.
“You never married?”
Nathan met her curious glance with a shy grin.
“I guess I kept to myself mostly.”
As she stretched back against the couch, Nathan felt guilty that in the bright daylight of his apartment he could see her dark nipples through the worn paper thin fabric of her tattered nightgown. Now Brenda sat up straight.
“The question I was asking you before. Why did I feel so different when you were in my apartment? When you looked at me I swore you could see right through me. And when you left I felt as though I had woken from a crazy dream, wearing someone else’s clothes and living in an apartment I never would have chosen for myself. It was as if I had been hypnotized for so long and now I’m free.”
Nathan leaned forward, resting his chin on his clasped hands. His face bore the approving grin of a magician who had been found out by the one member of his audience who was able to keep up with him.
“I’m wondering what kind of world is out there and if I step back into it, will I be taken prisoner by it again.”
Monday, April 9, 2007
Short Story: Bus Stop
“Look at the ad on that bus over there. That guy looks exactly like Roger. How is Roger doing anyway?”
Ellen dragged on her cigarette. She cast a wary eye over at Tim as she exhaled. The two of them had waited off and on at the same bus stop for the past five years. Roger was another regular. He went away on business a lot, which meant he wasn’t as regular as the others.
“He was beheaded.”
“What?”
Ellen dragged on her cigarette again.
“Yeah, it was a bad accident.”
“You think someone would have told me.”
Ellen shrugged her shoulders.
“Shit. Shit.”
“It wasn’t like he was a close personal friend or anything. It’s not as if someone just told you your dog just died.”
“I know. But still.”
“So you think you’re gonna get that raise?”
“It depends on a couple of things.”
“What?”
“There are some personnel personality issues.”
“You could just sleep with him.”
Tim gave Ellen a cock-eyed glance.
“It was a joke. I mean unless you were actually considering it.”
“It’s hard to tell with you sometimes. And no I don’t think that works for me. You didn’t actually think that I was. I mean that I would?”
“It’s hard to tell with you sometimes.”
“You too at it again?”
“She loves me too much. She just won’t admit it.”
“Ellen would love the devil himself if he kept her in cigarettes and coffee.”
Ellen stamped out her cigarette.
“You’re forgetting the red wine.”
“I’ll bring it over later.”
“Too bad you don’t know where I live.”
“He doesn’t but I do.”
“Yes but we’re not going to talk about that.”
“Is there something I don’t know about?”
“It was two years ago. It was raining and the buses weren’t running.”
“So we split a cab.”
“I got off and you kept going, remember?”
“Oh I remember.”
Ellen shook her head and fished another cigarette out of her pack.
“Hey John did you know about Roger?”
“Yeah he was beheaded. You didn’t know?”
“No I didn’t.”
“Well it’s not as if you were close or anything.”
Ellen exhaled and nodded in agreement.
“I mean shit. You know?”
John shrugged his shoulders while Ellen nodded.
“Where is that damn bus anyway?”
“Still got five minutes.”
“Jerome was always early.”
Ellen exhaled, intentionally directing some of the smoke toward Tim.
“Jerome was always drunk.”
“Well at least he was early.”
“So Tim, what’s the deal with you? Are you getting that raise or what?”
“He says there are personal issues.”
“You wouldn’t understand.”
“Personal issues? I worked with a guy who exposed himself at a Western Union.”
Ellen exhaled suddenly in John’s face. “No shit I think I heard about that guy.”
“Hey watch where you’re pointing that.”
“What kind of a freakshow pervert whips it out in a public place?”
“It was a Western Union.”
“So?”
“He wasn’t a freak.”
“Really? I heard that he was aiming it at customers. Girls and guys.”
“No he was alone. He was going through a divorce. He was walking by a Western Union and he thought that the girl looked very approachable.”
“At a Western Union?”
“Will you let him finish the story?”
“So anyway he walks in and just starts talking. The girl asks him if there is a transaction he would like to make. Only he’s already talking about other things. You know, like asking her what she thinks it takes to be accepted in the world and things like that.”
“What? He says do you want me and then he whips it out? That makes no sense.”
“Tim? Fuck off. I need to hear this.”
“So it’s like they’re speaking two different languages and neither one stops to see if the other one understands. They’re just both talking about their own things at the same time. She’s reading off a list of possible transactions. He’s going on about what it means to be accepted. Some shit about material versus physical things. When he reaches the end of his thought he opens his zipper and takes it out.”
“Fuck.”
“Interupting Ellen?”
Ellen grabs her crotch at him.
“So both of them stop talking. She is just standing there not saying anything. I mean in reality she doesn’t give a shit. She’s standing behind bullet proof glass and she’s not exactly facing a lethal weapon. So she’s just watching the show and he’s asking her if she thinks it’s big enough. Finally I guess she’s not seeing it getting any bigger so she pushes some kind of panic button. Cops show up and take him away and she finishes her shift like nothing happened.”
“So was this guy like some kind of a fucking pervert that likes to hang around school yards and shit?”
“He had never done it before. He told the cops that he hadn’t been naked in front of another person in so long that he just had to show somebody.”
“That is right out there man.”
“Well when was the last time anyone saw you naked?”
“When was the last time anyone saw you?”
“If you’re trying to win me over it’s not going to work. Although if you feel the need to whip it out Tiny Tim I won’t complain.”
“You had your chance.”
“Oh not this cab ride thing again.”
“You missed it Ellen.”
“Well the next time it’s raining and the buses aren’t running.”
“And cigarettes no longer work.”
“Good one John.”
“And we both need a cab.”
“Really?”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe you two should?”
John was about to add further comment but he saw it first.
“Car! Ellen!”
Tim turned to see the black Cadillac charge through the intersection. He jumped to push Ellen out of the way as John was frozen in place. All those nearby could only look out for themselves.
********************
“It makes me feel kinda strange waiting at this bus stop again.”
“I know doesn’t it?”
“It’s hard to accept that these things happen.”
“One day you’re thinking about a raise. And the next?”
“I heard the guy was about to become like the head of like this huge company.”
“That’s not what I heard . I heard the three of them were involved in a love triangle. The three of them were big time into drugs and the girl would have to shop herself out to pay for it.”
“Fuck why wouldn’t the guys help pay for it?”
“Well look at your guy.”
“What about him?”
“Wasn’t he involved in some kind of a thing?”
“He apparently exposed himself at a party in his college days and it followed him for the rest of his life.”
“Why would he do that?”
“Some kind of an attention seeking thing I guess. He wanted to be known.”
Ellen dragged on her cigarette. She cast a wary eye over at Tim as she exhaled. The two of them had waited off and on at the same bus stop for the past five years. Roger was another regular. He went away on business a lot, which meant he wasn’t as regular as the others.
“He was beheaded.”
“What?”
Ellen dragged on her cigarette again.
“Yeah, it was a bad accident.”
“You think someone would have told me.”
Ellen shrugged her shoulders.
“Shit. Shit.”
“It wasn’t like he was a close personal friend or anything. It’s not as if someone just told you your dog just died.”
“I know. But still.”
“So you think you’re gonna get that raise?”
“It depends on a couple of things.”
“What?”
“There are some personnel personality issues.”
“You could just sleep with him.”
Tim gave Ellen a cock-eyed glance.
“It was a joke. I mean unless you were actually considering it.”
“It’s hard to tell with you sometimes. And no I don’t think that works for me. You didn’t actually think that I was. I mean that I would?”
“It’s hard to tell with you sometimes.”
“You too at it again?”
“She loves me too much. She just won’t admit it.”
“Ellen would love the devil himself if he kept her in cigarettes and coffee.”
Ellen stamped out her cigarette.
“You’re forgetting the red wine.”
“I’ll bring it over later.”
“Too bad you don’t know where I live.”
“He doesn’t but I do.”
“Yes but we’re not going to talk about that.”
“Is there something I don’t know about?”
“It was two years ago. It was raining and the buses weren’t running.”
“So we split a cab.”
“I got off and you kept going, remember?”
“Oh I remember.”
Ellen shook her head and fished another cigarette out of her pack.
“Hey John did you know about Roger?”
“Yeah he was beheaded. You didn’t know?”
“No I didn’t.”
“Well it’s not as if you were close or anything.”
Ellen exhaled and nodded in agreement.
“I mean shit. You know?”
John shrugged his shoulders while Ellen nodded.
“Where is that damn bus anyway?”
“Still got five minutes.”
“Jerome was always early.”
Ellen exhaled, intentionally directing some of the smoke toward Tim.
“Jerome was always drunk.”
“Well at least he was early.”
“So Tim, what’s the deal with you? Are you getting that raise or what?”
“He says there are personal issues.”
“You wouldn’t understand.”
“Personal issues? I worked with a guy who exposed himself at a Western Union.”
Ellen exhaled suddenly in John’s face. “No shit I think I heard about that guy.”
“Hey watch where you’re pointing that.”
“What kind of a freakshow pervert whips it out in a public place?”
“It was a Western Union.”
“So?”
“He wasn’t a freak.”
“Really? I heard that he was aiming it at customers. Girls and guys.”
“No he was alone. He was going through a divorce. He was walking by a Western Union and he thought that the girl looked very approachable.”
“At a Western Union?”
“Will you let him finish the story?”
“So anyway he walks in and just starts talking. The girl asks him if there is a transaction he would like to make. Only he’s already talking about other things. You know, like asking her what she thinks it takes to be accepted in the world and things like that.”
“What? He says do you want me and then he whips it out? That makes no sense.”
“Tim? Fuck off. I need to hear this.”
“So it’s like they’re speaking two different languages and neither one stops to see if the other one understands. They’re just both talking about their own things at the same time. She’s reading off a list of possible transactions. He’s going on about what it means to be accepted. Some shit about material versus physical things. When he reaches the end of his thought he opens his zipper and takes it out.”
“Fuck.”
“Interupting Ellen?”
Ellen grabs her crotch at him.
“So both of them stop talking. She is just standing there not saying anything. I mean in reality she doesn’t give a shit. She’s standing behind bullet proof glass and she’s not exactly facing a lethal weapon. So she’s just watching the show and he’s asking her if she thinks it’s big enough. Finally I guess she’s not seeing it getting any bigger so she pushes some kind of panic button. Cops show up and take him away and she finishes her shift like nothing happened.”
“So was this guy like some kind of a fucking pervert that likes to hang around school yards and shit?”
“He had never done it before. He told the cops that he hadn’t been naked in front of another person in so long that he just had to show somebody.”
“That is right out there man.”
“Well when was the last time anyone saw you naked?”
“When was the last time anyone saw you?”
“If you’re trying to win me over it’s not going to work. Although if you feel the need to whip it out Tiny Tim I won’t complain.”
“You had your chance.”
“Oh not this cab ride thing again.”
“You missed it Ellen.”
“Well the next time it’s raining and the buses aren’t running.”
“And cigarettes no longer work.”
“Good one John.”
“And we both need a cab.”
“Really?”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe you two should?”
John was about to add further comment but he saw it first.
“Car! Ellen!”
Tim turned to see the black Cadillac charge through the intersection. He jumped to push Ellen out of the way as John was frozen in place. All those nearby could only look out for themselves.
********************
“It makes me feel kinda strange waiting at this bus stop again.”
“I know doesn’t it?”
“It’s hard to accept that these things happen.”
“One day you’re thinking about a raise. And the next?”
“I heard the guy was about to become like the head of like this huge company.”
“That’s not what I heard . I heard the three of them were involved in a love triangle. The three of them were big time into drugs and the girl would have to shop herself out to pay for it.”
“Fuck why wouldn’t the guys help pay for it?”
“Well look at your guy.”
“What about him?”
“Wasn’t he involved in some kind of a thing?”
“He apparently exposed himself at a party in his college days and it followed him for the rest of his life.”
“Why would he do that?”
“Some kind of an attention seeking thing I guess. He wanted to be known.”
Sunday, April 8, 2007
Short Story: The Store
“Why is he pacing out there?”
“I don’t know he always does that. Why don’t you go out and ask him?”
“I’m not asking him, but something must be wrong.”
“For a long time.”
The two men just looked out the window in disbelief. They were not unfamiliar with the man pacing ceaselessly in front of their store. Though they were not familiar with him either.
The fact that the same middle-aged man had maintained his odd sidewalk sentry for the past three months had never raised any questions. Maybe the store had always been too busy for anyone to notice. Or maybe it just fit as a part of the fabric of a neighborhood where people still hung about in the streets rather than huddled alone indoors.
Whatever the case, there he was. Appearing daily just after the store opened and disappearing just as it closed. Never once had he ventured inside.
“Doesn’t he have any friends?’
“I suppose I must have seen him talk to someone on occasion.”
“You should go out and talk to him.”
“Why me?’
“You have been here longer than I have.”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
The two men stared out the window again. After a while the younger man spoke.
“You could tell Harry.”
The store manager squinted and stroked his hand through thinning slicked back hair.
“You want Harry to think we’re crazy? Why don’t you go out and talk to him?”
“What if he’s dangerous?”
“How could he be dangerous?”
The man continued to pace. Mostly looking down at his feet. Occasionally he looked straight ahead but never did he look in the direction of the store. When the weather was cool he wore a red cardigan sweater. When the weather was warm a pressed white shirt. His grey flannel pants always had a crease. Any guesses would place him anywhere between mid forties to sixty. The pacing never ceased.
Harry Sycamore, the building owner had never seemed to notice. At least he hadn’t mentioned it if he had. But then Harry never said much of anything, unless the phone rang.
“I don’t know why we even care. The customers don’t notice him and it doesn’t have anything to do with us.”
The younger man was growing frustrated.
“Don’t you at least want to know? If a man paced endlessly in front of your house, wouldn’t you ask him why?”
“It’s not my house. Maybe Harry should ask him why.”
“Or call the police.”
“Why?”
“We don’t know him.”
“Would it matter if we did?”
“Yes.”
“And if a man who was your friend was pacing out in front of the store, would you ask him why?”
“Yes I would.”
“But you won’t ask this man?’
“Maybe I could get his attention. Make him look this way.”
The store manager shrugged his shoulders.
The younger man stepped towards the door his eyes trained on the man in the cardigan. He opened the door and stepped out in front of the store. He took a couple of steps forward and stopped. He waited. The store manager looked on in curiosity.
The man in the cardigan continued his rhythm back and forth. Once he looked off into the distance, but never back at the clerk or the store.
The younger man stormed back inside.
“This is pointless. I’m calling the police.”
“And tell them what?”
“About him.”
“He’s not dangerous.”
“How do you know?”
“Look at him.”
“So?”
“He’s not dangerous.”
“Why don’t you care? How can you be so casual?”
“It doesn’t affect me.”
“You manage this store.”
“Yes.”
“How long have you been manager here?”
“Six years. Almost seven actually.”
“Well then go out there and talk to him.”
“Since you are so interested I think maybe you should.”
“You’ve been staring out this window as long as I have.”
“So?’
“I’m not the store manager here. I don’t even give a damn about this place. I could quit tomorrow.”
“You wouldn’t do that.”
“How do you know?”
“I think your wife might have something to say about it.”
“Fine. Maybe you should try getting married. Or do you think of anyone but yourself?”
“I hired you didn’t I? The store is not busy, and yet I’m not sending you home.”
“I’ve got an idea. He always leaves when we close the store right? The store isn’t busy, why don’t we close up for a while. We’ll go and grab a bite and come back in an hour. We’ll see what he does. Does he leave? Or does he stay?”
“You’re crazy.”
“Come on Victor, what do we have to lose. The store’s not even busy.”
“And what if Harry comes by?”
“You can blame it on me. Say I got sick and you had to take me to the hospital. You didn’t know what else to do.”
The store manager mulled it over. He looked back out the window at the pacing man.
“Alright we’ll close up, but only for a while. One hour. When he sees us leave, he’ll think we’re done for the day. And then he’ll do what he always does. Then we can get back to business and not have to bother with this anymore.”
The younger man was lost in his thoughts.
“Okay?”
The younger man looked up.
“Great I’ll get the keys.”
“Wait, we’ll leave in separate directions and meet in that restaurant around the corner. That way he won’t just think we’re stepping out to pick something up for the store.”
The two men turned off all the lights and placed the “closed” sign in the window. They locked the door and went their separate directions.
An hour later they started back to the store.
“What do we do if he’s still there?”
“He won’t be.”
“But what if he is?”
“Then you’re going to talk to him.”
“You should talk to him.”
“Alright we’re getting close.”
The two men turned the corner to find that the man had gone.
“It worked! See I told you it would work. I can’t believe it. Alright now for sure the next time he shows up I’m going to talk to him.”
The store manager just shook his head and unlocked the door. The men placed the “open” sign in the window and turned all the lights back on.
Within five minutes of their return, they received their first customer of the afternoon. A teenager looking for cigarettes. While the younger man tended to the customer, the store manager looked back out the window. The man in the cardigan had not returned.
“Why did you guys close up so early?”
“Oh, we had to pick up a few things.”
“When I came up I thought I was going to have to come back later. Then I saw you unlock the door.”
The young clerk reached behind the counter for the cigaretttes. He turned to face the barrel of a revolver.
“Now you can just go ahead and empty that register.”
Both the clerk and the store manager froze.
“I don’t want to make this difficult. Give me the money, now.”
The young clerk was too scared to move. The man’s patience ran out.
“I said give it to me!”
The man attempted to grab the young clerk by the collar, while the store manager made a move for the gun. The man pulled back, he fired a shot into the young man’s chest. The store manager ducked to the floor.
The man leaned over the counter and took aim at the store manager’s head. Another shot. The man returned to the top of the counter, emptied the cash register and fled.
A customer discovered the bodies of the two men about ten minutes later. Two weeks later, the store re-opened and Harry hired a new manager. An enterprising young man, who vowed not only to step up the business but security as well.
He was a good store manager with many return customers. Business was good and two new employees were hired.
There was only one question on the store manager’s mind as he opened the store each morning and closed it at night. Who was that odd man who paced in front of the store?
Jason Baker
The Store was previously published by Canadian online magazine Ascent Aspirations. Check them out at www.ascentaspirations.ca
“I don’t know he always does that. Why don’t you go out and ask him?”
“I’m not asking him, but something must be wrong.”
“For a long time.”
The two men just looked out the window in disbelief. They were not unfamiliar with the man pacing ceaselessly in front of their store. Though they were not familiar with him either.
The fact that the same middle-aged man had maintained his odd sidewalk sentry for the past three months had never raised any questions. Maybe the store had always been too busy for anyone to notice. Or maybe it just fit as a part of the fabric of a neighborhood where people still hung about in the streets rather than huddled alone indoors.
Whatever the case, there he was. Appearing daily just after the store opened and disappearing just as it closed. Never once had he ventured inside.
“Doesn’t he have any friends?’
“I suppose I must have seen him talk to someone on occasion.”
“You should go out and talk to him.”
“Why me?’
“You have been here longer than I have.”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
The two men stared out the window again. After a while the younger man spoke.
“You could tell Harry.”
The store manager squinted and stroked his hand through thinning slicked back hair.
“You want Harry to think we’re crazy? Why don’t you go out and talk to him?”
“What if he’s dangerous?”
“How could he be dangerous?”
The man continued to pace. Mostly looking down at his feet. Occasionally he looked straight ahead but never did he look in the direction of the store. When the weather was cool he wore a red cardigan sweater. When the weather was warm a pressed white shirt. His grey flannel pants always had a crease. Any guesses would place him anywhere between mid forties to sixty. The pacing never ceased.
Harry Sycamore, the building owner had never seemed to notice. At least he hadn’t mentioned it if he had. But then Harry never said much of anything, unless the phone rang.
“I don’t know why we even care. The customers don’t notice him and it doesn’t have anything to do with us.”
The younger man was growing frustrated.
“Don’t you at least want to know? If a man paced endlessly in front of your house, wouldn’t you ask him why?”
“It’s not my house. Maybe Harry should ask him why.”
“Or call the police.”
“Why?”
“We don’t know him.”
“Would it matter if we did?”
“Yes.”
“And if a man who was your friend was pacing out in front of the store, would you ask him why?”
“Yes I would.”
“But you won’t ask this man?’
“Maybe I could get his attention. Make him look this way.”
The store manager shrugged his shoulders.
The younger man stepped towards the door his eyes trained on the man in the cardigan. He opened the door and stepped out in front of the store. He took a couple of steps forward and stopped. He waited. The store manager looked on in curiosity.
The man in the cardigan continued his rhythm back and forth. Once he looked off into the distance, but never back at the clerk or the store.
The younger man stormed back inside.
“This is pointless. I’m calling the police.”
“And tell them what?”
“About him.”
“He’s not dangerous.”
“How do you know?”
“Look at him.”
“So?”
“He’s not dangerous.”
“Why don’t you care? How can you be so casual?”
“It doesn’t affect me.”
“You manage this store.”
“Yes.”
“How long have you been manager here?”
“Six years. Almost seven actually.”
“Well then go out there and talk to him.”
“Since you are so interested I think maybe you should.”
“You’ve been staring out this window as long as I have.”
“So?’
“I’m not the store manager here. I don’t even give a damn about this place. I could quit tomorrow.”
“You wouldn’t do that.”
“How do you know?”
“I think your wife might have something to say about it.”
“Fine. Maybe you should try getting married. Or do you think of anyone but yourself?”
“I hired you didn’t I? The store is not busy, and yet I’m not sending you home.”
“I’ve got an idea. He always leaves when we close the store right? The store isn’t busy, why don’t we close up for a while. We’ll go and grab a bite and come back in an hour. We’ll see what he does. Does he leave? Or does he stay?”
“You’re crazy.”
“Come on Victor, what do we have to lose. The store’s not even busy.”
“And what if Harry comes by?”
“You can blame it on me. Say I got sick and you had to take me to the hospital. You didn’t know what else to do.”
The store manager mulled it over. He looked back out the window at the pacing man.
“Alright we’ll close up, but only for a while. One hour. When he sees us leave, he’ll think we’re done for the day. And then he’ll do what he always does. Then we can get back to business and not have to bother with this anymore.”
The younger man was lost in his thoughts.
“Okay?”
The younger man looked up.
“Great I’ll get the keys.”
“Wait, we’ll leave in separate directions and meet in that restaurant around the corner. That way he won’t just think we’re stepping out to pick something up for the store.”
The two men turned off all the lights and placed the “closed” sign in the window. They locked the door and went their separate directions.
An hour later they started back to the store.
“What do we do if he’s still there?”
“He won’t be.”
“But what if he is?”
“Then you’re going to talk to him.”
“You should talk to him.”
“Alright we’re getting close.”
The two men turned the corner to find that the man had gone.
“It worked! See I told you it would work. I can’t believe it. Alright now for sure the next time he shows up I’m going to talk to him.”
The store manager just shook his head and unlocked the door. The men placed the “open” sign in the window and turned all the lights back on.
Within five minutes of their return, they received their first customer of the afternoon. A teenager looking for cigarettes. While the younger man tended to the customer, the store manager looked back out the window. The man in the cardigan had not returned.
“Why did you guys close up so early?”
“Oh, we had to pick up a few things.”
“When I came up I thought I was going to have to come back later. Then I saw you unlock the door.”
The young clerk reached behind the counter for the cigaretttes. He turned to face the barrel of a revolver.
“Now you can just go ahead and empty that register.”
Both the clerk and the store manager froze.
“I don’t want to make this difficult. Give me the money, now.”
The young clerk was too scared to move. The man’s patience ran out.
“I said give it to me!”
The man attempted to grab the young clerk by the collar, while the store manager made a move for the gun. The man pulled back, he fired a shot into the young man’s chest. The store manager ducked to the floor.
The man leaned over the counter and took aim at the store manager’s head. Another shot. The man returned to the top of the counter, emptied the cash register and fled.
A customer discovered the bodies of the two men about ten minutes later. Two weeks later, the store re-opened and Harry hired a new manager. An enterprising young man, who vowed not only to step up the business but security as well.
He was a good store manager with many return customers. Business was good and two new employees were hired.
There was only one question on the store manager’s mind as he opened the store each morning and closed it at night. Who was that odd man who paced in front of the store?
Jason Baker
The Store was previously published by Canadian online magazine Ascent Aspirations. Check them out at www.ascentaspirations.ca
Wednesday, March 14, 2007
Who accounts for all the Whys and Why Nots?
When I was a student I always liked it whenever anyone asked me what I wanted to do. Without hesitation I would tell them that I wanted to be a writer. Then I would allow the necessary pause as they went through the range of emotions that was becoming a ritual response. First there was the open mouthed gaze, then the uplifted eyebrow while they contemplated whether or not I was serious, then came the smile and nervous laugh, sometimes followed by an "oh, you really got me" kind of clap. It was fun at parties.
I finished a degree in English followed by a diploma in Marketing. I managed to get a start as a marketing writer with a sort of start-up software company. 1998. Hey it made sense then. Who knew? When this company started to invent fake employees with fake voice mails to impress investors I decided to move on. Nonetheless I managed to find work as a business writer for a number of larger companies. My assignments were mostly writing business letters and presentations. At first it felt cool when one of my letters got approved. My stuff would be read by all kinds of people all over the place. Then came the frustration of answering phone calls for the sales guy chosen to sign the bottom of the letter. I finally started to return to stories that had sat on the shelf for far too long. I was fortunate enough to see one of my short stories published by Canadian online magazine Ascent Aspirations. David Fraser is that rare breed of editor that not only prefers the work of new writers, but also doesn't mind a story with a bit of an edge. A lot of publishers prefer to stick with the safer, more traditional stories and are reluctant to publish a story that is more creative. As a result, a lot of aspiring Canadian writers have resorted to different measures to express themselves. I recently discovered that one of my former classmates, also a writer, had opted to pose nude online. I briefly weighed this option, but decided instead to start a blog. Non nude... of course.
I finished a degree in English followed by a diploma in Marketing. I managed to get a start as a marketing writer with a sort of start-up software company. 1998. Hey it made sense then. Who knew? When this company started to invent fake employees with fake voice mails to impress investors I decided to move on. Nonetheless I managed to find work as a business writer for a number of larger companies. My assignments were mostly writing business letters and presentations. At first it felt cool when one of my letters got approved. My stuff would be read by all kinds of people all over the place. Then came the frustration of answering phone calls for the sales guy chosen to sign the bottom of the letter. I finally started to return to stories that had sat on the shelf for far too long. I was fortunate enough to see one of my short stories published by Canadian online magazine Ascent Aspirations. David Fraser is that rare breed of editor that not only prefers the work of new writers, but also doesn't mind a story with a bit of an edge. A lot of publishers prefer to stick with the safer, more traditional stories and are reluctant to publish a story that is more creative. As a result, a lot of aspiring Canadian writers have resorted to different measures to express themselves. I recently discovered that one of my former classmates, also a writer, had opted to pose nude online. I briefly weighed this option, but decided instead to start a blog. Non nude... of course.
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