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Monday, February 2, 2004
well, this is the last of the 5 stories I am going to post right now. Keep an eye on your email for all the latest news, adventures, and other stupid things that happen. I'll be in touch.
This story, incidentally, is called "Herbert Johnson".
Herbert Johnson had never been a happy man. At least, not as long as he could remember.
Everything seemed to go downhill from his first memory, which flashed in his head at least once a day. In a way, falling off the seesaw as a 4-year-old was a fitting analogy for how things had gone since then. Every time things seemed to be heading up, he would slip and fall painfully back to earth.
His childhood had been painfully unremarkable. In fact, he would be shocked if any of his classmates remembered him. He wasn’t good at any sports or playground games, nor was he especially adept at academics. He was not an outcast, as such, but neither was he included in anything.
In high school, he dated a few of the girls who no one else would date, but never with any real enthusiasm or success. These girls were not especially good looking, but they weren’t especially ugly either. They tended to get tired of him, and move on to date someone else.
Not that he minded all that much anyway.
He majored in accounting at a big state college, graduating in four years, although he did go to school one summer to do it. He landed a job with a big accounting firm just 60 miles away from the house he was born in. Soon afterwards, his parents moved to Florida. They lived in a small house on the beach; they played golf every day. They always seemed happy when Herbert called on Sunday afternoons, at about 3 o’clock.
His mother called him Herbie, and always asked if he had met any nice women. His carefully crafted response, never overtly committal nor negative, seemed top keep her in good spirits, and he always promised to keep her updated with any new developments. Truly, she ached for him to “settle down”, and she desperately wanted grandchildren, something that did not interest “Herbie” in the least.
He never talked to his father for very long. It was always just a funny anecdote, a general question about work, and then he had to duck out and take care of something. “But here’s Mom”, he would always say.
The conversation never lasted very long.
His nine to five job was his only major activity each week. His cubicle was a little sanctuary where he could be relatively alone. He crunched numbers efficiently and quickly, and never seemed to attract any attention, positive or negative.
In fact, it took him a moment to remember who the man in the navy suit was. His first clue was the cut of the suit, which had that born-in look favored by managers, and his upright, proper, Phi Kappa posture. When he did remember, he wondered what his boss was doing here in his cubicle. He could only remember 3 occasions when his boss had ventured here, two of them in his first week on the job, over 6 years ago. On the rare occasions that he needed to speak with Herbert, he summoned him to his stately mahogany and glass window suite, two floors up.
Herbert’s heart skipped a beat. His thoughts snapped to a conversation he had overheard yesterday. He was taking his lunch, quickly and alone, and heard, over the noise of Hearts at a nearby table, two matronly secretaries gossiping about a promotion within his department. He hadn’t heard his name mentioned, but he wasn’t surprised. He never figured into office gossip, and that was fine by him.
The man cleared his throat, bringing Herbert’s attention back to his cubicle. “As you may have heard”, he began, “we’ve decided to promote someone from this department.” Herbert’s stomach jumped into his throat.
His boss, apparently unaware of the circus going on with Herbert’s entrails, carried on. “This is a very important promotion, one that will entail a big raise.” Herbert’s empty abdominal cavity filled with butterflies as he waited for the good news he felt sure was coming.
“In order to give this promotion, we’re going to have to let you go. We need to free up some payroll, and make a bit of space”, his boss said.
Herbert’s body, which had been weightless just moments before, crashed into his chair like a sack of lead potatoes. He didn’t even hear the terms of the severance package, nor the consolatory tone of his boss.
He was given until that afternoon to clear out his cubicle, and his boss left hurriedly. After work, he went home, throwing out the small box with his personal effects into the dumpster in the parking lot.
He walked directly into his apartment, past the old couch and worn coffee table, reached into his bedside drawer, and pulled out a small pistol.
He had bought the pistol four years ago, after his apartment was broken into while he was visiting his parents. He had fired thirty rounds from it, at a firing range, and, satisfied that he could use it safely, had placed it in his bedside drawer, where it had lain since then. He took it out occasionally to clean it and verify that it was in working order, but never had it out for more than half an hour.
The short barrel tasted like oil and dust when he placed it in his mouth, the end barely touching his teeth. He didn’t know whether to close his mouth around it or to leave it open.
He hesitated.
He couldn’t do it.
He hastily decided he needed a drink.
There was not a trace of booze in the house; he rarely drank. In fact, he couldn’t remember having had more than five drinks since college. Two had been on a disastrous date with a secretary from a different department, and he had two glasses at a company Christmas party soon after he was hired. It was the last company function he had been invited to.
He walked back out of his apartment, leaving the pistol on his bedside table. He walked quickly down the street to the hotel, only two blocks away, and easily the nearest bar. He entered through the lobby, and headed straight to the bar.
He ordered a double shot of whiskey from a distinctly surly barman. It burned his throat, and created a warm spot in his stomach. He quickly ordered a beer and another shot. He left the empty shot glass on the bar and sat at a nearby table.
Fifteen minutes later, he was already quite drunk, and his beer was nearly empty.
He was not so drunk, however, that he didn’t notice her come in. His mind flooded quickly.
The last he had heard, she had moved to Phoenix. And that was three years ago.
What was Sandra Karlson doing here?
She had been the object of his fantasy through high school and college, ever since she had moved into the house 4 doors down the road when he was 16.
She was tall, and blonde, with green eyes that seemed to shine with their own light.
And she was walking straight towards him.
Her long, beautiful legs seemed to move on one track, like a gymnast walking on the beam, and here hips shook seductively as she got closer and closer.
She was staring right at him, smiling slightly.
When she was about eight feet away, she stumbled slightly, recovering with the graceless self assurance that comes with being drunk while it is light outside. She stopped directly in front of him.
His mind froze into a solid block of ice, cold and out of place, and shattered into a million irreconcilable shards.
“Herb!” she said. “Fancy running into you here!” Her voice was smooth, the exaggerated excitement betraying her inebriated state.
Not entirely sober himself, he barely noticed that she called him Herb, a nickname he had gladly dropped after grade school. To himself, he said she could’ve called him anything she wanted. They had never been friends, despite their proximity. He could remember all the half dozen conversations they had word by word, and he often thought of them when he was going to sleep, lying sweaty in his bed.
He was paralyzed.
“I’m down here for 3 days on a business trip”, she continued, “and of all the people to run into…” She trailed off, obviously waiting for some response.
He was frozen to his chair. He couldn’t believe she was actually talking to him. Sandra Karlson! The star of classroom fantasies, his greatest dream, alive and standing right before him. He longed to reach out and touch her - just to poke her, and see if she was real. He realized he had been holding his breath since she had stopped in front of him. He let it out slowly.
He started talking.
To his surprise, she hung on his every word. She laughed at his little jokes, and sympathized with his pain when he talked about losing his job.
They sat and talked for hours, steadily drinking the entire time. She drank vodka tonics, with two limes, something he found exciting, and he drank beer, not even noticing as he matched her fervent pace. The sun set through the greasy windows, and the dark of night fell as they were talking.
She had been married, but was now divorced. She had found her husband in bed with his secretary. She left him and got a job making sales presentations for an appliance company. She traveled almost 6 months a year, and she said it helped to dull the pain. Suddenly, Herbert noticed it was late. He hadn’t so much as looked at his watch since she had arrived.
She seemed to mistake his inability to talk for a penchant for listening. In fact, he was rooted to his seat, staring fixedly into the green eyes of his goddess before him. As their one-sided conversation went on, she edged closer to him. Finally, she placed her hand on his knee as she prepared to say something.
Abruptly, she stood up, removing her hand from his knee.
“Would you like to come up for a drink?” she asked, fiddling with the hem of her skirt, and looking slightly embarrassed.
He froze. He was halfway to the elevator before he realized he had replied at all.
She was staying on the fourth floor, and the elevator ride was uncomfortable. He could smell here perfume, Charlie and vodka, as they stood in the small space together, avoiding physical contact.
He stepped out on Cloud Nine.
She walked across the hall, opened the door and ushered him inside. She let the door close quietly behind her.
Not seeing a chair, Herbert sat down on the edge of the bed, while she fished out two miniature bottles of scotch, a handful of ice cubes, and two plastic cups. She filled both cups and sat down next to him. She kicked off her shoes, and, crossing her legs toward him, touched his leg with her stockinged foot. A delightful shock of electricity ran up his spine.
She ran a finger up his arm, eliciting another, more powerful shock.
And then she was upon him.
For the next hour, Herbert was happier than he had ever been. He lived out a million fantasies, relishing the touch of his dream goddess. They writhed and tossed like two animals, and they pushed together like they were trying to break the barriers that made them two separate people.
Finally, they lay side by side on the bed. She sighed, and he turned his head slightly to look at her.
“That was magical”, she said. Herbert’s heart swelled with pride, but he was unable to speak. He nodded slightly.
“I’m so glad I ran into you”, she cooed. “You were always my favorite, and it broke my heart when you moved away.” She paused, but in her dreamlike reverie did not notice the look of confusion on Herbert’s face.
“Just think about it. I get divorced, and 8 months later, I run into Herb Calhoun at a hotel bar. Seems like fate, doesn’t it?”
His mind snapped out of its coma. She thought he was Herb Calhoun. Herb Calhoun, the stunning Adonis, the big man on campus, the rich son of a rich banker from the big city. They were as opposite as Extra Virgin Olive Oil and Mexican tap water.
“You know I was quite taken with you during our college years?” she continued.
Herb Calhoun, the hotshot basketball player.
“I was pretty broken up when you went to law school, and we never had a chance. Of course, I got married not long after that…”
Herb Calhoun, the New York lawyer. She thought he was Herb Calhoun.
“Could you excuse me for one moment?” he asked.
“Sure, babe.” she chirped. She rolled away from him as he pulled his naked form from under the covers.
He stood up, picked up his pants, and pulled them on. He left his shirt and his underwear.
He walked out the door of the room, straight to the elevator. He pushed the floor for the lobby, and exited. He walked through the lobby, completely oblivious to the people staring at him. The two blocks to his apartment went by quickly. He walked straight to his apartment door, and finding it unlocked, walked directly into his bedroom.
He picked up the small pistol, and, closing his lips around the short barrel, he pulled the trigger.
Adam Hebbard
This story is called "The Box".
It had been so late, he was sure it had been a dream.
Nothing like that could exist in reality.
But it had seemed so real!
He could picture the man in the advertisement, the smile on his face stretching to his ears.
Like a dream analyst, he tried to place the face. Surely it was a memory that popped up from his subconscious - an old friend, a teacher, a relative?
But he could find no association that seemed to fit, no person, no group or amalgamation of people who came together to match that smile.
It was wide without being prepossessing, ecstatic but with no hint of mania or insanity, fatherly and living without judging or condescending.
What if it was real?
The next few days were long ones. His workday routine seemed so long that on Friday, 3 days later, he left the office early, complaining of sickness in his stomach.
But that only made it worse. Unlike a dream, which softens and fades, the memory seemed to strengthen, to take more shape, to grow in his mind.
What had seemed to be an idle flipping of channels on his TV had crystallized into an intense, methodical manhunt, occupying all of his free time until he collapsed asleep each night, the TV still blaring whatever message he had left it on.
But it was all in vain.
He could find no trace of the man, nor his product, nor any of his promises.
He searched every medium he could find, scouring scientific journals for any mention of an invention, logging hours in front of his television trying to catch a hit of his memory.
He flipped past articles on chemicals to cure cancer, inventions to increase crop yields, advertisements for cars, laundry machines and video games.
All imperfect substitutes.
He replayed the commercial in the cinema of his mind, desperately searching for soothing he had missed, a clue, the final piece that would direct him towards what he was searching for.
The Happiness Machine.
He had watched the model saunter across the set with the black box in her hands, its tail of a plug hanging down almost to her knees.
The man with the smile nodded appreciatively, and the girl faded backwards out of the set. He turned on his thousand-watt smile, basking his audience of one in the radiance of it.
He raised the lid of the box, and pulled out what looked like two pair of stereo headphones. The bigger pair he put over his ears, and the smaller pair rested on his temples.
As this replayed in his head for the thousandth time, he smiled a tiny little smile and anticipated what he knew would come next.
The view switched, now looking over the man's shoulder, into the box. It contained only two buttons.
The man reached for the left-most button, labeled "on." He paused with his finger resting on it.
The view swung back to his face.
"Now you may be asking yourself why there is no dial," the man intoned. His rich melodic baritone was musical and masculine. In spite of the fact that he had reviewed this scene innumerable times, deep in his mind he did wonder why there was no dial.
"Happiness is not like the volume on your stereo. You can't turn it up or down. It is an absolute quality, a singularity. It either is, or it isn't. A dial would be useless."
"Now, when I turn this on, I will be happy, and when I turn it off, the echo of that happiness will continue to bounce around in my head for days."
And he pressed the button.
Two weeks later, he sat in front of the dining room table.
A small black box sat in front of him, silent and smooth. Its pigtail was hooked into the wall.
When he had first plugged it in, it had tripped a circuit breaker. Finally, he had to unplug everything in the house just to supply the little box with energy.
It hummed slightly, droning although it had done nothing yet.
He had only seen the commercial once more, but that was all he needed.
Again it had been late at night, on an obscure channel high up in his satellite range of 400.
He had been so giddy with excitement that he almost forgot to write down the phone number.
But he got it.
He had taken a two-week vacation from work, telling all his coworkers he was going to Florida, so he could concentrate more fully on finding the box.
On the seventh day he fund it.
It had obsessed every moment of his waking life, and had even invaded his dreams.
The five days it had taken for the package to arrive had dragged by like millennia.
He hadn't left his house for fear of missing the delivery.
He put the headset on his head, beaming uncontrollably.
He put his finger on the green button, and paused.
He waited, savoring the moment, making sure it was registered in his mind.
He pushed the button, and was overwhelmed.
All his long weeks of searching were at an end; he was at peace, happiness being pumped into his skull at 10,000 amps, the sweet strains of George Gershwin's Summertime gracing his ears through the stereo headphones.
But what was that smell?
It smelled like burning hair. He sniffed more intently, and looked around for the source of the smell.
Frightened, he touched the top of his head. It was hot.
Immediately, he tried to shut of the machine, and to wrench the headset from his ears and temples.
His hair was standing straight on end, but he couldn't remove the headset. In fact, he found, once he had touched the headset, he couldn't remove his hands from it.
His legs began to kick uncontrollably.
What a fool he had been!
Happiness in a little black box for only $499.95?
He was going to die, alone, in his apartment.
He thought of all the things he had wanted to do, the places he had wanted to go.
He had always wanted to go to Florida. He had never been to London. He had never married, or walked down a boardwalk hand in hand with a girl.
He had never seen the ocean.
Then it stopped.
His thrashings had thrown him from his chair, and one of his legs had kicked the plug out of the wall.
He lay still for several moments, catching his breath.
He stood up, removed his headset, and placed it on the table.
He looked at his clock; it was only 2:05 in the afternoon.
He called his office, and told them he would be gone another week. He could afford it, since he hadn't used any vacation in two years.
He packed up the black box, and put it in its own cardboard box.
Then he packed a small suitcase, plugged in the refrigerator, and left his apartment, locking the door behind him.
He headed for his car, stopping by the dumpster to toss the black box away.
He got in the car, and headed south, a thousand-watt grin stretching from ear to ear, whistling, then singing at full voice.
"Summertime, and the livin' is easy..."
Adam Hebbard
This story ius entitled "The Dive".
The place was a dive.
Being a frequent drinker, James could forgive the dim light and the smell of unemptied ashtrays; they came with the territory. But this place was beneath even his generous standards. The floor was covered in what was once a cheap, thin carpet, worn to a single shade and revealing the cement under it through half a dozen holes. The bar was made of black plastic specked with white marblings. There were only three stools, one of which was supported by only three legs, the fourth leg was two inches of the floor.
He walked up to the empty bar, looked up the length of it, and, seeming satisfied, chose an uncomfortable chair on the far side of a plastic table that rocked when he put his arm on it. He took a deep breath, and waited for the waitress to appear.
He had been driving cross country with his friend John, hitting the high spots, drinking cheap beer in bars in small towns, drinking more expensive beer in campgrounds outside big cities, smoking cigarettes and wreaking as much havoc as two guys with six shirts between them possibly could.
They lived on a strict budget, and made a little money picking up hitchhikers, washing dishes, or filling in other odd jobs. They made enough to have more fun than seemed legal, and as far as they were concerned, they lived like kings. Occasionally they found women who were kind, stupid or drunk enough to sleep with one or the other of them, and these encounters were an extra bonus; it meant a night in a warm bed and a shower, usually for both of them. Most of the girls were kind, stupid or drunk enough to let the other guy sleep on the couch. As a matter of practice, they never stole anything from the girls, or anyone else, although they happily took all that was offered, and they weren’t afraid to ask for something that wasn’t.
Things had gone on like this for months, and they had seen most of the country.
It was starting to warm again when they headed to Biloxi. They had spent a cold month in West Virginia, and as soon as they could afford the gas, they got back on the highway and roared south at top speed. They were headed to Biloxi, they said, because work would be plentiful, and it was warm enough that living outside would be pleasant. In the backs of their minds lurked the other reason, though neither one would admit it. These get rich quick fantasies lurk in gambling towns, not buried under the surface, but out in the open, heralded by flashing lights, and skimpy costumes. It lies there, at the heart of the American dream - one roll, one hand, one spin away from total independence, from freedom, from life.
James stared up at the clock, which hung slightly crooked on the wall. He was so engrossed in the spastic movements of the second hand that he was slightly spooked by the waitress’s slight cough. Apparently she had been standing behind him for awhile.
She was exceptionally bad looking, and her looks were well complimented by a contemptuous gaze and a surly curl of her lips. Her long, untamed curls of hair surrounded a face that was buried in cakes of cheap makeup. Her eyes were painted in dark, wide lines, and her big teeth smacked a piece of bright yellow gum in a rhythm that was almost, but not exactly, completely out of time with the sad country ballad oozing forth from the ancient jukebox. She fit the bar perfectly. Without slowing the smacking, she asked him what he wanted. He ordered a cheap draft beer, and handed over half the money he had left. She went behind the bar, pulled the beer, and set it, without a coaster, in front of him. She walked away without uttering a word.
From somewhere in the back of the bar, he saw the fat barman waddle out and perch himself, grunting, on a stool. His distended belly, covered only in a grease-stained undershirt, rested against the rail of the bar. He made a purposeful effort to pay no attention to James, a talent common to the tenders of run down holes. It didn’t faze James in the slightest, and he took a sip of the beer, savoring its warm, flat taste, and returned his gaze to the clock on the wall.
It had been twenty-three minutes since he had come in, and he could anticipate being in here at least another forty before his friend arrived.
Their arrival in Biloxi was full of good omens. The sun was shining, and it was warm enough to ride with the windows down. They had picked up a hitchhiker on this side of Memphis, and he gave them a few bucks and two sandwiches besides. He was a local boy, and he was sure that they could find work easily in one of the casinos. This was great news for them, as work had been hard to find up north. The promise of steady work and warm weather seemed too good to be true.
They dropped the boy off near the center of town, and headed straight to the casinos. Walking around the back of the riverboat, they found the kitchen, and within an hour, they each had jobs paying a few bucks an hour, in cash. They did anything from washing dishes to stowing packages in the freezer, and they made enough money for beer each night and a motel room on Sundays. They had made a pact to stay out of the business end of the casino, and they stuck to it for four full weeks.
It had been almost a month of sedentism, and they had saved up a few hundred dollars. They both felt the itch to move on. They decided they would have one night out, to celebrate, and then they’d head on to New Orleans.
Not being allowed to gamble at the casino they worked in, they rented a room at the one next door. They both took showers, put on their cleanest pants and shirts, and headed downstairs. They walked straight past all of the tables, and out into the night. They walked across the street and over to a small bench. Each one took out a small wad of cash and fastidiously counted it. They had almost $325 between them. They decided to set aside $120 for the trip to New Orleans, so they each counted out sixty dollars, then went and put it in the glove box of the car.
They walked back from the parking lot, and, smiling like they were worth a million dollars apiece, they entered the casino. They quickly settled down at a blackjack table with two good-looking girls. They ordered drinks and started playing. They drank whiskey on ice, and amazingly, three hours later, had managed not to lose any money, and to retain the attention of the two girls. They could sense that the time had come to stand up and invite the girls upstairs for a drink.
They did so, but in returning to their room, they had to pass by the roulette wheel.
James took another sip of stale beer, and bowed his head slightly. Through all the excitement, all the noise, and all the whiskey, he had heard a familiar voice in his head advise him against it. He heard the voice from time to time, and usually heeded its counsel. The few times he hadn’t had been disastrous. Somehow, between the women and the booze and the lights and the noise, he had ignored the voice without even giving it a second thought.
He looked over at the bartender, who was picking his teeth with a toothpick, looking over the latest lines in a grungy newspaper. He had a halo of thin white hair ringing his liver-spotted head, and he flicked the toothpick around his mouth with a dexterity that belied many hours of practice.
James turned back to the clock, and saw that forty minutes had passed.
They conferred for a brief moment at the roulette wheel, before deciding to put their money on black. They pooled together fifty dollars. James was in a state of disbelief. Fifty dollars was a lot of money, enough to support them for a solid week.
The two men expressed their nerves differently. James stared defiantly at the ceiling, not blinking, while John shifted his weight from foot to foot and sighed loudly. The two women clutched at their arms, hanging on for dear life.
The casino man closed the table.
An eternity passed.
The man reached over, placed the ball, and gave the wheel a spin.
Both of the betters held their breath as the ball clattered round and round, and the two girls, sensing the excitement, pulled even closer.
The ball started to slow, then started to bounce, then came to a rest on fourteen.
Fourteen Black.
With only a hint of a smirk, the table man pushed a stack of chips towards them.
They giddily gathered them, grabbed the girls, and headed upstairs. They had champagne brought up to the room, and the girls jumped and screamed. The two men sat in disbelief. This was the most money they’d had since leaving home, and it promised to make the trip to New Orleans a very exciting excursion.
Finally, things settled down, they drank the champagne, turned out the lights, and each of them set to work on one of the girls. It didn’t take long, and soon the room was dark and silent.
When James woke up, his head was pounding. He knew it had to be the champagne. The girl was no longer in his bed, and that was fine with him. He wasn’t certain she would be such a pleasant sight in his current frame of mind.
Instinctively, he reached for his wallet. He felt it on the dresser by his bed. He picked it up, but it lacked the healthy thickness of the night before. He looked inside, and it was empty.
He sat up suddenly, and nearly vomited.
Getting himself under control, he opened his eyes, and saw his friend sitting on the bed, his thumbs pressed in his eyes, slowly rocking back and forth.
He stared at the clock. It had been 55 minutes.
In retrospect, losing all of their money wasn’t that big of a deal. In a week, they could have made enough to move on somewhere away from the casinos.
It was the car that killed him.
That damn spot of good luck on the roulette wheel had poisoned his mind.
56 minutes.
After everyone had fallen asleep, John had gone back down to the floor. He lost all his money with breathtaking speed.
He had come back and tried to sleep again, but found it impossible. Failing that, he had “borrowed” the money in James’s wallet, which lay unhidden on the dresser. One quick hand, he thought, make back the money he’d lost, and come back. He would be able to sleep if he could get his money back.
If possible, he had lost James’s money even faster than his own. He returned to the room, determined to stop the loss there, but still unable to sleep. Through the haze of depression and whiskey, his thoughts flashed to the $120 in the glove box of the car. He could win back all the money he had lost and no one would know the difference.
He left the room again, with James and the girls sleeping peacefully.
After losing that money, pawning the car title seemed like a logical next step.
Finally, everything of value was gone. The girls had no money in their purses.
John lay in his bed and feigned sleep. At about 6 AM, the girl in his bed woke up, roused her friend, and they shuffled quietly out of the room.
After John explained the whole story, James was furious. He locked himself in the bathroom and ranted and raved and cursed, which only made him feel a little better.
When he came out, John had a plan.
James stared as the second hand jerked around to the top of the clock. 60 minutes had passed. Then 61, 62 and 63 passed.
Finally, the door eased open. James could see nothing in the glare from outside, and his eyes didn’t have time to adjust to the bright light before the door swung shut. A man in a ski mask stood just inside the door, holding a gun under his jacket. James inconspicuously held up two fingers before dropping to the floor and crawling under the table.
The punk in the mask walked to the bar, shouted for the waitress, and ordered the bartender to empty the cash register into a paper sack.
The bartender complied. He didn’t know there was nothing more deadly than a hand underneath the jacket.
With the sack full, the punk walked to where James was cowered on the floor. He grabbed James by the neck, and, using him as a shield, backed towards the door, waving his finger-gun menacingly.
They were within two feet of the door when the waitress appeared through the door behind the bar.
She fired two quick shots before realizing the punk had a hostage. The first bullet shattered the clock two feet above the door, showering the ground in plastic shards. The second hit James squarely in the gut, and he doubled over onto the floor.
John turned and ran, the swinging door creating alternating light and shadow over the rapidly growing red pool spreading from James’s prone form.
The cold slowly set over him, and by the time the door sat still in the frame, James had drawn his last breath.
Adam Hebbard
This story is entitled "Her".
He lay in his bed, warm, staring at the white globe of the extinguished light floating above him. He turned his head, looking at her lying next to him.
She was beautiful, her brown hair lying around her head like an aura; a slight smile gracing her lips, reaching even to the corners of her eyes.
She turned slightly, and he relaxed his head back onto his pillow. Lying still, he relished the empty feeling that filled him now. It was the sweet emptiness of release, the soft silence of comfort, and he basked in it, treasured it, and let it flow through him.
He gently closed his eyes, careful not to disturb anything, and he drifted off to sleep.
He had met Eva only a few days earlier, on a three-hour train ride he wished could have lasted 3 days.
Over a few lukewarm beers and stale sandwiches, they chatted idly at first, gradually moving to deeper and more personal subjects.
She spoke perfect English, thanks to a few years spent in the US and England, a fact he was grateful for, since he didn’t speak her native language. The peaked clouds rolled by the stationary mountains, and both ranges whisked by the windows. Small villages dominated by churches appeared in the foreground. The cream walls, topped with terracotta roofs, lightly dusted with snow came and went, but he was largely oblivious.
His attention was trapped in two steel blues pools of light, a slight smile gracing the corners of them as she spoke. She was almost three years older than he was, and nearly finished with her studies. She would be starting work the next fall. She spoke of it neither with great enthusiasm, nor disappointment, and the smile never left her face.
He wrested his eyes away from hers, and studied the rest of her face. Her skin was light, but not pale, and utterly flawless. It was laid lovingly over her cheekbones, neither stretched too tight nor piled too thick. Her lips were small but not thin, and soft, with the corners almost always turned up in just the hint of a smile. The smile seemed to grace her whole face, starting with just the corners of her eyes, spreading past her cheekbones and onto the corners of her mouth. It was a contagious smile, and every time he saw it, he felt it cross the car and creep onto his jaw.
Her face was framed with locks of wavy, chestnut brown hair that just kissed on the tops of her shoulders. She was tall, but not thin, a classical picture of romantic beauty.
And, by some happy coincidence, she was headed to the same place he was.
He had come to visit friends for Christmas; he was living too far from home to make the trip there. She had been born and raised in the town, and was returning from University. She did not know the people he was staying with, but she reassured him, saying that he would see her again; she would be in town throughout the holidays.
They discussed her time spent in America, and his time in Europe. They talked about art and literature, and he passed the three hours engrossed in her.
As the train rattled and rumbled to its final stop, he took her phone number, promising to meet her that night for a drink. Though it was freezing cold outside, he walked the mile and a half from the train station to his friends’ house happily. He was dazed, barely able to feel the cold through the warmth he felt.
His friends greeted him with drinks and open arms. He took a much-needed shower, and politely ate the delicious meal they provided; his mind could not have been further away.
As soon as he was done eating, he called the number she had given him, and left a stuttering message. He returned to the living room in agony, doing his best to smile and participate in the conversation; all the while with one ear cocked towards the phone. Several times he jumped at the TV, or the oven; he was so eager to hear the phone ring.
When it finally did ring, he jumped up, nearly upsetting his drink, along with the rest of the table, and leapt into the hallway, wrenching up the phone, tripping over his feet, and crashing to the floor, phone in hand.
He answered in an embarrassed voice, and was horrified to hear her chuckle a greeting in return. They agreed to meet in an hour and a half and she admonished him to be careful; she laughed lightly at her own joke.
He promised he would, and, turning to the living room as he hung up the phone, saw his friends doubled up with laughter, and heard them burst out laughing as soon as he cradled the phone. He endured their good-natured jibes and lightly derisive laughter for an hour before he stood, excused himself, and hurried to the agreed meeting place.
He was slightly early, and as he waited outside in the cold, watching his clouds of breath disappear, he realized he was quite drunk as well. He hoped he would be able to hide the wobble in his stance, as well as the waver in his voice and the flutter in his stomach. It seemed like an awful lot to do.
He saw her arrive across the town square, her gait as light as the flurries of snow that had started to fall. He took her hand as she approached, and greeted her in the standard way, a kiss on each cheek. Suddenly it had become his favorite custom.
They went into the bar, which was far from crowded. For once this pleased rather than disappointed him, and he was delighted when she chose a booth near the corner. The waitress promptly appeared, and she placed an order without hesitating or consulting him. He couldn’t have cared less.
Before they could remove their jackets, the waitress returned with two small glasses of a local specialty. He had already gulped his down in one shot before he realized that she was calmly sipping on hers, alternating it with sips of tonic water. It burned his throat, all the way down to his stomach, where it settled like a warm weight. It was actually rather refreshing, he thought, and effective at melting away the cold of the evening.
They started talking, swapping stories, laughing, and passing time.
She drank responsibly and calmly, while he continued to gulp his drinks nervously. Within an hour, he had started his slide down the slippery slope of drunkenness, while she remained pristinely composed. Thinking quickly, he suggested a change of venue.
He paid the tab, which was refreshingly small, and stepped into the cold night. As he hoped, the freezing air woke him up. The snow was falling slightly thicker now, and the small, blowing drifts had given way to small hills of white powder. With no music except the tuned ringing in his head, he danced her around the small square. Finally, the cold dug too deep, and they ducked into another bar.
He ordered two stiff drinks to warm them up, and quickly followed them with two beers as well, hoping to keep things under control.
The next three hours passed in a blur. He only remembered select flashes the next morning when he woke, alone.
They had been out late, he could tell as soon as he awoke. When he moved his head, and felt the heavy contents slide from one side to the other, he was certain that he drank too much. He arose carefully and slowly, holding his head in one hand to minimize the movement, and headed toward the kitchen.
Two of his friends were sitting at the table, talking quietly, and both broke into smiles as he eased himself into a chair and asked for a cup of coffee. He endured several minutes of questioning, and then started to ask questions of his own. As he realized how little he remembered from last night, a nervousness that bordered on outright fear erupted in his chest. When his friend brought the cup of coffee, he realized he no longer wanted it.
He tried to ask indirect, vague questions, but the combination of his curiosity and his nervousness forced him to ask them directly for a full account of what happened. Finally, one of his friends indulged him with a full account of the night. He sipped his coffee slowly.
He had been, as he suspected, roaringly drunk. They had left the bar and gone to a club, which he didn’t remember. He drank whiskey, and they danced long into the night. Finally, she called a cab, and dropped him off at home. He had somehow managed the stairs, only to pass out, face first, in the toilet. But she didn’t see that, she had taken the cab back to her apartment.
His heart lightened, and he was able to drink his coffee.
She called that afternoon to say she was going to her grandparent’s house for Christmas, and she wouldn’t be back for four days. She promised to call when she returned.
He spent the next four days getting drunk and counting the hours until she returned.
The night before she was due back, was a Friday, and his friends had been talking about it since he had arrived. It would be a huge party, and all of the clubs would be packed full of young people. They started drinking early, alternating sips of beer with shots of vodka.
By the time they got to the club, he was drunk enough not to mind the sub-zero temperature as they waited for admission. They managed to find a small table, just two seats, relatively close to the dance floor. They could watch the girls as they passed by, and it gave them a place to rest their feet and their glasses. As they continued to drink, they went off in twos and threes to dance, coming back to the table to brag and to have another drink.
As the night wore on, more and more of their friends showed up, and he drank with the guys and danced with the girls. One of the girls, a tall, young acquaintance of someone or another, seemed to have taken a shine to him. It was just a look in the eyes, coupled with a demure smile; somehow she had caught his attention. She was tall, only a few inches shorter than he was, and quite young. She had beautiful grey-green eyes that sparkled when she smiled, and soft, dimpled cheeks framed by her long brown hair. She didn’t speak too much English, but that was okay with him. They could communicate, if he spoke slowly and simply, and his friends could always translate if that was necessary. Mostly, they just chatted, rested briefly, and got up to dance again.
They had danced half a dozen times, and the night was wearing to a close. He had just returned from the dancefloor, retreating as quickly as possible from a girl with a crooked nose. The young beauty grabbed his hand before he could sit down, and, as tired as his feet were, he could mount no resistance as she led him back to the dance floor. She was lithe and lively, writhing in rhythm to the loud music. Slowly, his memory started to fade again.
He woke up only once that night, and she lay, breathing softly next to him. He watched her for a moment, still able to feel the last vestiges of that sweet emptiness that was filling up inside him. Questions and doubts were forming, and his heaven was being pierced with arrows of thought.
In the morning, Eva was returning, and things might get complicated. But, for the moment, he was happy, and he smiled again as he rolled over and went back to sleep.
Adam Hebbard
Well, this is the first in a series of 5 posts to be completed in the next half hour or so. Each one contains a new short story, so if you have a moment to spare, take a look.
This story is called "Life with Women".
"Jesus, who gives a shit."
This had been dragging on for hours, and finally his patience was nearing an end. He had listened attentively to her musings on dozens of subjects that he couldn't have cared less about. Just going over them in his head was horrible.
But why should he care what color the drapes were, or if the new seat covers would match the wallpaper.
A wounded sniffle snatched him from his revelry.
"If you don't want to help me, I'll do it on my own.” she said.
This sentence was as full of female cunning as any he could think of. Well, that wasn't exactly true, but old standbys like "Do I look fat?” and the like have been unmasked and discussed at large.
Just the vaguely hurt tone of her voice, coupled with the wretched glance from where she kneeled in front of a stack of throw pillows, was enough to bring a normal man to his knees. But he was no normal man; he had withstood hours of torture today alone.
He opened his mouth to fight back, but he froze.
He was trapped. She had played the one card that always brought him to his knees and rendered him incapable of self-defense. Guilt, that monster of an emotion, had him in its jaws, and it ground and tore until he was shredded again. She seemed to be able to conjure this demon at will, and she sicked it on him with what he was on the verge of decrying as relish.
"I... I'm sorry, honey, it's just been a long day, and..."
"Well, we've only got a few more things to do, then we'll go back home." She said this without a hint of rancor, but with a finality that was not to be challenged, and turned back to the throw pillows.
He sighed, though silently.
How did he always end up here? Why was every relationship he entered into a sick echo of the last?
Could it be that he was somehow at fault? Was it an intrinsic weakness in himself?
Instantly, an opposition swelled within him. He was a rational, kind, and fair person. How could it be his fault that women were none of these things?
The forces of logic and the force of self began to face off. On the one hand, he was the common element in all of those relationships. But at the same time, he couldn't bring himself to believe that the problem lay in him. Again, he was snapped out of his reverie by those wide brown eyes.
"Honey, are you even listening?"
His own eyes snapped back into focus, and he saw here on the floor, looking slightly annoyed, each hand holding a pillow in a different shade of mint green. His mind snapped into action, all cylinders firing as he tried to formulate an answer that would work no matter what the question had been.
"The one on the left.” he guessed, making a concentrated effort to sound sure, and praying that he had come up with the right answer.
"Good, me too." She smiled.
The tension that had gripped his shoulders released its grip, and he looked down at her smiling up at him. She wasn't a bad looking girl, although to be fair, she wasn't exactly beautiful either. She was tall, only a few inches shorter than he was himself. Her short brown hair framed he face, which was pleasant, warm and friendly, but which fell just short of true beauty.
In a word, she was plain.
But how had he found himself here, buying mint green throw pillows with a woman who, to be honest to himself, he was only mildly attracted to?
And why was it so familiar?
He was still thinking about this later that evening, as he lay in bed. She slept peacefully next to him, a contented smile on her face, he head leaning into the crook of his shoulder.
He was on his back, staring straight up at the ceiling, trying to draw parallels between where he was now, and where he had already been so many times before.
Why did his relationships always seem to end with him getting bored?
Ever since he had been old enough to date, things had seemed to work out the same. Things always went great at first. He became absorbed in this fascinating creature, spending hours a day by her side. Then, slowly, inexorably, he would feel boredom creep in. As they continued to spend a lot of time together, things became patterned, predictable, and, worst of all, stifling.
And this was invariably when disaster occurred.
Without fail, he would meet someone else - another woman.
And she was always out of his league, usually in more ways than one. She would be incredibly beautiful, or brilliantly entertaining, or both. And they would become friends, and he would begin to fall in love. Then came the familiar scenario of neglecting his current lover for his would-be lover-to-be.
Things seemed to dissemble rapidly after this. His current lover would get fed up with his inattention, and usually he would break it off before she could muster up the courage to.
Then, soon after he was free again, he would realize that his new interest had no intention of pursuing any romantic involvement whatsoever and he was utterly alone.
And now, lying in his bed, he could sense the all-to-familiar pattern emerging once again. He was already sensing distance growing between them, although she seems completely ignorant of it.
But this time was going to be different, he resolved to himself. He would no longer be the pawn of this outrageous game of fate. He would take his life by the reins and force it to bend to his rule.
He leaned over and kissed her cheek, eliciting a dreamy smile, and fell asleep with a smile on his own face for the first time in weeks.
The next two weeks were blissful.
He made conscious efforts to be attentive to her, which she seemed to be appreciative of. He avoided situations where he found himself attracted to other women, going so far as to avoid alcohol, the great aphrodisiac. They spent evenings together, watching films, talking, eating together, and getting to know each other better. Whenever he felt a little restless, he reminded himself of his silent vow.
The message from his friend seemed so innocuous. And it was true that he had been absent at the last few parties, spending time with his girl. Besides, she was leaving town for the weekend, going to visit her cousins, about an hour away. He could go and hang out with the guys, and then go and spend some time with he and her family on Sunday.
Come Saturday, he was excited about seeing his friends, and arrived before the party got moving. His friends were all glad to see him, and the booze started flowing. Before anyone really got there, he was drunk, and had withstood serious derision, all in good fun, about his protracted absence.
Knowing his friends so well, he knew their jibes were really their way of saying that they missed him. And he missed them as well.
People started arriving, and within an hour, the small gathering had mushroomed into a full-blown party. He snapped back into the real world in the middle of recounting a story to a group of three girls. They were all breasts and legs, dolled up for the evening's festivities, and listening attentively. He paused in the story for a drink, and a wave passed over him and he submerged into the party again.
When he surfaced again, he was outside, talking loudly to a mixed group of guys and girls. Some of whom he knew, and the others, he felt like he should know them. Looking over his shoulder, he saw a girl who looked mildly familiar. She smiled, looking him in the eye, and sauntered in his direction.
He quickly extricated himself from the group, and turned and met her about three steps away from them. Smoother than satin, he reached out and lit her cigarette before lighting his own. He took a drag, and the wave crashed over him again.
He woke to his alarm the next day. He could tell it was early by the pale quality of the light through his window. He rolled over to turn off the alarm, and regretted it almost immediately. His head was swimming. It felt like it was made of lead, with a heavy, liquid core that splashed around sickeningly if he tried to move. He managed to turn off the alarm, after a minute or so of concentrated effort.
He lay and tried to remember why he had to wake up so early. His thoughts kept flickering back to the night before, to the scattered and incongruous images from the party.
And there she was.
In a dozen shards of his memory, a beautiful brunette. Here, alone, there, in a group, she seemed to pop up everywhere.
"Shit!” he exclaimed when he remembered why he had awoken this morning. He had to meet his girlfriend and her family for lunch, an hour's drive away in two and a half hours. Why had he gotten so drunk?
She had even warned him, before she left, not to get too drunk, in that half-joking, half-demanding tone that she used so often to reproach him.
He hated that tone of vice.
He tried to sound as miserable as he could when he called to back out of lunch. There was no way he could face her parents and her family, let alone her. He complained of a headache, and of various vague symptoms of ill health. She didn't get mad, but he could hear the disappointment under her wishes that he get better soon.
How dare she!
He had done everything he could to please her, and now she had the audacity to chasten him, like an errant child.
He closed the curtains and closed his eyes, and went back to sleep.
As if his whole soul was in defiance, even his subconscious, he dreamt of the girl from the party. He couldn't remember her name, but her image, all breasts and legs, was burned into the recesses of his memory, and even wave after wave of alcohol couldn't erase it.
The dream was a perfect fantasy. She was coy, always just out of reach, and he was drawn to her. He followed her all around a room, vaguely full of other people, always unable to catch up to her. Her eyes, blue and deep, beckoned to him, and her hint of a smile suggested so much.
When he awoke, he was madly in love.
As constructive as the past few weeks had been, the following were destructive.
More than forgetting his vow, he outright rejected it. He neglected her; he resented her. She slowly became cognizant of his rebellion, and tried to appease him, but her every act of kindness was responded to with scorn or indifference.
He spent more and more time drinking with his friends, and even they were aware that he was neglecting her.
The girl from the party made a few appearances, and they became friends. She was exciting, free spoken and funny. She was so light; she seemed to float careless through the world, a perfect foil for him, racked as he was with guilt, anger and frustration.
He knew he was neglecting his girlfriend, and taking advantage of her attempts at reconciliation, but he seemed to be powerless against even himself. He saw her pain, and he tried to comfort her, and he apologized unceasingly. And he meant it, and each apology was genuine, and every broken promise rent his heart in two.
But he couldn't stop. The two worlds became polarized in his mind. The fun, carefree world of the blue-eyed brunette and his friends, full of parties, concerts, football games, and laughter. And his girlfriend's world: all tears and loneliness, and broken promises.
Trying to live in both worlds was tearing him apart. He knew he had to leave one, and the choice seemed simple, but he knew it wasn't. Some noble impulse told him he should sacrifice the world of fun for the world of pain, some innate personal culpability, but he couldn't do it. When it came to the choices he made every day, he chose the world of the carefree and the fun.
He had to leave his girlfriend behind, and move fully into the world of the blue-eyed brunette.
It was cold as he lay in his bed, staring at the ceiling. He had been trying to sleep for hours, but he was alone.
His body ached for sleep, but his mind raced at top speed, thoughts turning over like a carnival game, keeping him awake at every turn.
He sat up and took another long pull from his glass of whiskey. The strength of it made him wince as it rolled down his throat and burned in his stomach. The burning soon subsided into comfortable warmth in his belly.
He shut off the radio. Every song was too sad, too poignant, too involved.
He flipped on the TV.
Beautiful women danced for him, bared their souls for him, came and went, spoke and were silent at his every command. Effortlessly he moved from channel to channel, world to world - now happy, now sad, now loving, now conquering. And no one reproached him, or demanded anything from him. He abandoned them, and when he came back they were still there, not the slightest anger or resentment for him, all smiles and happy to have him back, even if just for a passing second.
Minute by minute, drink by drink, the voices in his head settled. The thoughts struggled and died, caught between the rising tides of whiskey and the white walls of the flickering images on the screen.
And then he slept.
Adam Hebbard
Wednesday, December 10, 2003
And here is the other story. This one is a bit longer, and not quite so dark. Again, all comments will be greatly appreciated!
"A Life"
"How the hell did I get here?” he thought to himself. This thought was quickly followed by "Where is here, exactly?
He tried to think about things logically, chronologically, but no matter where he started, he reached a point where he couldn't remember anything.
It was a giant black monolith, and try as he might, he couldn't get around it, couldn't get through it. Inside his own mind, he tried to remember, but the monolith's effectiveness as a barrier left him no choice but to surrender.
And then he was conscious of his hands. His wrists were on fire! No matter how he moved, he couldn't calm them down, and they were screaming, crying, greatly disturbing the silence his mind needed to answer the question.
Opening his eyes was out of the question. Even if he had tried, he knew it would have been useless. The cloth he could feel around his temples would be very effective as a blindfold.
His shoulders hurt too, but he couldn't move his hands, and each time he tried, his wrists burned more fiercely. Another dead end.
"What was around the monolith?” he asked himself. So he started working backward from the great black stone. Everything was a bit swimmy, and it was very hard to make out any details. There seemed to be music, and definitely a lot of people... But his wrists again interrupted his train of thought; he snapped back to reality, and hit hard against the monolith.
He tried opening his eyes, but he couldn't see anything. He tried to speak, but his throat was hoarse. Coughing, he finally made some noise.
He heard a rustle, then a jingle, and finally a sound he could associate with something; a key was being put into a lock.
Through the cloth over his eyes, he was able to see the light that flooded into the room. As the veil was lifted from his eyes, he had to shut them; the light was too much.
"I can see you're awake."
The voice was not the low, sexy purr he had been hoping for; rather it was a gruff and gravelly bark that sounded like it emanated from a man the size and shape of a bulldozer.
"What are you shutting your eyes for?” said the voice, and a hand, cold and heavy reached out and pried one of his eyelids open with a finger and a thumb, each about the size and shape of a bratwurst.
The pain in his head from the flood of light was joined by a piercing jolt from his shoulders and wrists as he tried to shrink away from the hand. These two were joined by a third pain; he had been backhanded across the face by what felt like a ham, but must have been the hand.
"Sit still.” growled the voice. The cloth that started to wipe his face felt distinctly grimy. After a few minutes of being wiped, the cloth disappeared. His shoulders and wrists screamed in fury as the brute lifted his hands to cut the cords. As the nylon fell away from the chair, he almost fell face forward in relief. In fact, the only thing that stopped him was one of those meat slab hands grabbing on to his shoulder, which elicited another stab of pain.
All the various pains in the various parts of his body joined together in a unison chant as the stranger lifted him over one shoulder and, bumping his head on the doorframe, carried him out into the world.
The unison chant splintered into a million polyphonic melodies, and no matter how hard he shut his eyes, it wouldn't go away. They didn't go away when he was deposited on a bench, rather brusquely, nor when he heard a door shut behind him. He lolled, and fell sideways on the bench.
When he woke, it was sunset.
He noticed he could open his eyes without too much pain; the soft light of dusk and the mellow glow of the streetlamps didn't burn like daylight.
A quick survey of his surroundings told him this was not the kind of neighborhood that was conducive to lying unconscious on a bench in the dark.
As these thoughts percolated through the tar pit of his mind, on of the less desirable elements of society, surrounded by a few of his buddies, started in the direction of the bench. They passed without incident.
He tried to stand, and almost succeeded, before crashing back to the bench. The second try was better, and, swaying a bit, he started off in one direction.
After half a dozen wobbly steps, he froze. He did not recognize this place at all. He didn't have the foggiest idea where to go to get anywhere.
He decided to continue in the same direction he had started in, for continuity's sake. After several hundred paces, he stopped again. To break the monotony, he turned to his right. He made another 2 dozen paces before the urge to stop overpowered him. Luckily, there was a bench nearby. He promptly collapsed on it, and fell asleep.
It was almost light when he woke up. In the grayish dawn, he could open his eyes completely. Looking around, he didn't recognize anything. His desire to stay in place was broken only by his need to urinate. Rising off the bench, he was aware of a dull ache everywhere in his body. His shoulders hurt, and his wrists had terrible burns on them. Slowly he remembered the events of yesterday - as sparse as they were. Struggling to stand up, he finally made it to his feet. Looking around, it was clear that none of the shops were even remotely open. He had wandered a good two hundred paces before he found a nice quiet corner to piss in.
And he was hungry. Immediately, he reached into his back pocket, but he knew already there was no money in it whatsoever. Shortly after this epiphany, his hand confirmed what his mind knew; he didn't have a dime.
Evaluating the situation, he knew eating posed some serious difficulties to him. He had no idea where he was, he had no money, and he didn't know he name. This last realization frightened him.
He had forgotten his name. But it had taken him quite a while to realize that. It had been at least 15 hours since he had been thrown outside, and until now, he hadn't even realized that he didn't know his name.
He was more profoundly lost than he had ever imagined possible.
So as the sun rose over the city, he stood with his eyes closed, trying to stare into his own head, even rolling his eyes back as far as he could. The monolith stretched further than he could even imagine, and no matter how far he went to get around it, it still went on forever from the furthest point he reached.
When he opened his eyes again, it was light.
And he was aware of something that was not right. Snapping his head to his left, he realized he had wandered into the middle of the road. He jumped backwards into the protection of the parked cars, as a bus rumbled.
He couldn't read what was written on the side of the bus.
Whatever language it was, it wasn't one that he spoke.
Then he noticed the streetsigns and advertisements around him, none of which he could understand either.
He started to walk.
He wound his way back to the sidewalk, and, headed off in one direction, ignoring the thoughts in his head, saying that he could be headed right back where he came from.
He walked a long way, but saw almost no one. The only person he did see, a bent old woman, mumbled something in a language he didn't understand and shuffled on.
It felt like he had been walking for hours when he finally saw the church. He pushed the door, but it was closed. Several minutes of banging on the door brought no answer. He beat on the door like a madman, beating until his hands hurt.
He sat on the steps of the church, facing into the road. He saw someone sitting on a similar set of steps across the road, staring intently at him. He tensed. The shabbily dressed man, in a dingy sweater and dirty pants with holes in the knees, stared harder. He tried to look away, but each time he faced the man, he was staring at him intensely. Only when he stood up, stumbling, did he realize the man across the street was him.
He almost fell down, catching himself on a massive stone pillar beside the door of the church. He crossed the street quickly, still staring at the man in the reflection, trying to find some familiarity in his dirty face.
The man's nose had been broken, his hair was unkempt, and the sweater he was wearing was faded and grimy. Both of his wrists had wide, red burns around them. His pants, which may have once been jeans, were ragged around the cuffs, and each leg had a wide shiny patch, with a huge hole in the middle of it, just beneath his knees. He had on a pair of canvas shoes that looked as if they were once white.
He reached up and touched the mirrored window, as much to support himself as to see the reflection do the same thing. Quickly, he was snapped out of his daze by a hand on his shoulder.
Though he didn't understand a word he said, the security guard’s gestures and expression were more than enough to convey his message.
He started walking, and the security guard turned back inside. The man beside him kept step.
At the corner, he paused. He took another long look at the man, staring at his face. His nose was crooked, and a smear of dried blood had settled just out of the corner of his mouth. But his eyes were terrifying. They were hollow, and sunken, but they didn't seem to have the depth that would be expected in the eyes of a man. They looked... animal. Behind them, he saw nothing but fear. The hand on his shoulder this time was even less friendly, and much more painful. The brusque shove in the direction of the intersection made his point perfectly clear.
He decided to walk on.
The next church he arrived at was open, and he walked inside. Far from being the quiet refuge he had hoped for, there were crowds of people inside, gawking at statues and paintings. A man in a tie greeted him almost immediately.
His perfectly coifed hair, neatly pressed clothes and clean shoes were as diametrically opposed to the man in the mirror as he could have imagined.
The man spoke, but it was in a language that was completely unintelligible. He followed with some heavily accented and broken English.
"What are you doing here?” he asked.
After taking a moment to decipher this message, he replied, "I don't know."
"This is a church.” said the man helpfully.
"I know that. But I am lost, I have no money, and I don't know who I am."
The look on the man's face inclined him to repeat what he had just said, only more slowly. He obliged.
"Wait here please."
The man disappeared and brought back a short, porcine man in a priest’s collar and a dark suit.
"Can we help you?” asked the priest in much better English.
He repeated what he had said earlier, adding "And I'm starving." As he said these words, the dull ache in his belly grew to an all consuming roar. He swayed, but remained standing.
The two men turned towards each other and began conversing in a language that he didn't speak. It seemed to be a bit of an argument between the priest and the man in the suit. The priest became emphatic, stomping his foot down on the marble floor, and the man in the suit acquiesced.
"Follow me.” the man in the suit said.
He did as he was told, and followed down a narrow flight of worn stone steps into a small office.
"Wait here.” the man said and disappeared.
He seated himself in one of the two chairs in the office. It was clearly on the wrong side of the desk. Made of metal, with a small square cushion, it was dwarfed by the winged black armchair on the other side. The desk itself showed signs of use; it was worn in places, and the corners were bare of any polish. It had a rubber mat in the center on the side opposite him. It did not have any papers on it, nor anything even slightly personal, not even a nametag. A black plastic cup complete with two pens and a highlighter, was the most obtrusive thing on the desk.
The fluorescent light flickered, and the man in the suit reappeared, carrying a heavily laden tray.
He set the tray down on the desk and, snuffing slightly, left the room.
There were two bowls, one cup and one glass on the tray, along with some silverware and a cloth. Fatter hurriedly eating the soup that was in one bowl, drinking the glass of water, and gulping down the cup of tea, he was decidedly less hungry.
The second bowl contained some hot water, lightly fragrant, and using it and the cloth, he cleaned his face and, very self-consciously despite the fact that the room was empty, he cleaned under his arms as well.
He had just finished lowering his sweater, under which he was dismayed to find a yellowed and stained undershirt, when he heard someone unlock the door, and turn the handle. He had been so entranced in the food, he must not have heard them lock the door. The man that entered, in a long black robe and a priest’s collar, could not have been more different than the man who had welcomed him before. He was tall and regal, and carried himself with a lordly, paternal air.
"Welcome.” he said, in perfectly polished English.
A humble thank you was all he could murmur.
"Have you had enough to eat?"
He nodded his assent.
"I am sorry about earlier, we welcome all lost souls here. Sometimes our laymen let worldly appearances come between them and our mission." He said, with no trace of menace in his voice, just a soft paternal drawl.
He mumbled again; he was to profoundly grateful to articulate his thanks as elegantly as he would have liked.
"We will be happy to provide you with a bath and a bed for tonight, and hopefully help you find your way.
He almost fainted. The word bed had a profound effect on him, and he realized how tired he was.
"Follow me."
He followed him out of the office, and into the hallway. They passed several doors, stopping finally at a small wooden door. The priest opened the door, ushering him inside. There was a porcelain tub, full of water, and a cake of soap on the side. Two plush towels lay on a stool beside the tub.
"Please help yourself. I will send someone to show you to a bed when you have finished. There is a robe on the door, and if you will leave your clothes here, I will make sure they are washed."
Another mumbled thanks.
"It is our pleasure, my son.” said the priest. He then turned and promptly left the room.
Once the door was closed, he disrobed quickly, and washed himself very carefully in the tub. A pitcher of piping hot water helped to keep the tub warm.
When he had exhausted the hot water, he regretfully left the warmth of the tub and dried himself on the towels that were nearby. He neatly folded his filthy clothes, and placed them, deep in a corner. He donned the brown robe, and sat patiently on the three-legged stool. He felt like a new man.
He started to doze off in the heady warmth and wonderful, clean aroma of the room, when he heard the door being unlocked and opened. The man in the suit appeared, and beckoning him to follow, led him silently down the hall to another small wooden door. When the door had been opened, he was grateful to see a small wooden bed and a table were the only occupants of the room. A small lamp lighted it, and the small window provided some fresh air.
The man drew the curtain on the window, and gestured toward the bed. He happily climbed into the soft sheets. The man extinguished the light and left, without uttering a word.
He was asleep as soon as the door was shut, drifting off to his first real sleep in days.
He awoke to the sound of a key turning in the lock of a door. He covered himself with the blanket as the robed priest entered.
"You're awake." He said.
He walked over and opened the curtain, and daylight streamed in.
The priest sat down on another short, three-legged stool that had gone unnoticed last night.
"Have you slept well?"
He drowsily nodded his assent.
"Well, you have arrived at the Church of St. Philomena. We frequently take in lost souls, and try to help them find their way. What is your name?"
His paternalistic manner, far from being obnoxious, was genuine and warm. He wanted badly to be able to answer the priest’s question, but the monolith still blocked his every attempt.
"I... I don't know.” he stammered
"Do you know where you're from, or how you got here?"
He quickly recounted everything that had happened. He was very sad when it only took him about 10 sentences.
"And you remember nothing outside of this?"
He shook his head weakly. He desperately wanted to answer the questions, but it was all blank.
"Your clothes held no clues to your identity. We have taken the liberty of incinerating them. Someone will bring you something to wear soon."
A quiet knock on the door was answered by the priest, and, after a hurried and quiet discussion with someone at the door, the priest took a small pile of clothes, and turned to face him.
"Please dress yourself in these. I will be back in a few moments."
The priest left, locking the door, and he was alone. He stood up slowly and stiffly. It was a beautiful stiffness, and each time he stretched one of his weary limbs, it seemed to fill with new life. He dressed slowly in the clothes provided for him. They included a simple white shirt, a pair of plain navy pants, socks, and a pair of simple brown shoes.
As he finished tying his shoes, he heard the latch turn, and the priest stood in the doorway.
"Follow me.” he said.
He walked out the door, into the hall. He followed the priest through an endless maze of doors, stairways and hallways, until suddenly they halted. He turned to his left and opened a door into a large office.
A far cry from the undecorated, sterile office he had seen yesterday, this one was lavishly furnished. Rich wooden cabinets graced one wall, and a large wooden desk, covered in papers and other accoutrements was directly in front of him. The office had a welcoming feel. The priest gestured, and they sat in two identical chairs that faced each other in front of the desk.
"Please have a seat." He sank gratefully into the armchair.
"For hundreds of years, this church has welcomed the lost, and we are overjoyed to welcome them into our arms."
He nodded in understanding, but didn't feel invited to speak.
"You're welcome to stay here as long as you'd like. We will feed you, bathe and clothe you, and treat you like a child of our own."
He nodded again.
"You are welcome to leave whenever you'd like, but as long as you stay here, you will obey some rules. We have a strict schedule, and you must work. As you can imagine, a church this size requires considerable upkeep. There are gardens to ten, floors to clean, as well as light maintenance. You will be expected to attend mass every day, and one hour of your day will be consecrated for prayer. You will be confirmed in the church, given a bible, and you will have your own room."
He nodded, but more tentatively. All of this seemed like so much.
"I know this is a lot to think about, so please take your time. Someone will escort you back to your room, and provide you with something to eat. I will check on you in a few hours."
Someone opened the door. The man in the suit led him back through the maze to the room he had been in before. On the small table was a steaming bowl of soup, a tall glass of water, a piece of bread, and a bible. The man in the suit ushered him in, and locked the door quietly.
He sat before the table and thought. He ate the bread and the soup, and drank the water.
By the time he had finished the meal, he had made up his mind. He lay on the bed, with the bible, and, turning to a random page, began to read.
He soon dozed off to sleep, his head full of holy images, and a slight smile on his face.
He was awakened by the sound of a key in the lock. He quickly flattened a page of the bible he had crushed while sleeping. He sat upon the side of the bed, smoothing his shirt as the robed priest entered.
"What have you decided?” he asked gently.
"It would be an honor to stay here in your house."
"Very good. This will be your room, and you will start work tomorrow."
The next few months passed with little excitement. He was confirmed, and he worked very hard. The priests were kind, and he was well fed, clean, and allowed to rest.
At first, he slept wearily, quietly, and with no problems at all. As his body grew accustomed to the early mornings and long days, he found his sleeping pattern changed. He would wake up in a cold sweat, his eyes darting from side to side, as if he had just awoken from a nightmare, but he had no recollection of any dream. He would often wake up not knowing where he was, but the real world offered him little consolation.
Three months after he had arrived in the church, he awoke with a start. This had been happening almost every night for the last week, but this time was different. He remembered something. He was in a field, all alone. He was terrified. He started running, trying to escape whatever was frightening him. In the distance, he saw a small house. As he got closer, he could see that the windows were barred, and the door was solid. It hung slightly open. With the knowledge that one only has in dreams, he knew that if he entered the house, he could never get out. He ran into the house, and pulled the door shut. He heard the lock give a satisfying click, and he knew he was safe.
This scene replayed itself over and over in his head. Try as he might, he could not get back to sleep. He flipped on his lamp, and grabbed his bible from the bedside table. He felt peaceful as he reread his favorite passage, but the image in his head would not fade.
He decided to go for a walk, to get some fresh air and clear his head. He got out of bed, pulled on a pair of pants, and headed towards the door. As he turned the handle, he knew it was locked. The door was always locked. He had noticed that whoever ushered him from place to place always locked the door, and that he was never left alone unless he was locked in a room. It struck him as odd, especially since he had not really noticed until this moment.
He resolved to discuss it in the morning with the priest, and, returning to his bed, he lay awake until morning.
He must have dozed off moments before dawn, and he woke drowsy and disoriented. As had happened each morning since he had been here, someone came to the door just moments after dawn. They never seemed to speak English, and always nodded politely at his attempts to engage them in conversation before leaving as quickly as possible. This morning, however, the priest in the black robe entered, carrying no signs of a breakfast tray.
"Get dressed and follow me." Said the priest in a less friendly voice than his usual paternal drawl.
He dressed quickly and followed the priest to his office.
"The night watchman told me you tried to leave your room last night." said the priest as he sat down on the other side of his immense wooden desk.
Still standing, he replied, "I couldn't sleep."
"You know the rules. You aren't allowed to leave your room during the night..."
"I've meant to ask you about that," he interrupted. "Why is the door always locked behind me, wherever I go? And why am I not permitted to wander freely through the church?” he asked, standing with his feet apart, his hands on his hips. He looked like an unruly teenager, although he was much older than fourteen.
"It's for your own protection. And remember, you are free to leave whenever you'd like."
Part of him wanted to leave right then. Then, as doubts flooded in, he remembered he knew no one, he knew nothing. Not even his own name.
"No, I... I don't want to leave.” he stammered. The thought of being back outside the church was suddenly profoundly frightening.
"Excellent. Now, please return to your room. You'll find your breakfast is waiting, and we'd hate for it to go cold."
"Yes, sir. Sorry, sir." The gratitude he felt at not being evicted made it hard for him to speak. The priest led him back to his room, and he followed like a scolded dog.
The priest opened the door, and there was his breakfast on the table.
"Hurry up, there is much to do today.” intoned the priest.
"Thank you, sir."
The priest smiled benevolently and exited the room.
Digging into the breakfast, which was still quite warm, he hardly noticed when the priest locked the door.
His sleep improved greatly after his conversation with the priest. He worked like a dog, and slept through the night almost each night. He was well fed every day, and he had enough work to keep him busy. Everyone he met he treated politely, even learning enough of the local language to carry on a short conversation. He lived and worked at the church for almost 25 years. Every year, on the anniversary of his arrival at the church, he celebrated. They called it his birthday, and he was always given a small cake to commemorate.
As he grew older, he became slightly bent, and more than a little withered. He found his workload decreased. He spent more time each day reading his bible and praying.
The comings and goings of the world did not affect him at all. Through feast and famine, war and peace, births and deaths, he woke up, worked, and went to sleep.
When he died, he passed peacefully in his sleep, the same way he slept every night for the 25 years before.
He was found the next morning, when they brought in his breakfast, with a broad grin on his face.
At his burial, the priest in the black robe, now a wizened old man, gave the eulogy:
"Here lies a truly happy man. He cared not for the trappings of the world, but only for the life he led day to day. He was pious, and he followed the path without questioning. He died happy, and secure in the knowledge of what would come after his life on Earth. Take from him an example: Carry not the weight of the world, but shoulder your burden and carry it as far as you can, and die secure in the knowledge that you have lived a life to be emulated."
Adam Hebbard
PS. This story has been revised and edited (2/2/04)
So, here is one of the two promised stories. I hope you enjoy it, and no matter how you fell about it, please leave a comment. And please be brutal. Tell me what you really think, because I need criticism more than flattery at this point. Thank you for taking the time to look at it.
"The Man"
They would have to see it his way.
To let a child come into this world - this hell - was infinitely more cruel than anything that could have happened.
It wasn't murder.
It had been so fragile, so weak, so trusting. It could never have survived the harsh realities that are everyday life.
He had saved it from a lifetime of pain and suffering.
There had been no struggle, no fight. It had wanted to die, looking up with clear blue eyes. He had only held it under for a few minutes, only until he was sure it was dead. Then he had pulled it out of the water and discarded it.
He hadn’t asked for a child anyway.
Its mother had been beautiful. She was poetry in motion, grace personified. Her beauty was of a unique quality. Her hair was black, darker than the deepest moonless night, and shined with the gleam of a million threads of onyx. Her high, chiseled cheekbones covered in the softest velvet, tapering to a strong but utterly feminine chin. Her lips, painted red, full and luscious. And her eyes, blue like ice on the ocean, cold and deep. She moved with the easy grace of a willow in the wind, never making an effort, appearing helpless, at the mercy of the forces swirling around her.
He had loved her as soon as he met her. It had taken some time to convince her of the same thing. He had sat in anguish for so many lonely nights, while she was out. He sat alone, fuming, his imagination creating more and more sordid and vile details for overheard stories and rumors. To sleep he drowned his sorrows in glasses of beer and tumblers of whiskey.
When his moment arrived, he had not forsaken her, and he dared not miss it. He broke her the way a farmer breaks a horse, rewarding things that pleased him with praise and affection, and things that didn't with retribution. He never struck her, but the wounds he gave her ran deeper than the flesh. He put his all into taming her, domesticating her wild spirit.
And he succeeded. They were married after a short courting. She was dependent upon him for emotional survival; he was already bored. Even at the wedding, when a coy and shameless eye had caught his, he became enamoured, already forgetting his new bride. His desire to dominate was stronger than his capacity to love.
She loved him deeply, and he allowed her to do so with the disdain of a king, never realizing that he had killed the goose to find no more golden eggs. He had destroyed everything he loved about her.
And how he had hated her for getting pregnant. Her eyes had beamed when she told, but it was all he could do to keep from striking her. And still, he had to seem happy.
He turned to alcohol, as she struggles with the gift of love growing in her womb.
He was there for the birthing, although he was more than a little drunk.
Things had started to go wrong. He noticed a frightened look on the doctor's face; a mere flash before it faded into his accustomed soulless mask.
When he was escorted, more forcefully than he thought necessary, out of the room, he knew something was wrong.
He was petrified of being alone. Never had it dawned on him, in the depths of his mind, that he needed her as much as she needed him. Far from being a parasite, stealing from him to live, she had supported him, and now he could feel himself falling, tumbling into unknown depths.
The doctor came out what seemed like hours later, his soulless mask shattered, a look of unbridled terror on his face.
His explanation of the events fell on deaf ears.
He took the body of his wife, scorned in life, now revered in death, in his arms and cried. He wailed, and beat the side of the bed furiously with his fists. He tore about the room enraged, destroying the door, hurling a chair through the window.
She had died, giving birth to a child.
When he rose from her bedside, he was a shadow of the man he had been.
Through the burial of his wife, the grieving, the long, lonely sleepless nights, staring at the ceiling, the child remained at the hospital.
He buried his wife behind the house, in a small grave with a simple tombstone, covered in beautiful flowers, each one a testament to a love he had ignored, to a woman he had scorned.
He brought it home two days after the burial.
The child tormented him. It's anguished cries were echoes of the pain he had heard from outside the room where his wife lay dying.
Drowning the child had been so simple. He had taken a wash basin, filled it with water, and held the child in it. It didn't struggle, nor did it cry. He stared into the water at it, and it stared complacently back at him. It went limp after a few minutes.
He threw it into the well, unable to bring himself to bury it - the nameless, thoughtless creature that had robbed him of his love.
But still, he couldn't sleep. He was anguished now by terrible guilt, shame at what he had done, and even greater longing for his wife. He lay in bed, dreaming he could feel her, reaching out to touch her, only to find that each time he was dreaming. His attempts to rationalize only awakened the demons in his soul, fit to rip him limb from limb as he lay, alternately mumbling to himself, crying out for her, cursing angrily the child, but never sleeping.
Finally, he arose.
He fetched the child out of the well. It still had all the qualities of life, save that it was stiff and cold, its eyes wide and blank.
It was a son.
He had not noticed until now, but she had borne him a son, the greatest gist of a woman to a man.
It had his chin, and jaw, but the subtle curves of her cheeks, and the raven black hair of its mother.
He buried it next to her. He gave it no name, nor indeed any tombstone. It was a simple mound, between hers and the longer, unmarked hole beside it.
The next morning, the sun rose over the yard.
Not a creature was stirring, no birds were singing, no breeze stirred the leaves of the trees, and no sound echoed from the house nearby.
The family lay quiet.
The mother, under flowers, gravely marked with a simple headstone declaring eternal love and sorrow.
The son, under earth, unmarked, unheeded, unnamed.
The father, under sky, alone unto the world, finally sleeping, never to wake again.
Adam Hebbard
PS. This story has been revised and edited (2/2/04)
Tuesday, December 2, 2003
Hey guys.
It has been awhile since I have used this thing, but never fear. Hopefully I will be posting two short stories here in the next 2 weeks. I will also be posting some articles that will be shortly sent off to various newspapers. Please give them a quick read and feel free to leave comments.
Hebbard
ART IS FOR THE MASSES
Thursday, October 23, 2003
Today was a much more eventful day. I didn't end up going to SoHo, instead I sat in the pub down the street and drank Guiness and Scotch (not together) and watched some football. I woke up early this morning, like 8:15, and ate my complimentary breakfast. After going out to get a paper and a pack of smokes (for £4.25 = $7.50, plus 55p for the paper), I planned out my route for the day. Then I read the paper, and hopped aboard the Tube. I got to see a bunch of stuff that I didn't see the last time I was there, which was cool, like the Dickens Museum, St. Paul's Cathedral, Shakespeare's Globe Theatre, The Clink Museum, walked across London Bridge, etc. Then it started raining - crappy, misty, cold rain. I have since decided to cut the fun in London short, and I'm catching the next moving object out of here. I gotta get somewhere warmer and sunnier. I've booked a bus out of here for £18. Stupid 6 hour bus ride to France...
Tuesday, October 21, 2003
Well, so far, London has been pretty tame. Of course, it hasn't been night here yet, so who knows? I wandered around in Kensington for awhile. It's a beautiful area. Kensington Gardens, which is like an offshoot of Hyde Park, is really cool. I met this cute girl from Wiconson, we chatted and walked through the park. I got a pint and a sandwich at the pub down the street from my hostel. Basically I've just wandered around this area, and done nothing. I'm gonna go to SoHo tonite to see if I can stir up any trouble, I've heard the locals can get rowdy after a few pints.
Tuesday, October 7, 2003
Well, I am starting my last day of work here in Atlanta, and it's time to start packing up my stuff. So what did I do? I went to see Radiohead last night at Lakewood Ampitheatre. It was absolutely incredible, one of the best shows I have ever seen. They create and sustain a level of intensity that is mind-boggling. The show started out with "The Gloaming", appropriately enough started at twilight, and moved on through as powerful set as I have ever seen. As cliched and mid-90's radio as it is, "Creep" was definitely one of the highlights of the show. Being able to see the ironic smile on Thom's face as he says "You're so fucking special" made the experience worthwhile. Ending the set with "Everything in it's Right Place" gave everything a finality that was unbelieveable. So I leave you with this as do my best to prepare for the adventure ahead:
"I'm a creep
I'm a weirdo
What the hell am I doing here?
I don't belong here...
I don't belong here."
Wednesday, August 20, 2003
I was at my friend Hugh's place, and heard one of his roomates screaming at his phone. He was apparently having some girl trouble. After both Hugh and I offered some consolation, he retorted with a quotable quote:
"The difference in your stories and mine is that my story involves me, and I just don't want to talk about it."
Word.
Thursday, August 14, 2003
Well, this is the Beginning of "The Project." I will be updating this Live Journal often, though I hesitate to commit myself daily, once I leave for Europe. As (hopefully) all of you know by now, I am leaving for a year abroad in Europe in the fall. I will be using this opportunity to try and learn something about the world, and maybe something about myself too. One of the things I hope to do while I am abroad is to write a book, and this Live Journal is a part of that effort. I will be posting various things on here, in the forms of diary entries, essays, notes, or anything else I feel like putting up here. If necessary, I will also provide links to artworks, and possibly movie/music info as well, if that seems appropriate. To make this slightly more interesting for all of you, I would like to strongly encourage all of you to participate. It is easy to post a comment to any of my entries, so please drop by whenever you can, take a moment and leave your thoughts on the post, or other people's comments. I realize that all of you will not contribute all of the time, but I hope some of you can contribute occasionally. Your contributions will be instrumental to the achievement of my goal, and anything you want to say is welcome. Here's to the adventure.
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