The Company We Keep: Chapter 7: Part One
clarkkent
Posts: 51
Chapter Seven
I begin to emerge from the black of unconsciousness with a foggy halo of light surrounding my existence. My back is cold, as I must be resting on some cool, hard, flat surface. I feel so very tired, and this floor actually seems like it would make a good resting place for the time being. And so, I drift away once more, enjoying the dim light of wherever I have found myself, on the cold yet uncomfortably comfortable floor, in this quiet yet disheveled room. I am fading in and out, like a cat resting in the warm of some sun near the window, except that I am perfectly content in my distressing surroundings. The world around fades back and forth between dark and light; my ears hear as if I’m leaning in an out of that tunnel I found myself exploring when trying to speak with the emergency assistance operator.
Suddenly I hear footsteps working their way near me, and the opportunity to focus on a sense not directly related to my own nervous system perks me up a bit. Almost immediately, the hazy fog of near unconsciousness relinquishes its steely grip, and I work my eyes long and hard enough to accomplish a vision-clearing blink, like the first pass of windshield wipers on a suddenly soaked car front.
The feet continue to make their way towards me, little brown leather shoes that look like they carry someone of less than formidable size. The two shoes waddle a little closer, shuffling along the concrete floor as they do, like two little bread muffins coasting along a plane. My eyes make their way up from the shoes directly in front of me, seeing some red old plaid pants wearing an old man. He has obviously shrunk just a little bit since the days when he fit into those pants and purchased them, but they have an age and an antiquity that makes them more worthwhile then they appear. I finally turn my head a bit, grogginess be damned, and I see an old man peering over me, eyes opened fully, staring down at me with a genuine bit of concern on his brow.
“I see you’re starting to come around,” he utters through a voice that seems so gravely perfect it should have been transferred via transistor radio. He bends down quickly to check on me and perhaps the validity of his statement, as I haven’t responded quite yet. His quick actions show that he is quite spry for his age.
“Where am I?” I ask, and as I hear my own words, I realize that my speech was a bit slurred, stooped in a bit of grogginess itself.
“Well, it may not look like the nicest place, but you’re in the back room of my pet store,” he says with a casualness that makes me wonder if often has company on this concrete floor. “It seems you may have passed out in the middle all the excitement out there, but luckily, you were just in time, and they whisked away Tony to the hospital, where it looks like he’ll be all right.”
“Tony, the pet shop owner?” I ask, hopeful that uninformed paramedics didn’t storm into some other building and miss the man I was trying to help.
The old man cocks his head quickly. “Well, not pet shop owner, but pet shop employee. If you’re looking for the one who pays the bills and keeps this place floatin’, that would me, Bruce.” There is a lovely confidence in the way he claims responsibility for this place and proclaims his name. It is a feeling that I wish I had for something in the world; perhaps it is the driving force behind wanting to write something to give the world – something to be proud of when someone has the gusto to ask.
“Oh,” I say, unsure if his answer is enough information to explain why I have ended up in the back room of a pet shop and not in the back of an ambulance, or at least near some sort of medical care professional.
“I see your concern on your face,” he replies, almost reading my expressions as if they were words in the conversation. “You’ll be just fine. The paramedics took a look at ‘ya after they had Tony stable in the cab of the ambulance. They may have had bigger fish to fry, literally and figuratively, but they said all you needed was some well-placed bandages and a quiet place to rest for a while.”
“That’s good to hear,” I reply, relieved that I hadn’t accidentally found my way to the ER because of a misstep on the curb. I feel my knee, arm, and head has been bandaged, but besides feeling a little headache and a little shot to my pride, a little rest on a concrete floor certainly has been good for me, as oddly as that may seem.
“You certainly saved the day,” the man says, interrupting selfish thoughts concerning my personal health. “If you hadn’t intervened in your own frantic way, well,” he pauses for a moment, considering the possibilities of Tony alone and in trouble, “well, things could’ve been a whole lot worse.” I consider that the man would’ve most likely enjoyed his sandwich in peace if I hadn’t stumbled in here earlier, he would have never gone back in this back room searching high and low for bird seed, and he probably wouldn’t have fallen victim to the choking power of peanut butter and jelly. For a second I feel a twinge of guilt deep in my stomach, but then I realize that I can trace all of these inconveniences back to a strange man in an alley yesterday, and my interesting meeting with my new animal friend.
“Well, I’m glad I could help,” I respond, realizing that I was just sitting in the floor with an old man crouched over me considering my own guilt for a few seconds, leaving a hole in a conversation that shouldn’t need any extra holes. I sit myself up finally, feeling bruises and scrapes in places seconds ago I was aware of, a wreck of a human being. But yet, a little nugget of pride is hiding somewhere deep inside of me, perhaps a little vestige of the confidence Bruce spoke with when talking about this pet shop. I helped a man today that needed my help, even if I was the cause of the disturbance. The feeling is quite welcome, as the past few days have been quite empty, even if I have been focusing so hard on something yet to exist in my writing, it is nice to have a tangible and real effect on someone here in the real world.
Bruce works his way around me as I gather myself, as he gathers together the room that a few minutes ago appeared in complete disarray, quietly humming a tune to himself. He is an old man, appears sort of lost in his own thoughts, distant from the world yet so completely comfortable living in it. His actions and movements reinforce that aloof attitude, for he looks like a small child experiencing the world for the first time, enjoying the spectacle that is planet earth and humankind. As he reorganizes the room, there is no look of disgust or non-belief at what has occurred that many people would have after an accident like this; no, he simply seems aware of the current situation in the room, stepping lightly over fallen boxes, rummaging through fallen containers to return the room to the gracious order it obviously once maintained. There is a hop in his step, a constant soft smile on his lips, and an underlying happiness that caused me a slight bit of jealousy at his content demeanor, for any man that satisfied with his own existence obviously has found a place for everything that needs a place. He is a captain on calm seas…an ocean that he maintains…a world that he controls, and I am utterly jealous of his comfortable content. His confidence seems so simple, yet it is worlds away from where I sat now in the back of this pet shop, on the cold floor.
My legs are surprisingly limber, yet when I stand up, I feel the blood rushing away from my head. Bruce pulls away from his organizational endeavors and stares right at my eyes, almost as if he’s trying to see something that’s too small to catch immediately.
“May I ask you something?” His voice is now gravely and serious. I cock my head as if to receive the question without uttering an immediate response, and nod silently in response. “I’ve run this shop with quite a zest over the last few years. This place is sort of my baby, so to speak. I worked as a Postal Carrier for my whole life, and then one day I retired, thought I was done working, would spend the rest of my years in a constant vacation. I enjoyed that freedom for a few years, but then realized that I needed something more to occupy my time. I settled on this pet store.” There is something absolutely fascinating about his storytelling capabilities. He transmits the story so intimately, as if I am an old friend sitting around the coffee shop. “The man who owned it before me was pining for his own glorious retirement, so he brought me on for a few months and taught me how to run such a place, even though my only experience in the past had been my own dogs in my back yard. I could tell he loved his craft, the animals, this place,” he mutters, as he gestured around the room with an all-encompassing swoop, “so he wanted to entrust it to someone with that same attitude towards what he loved. Understand what I’m saying?”
I don’t really understand what he’s getting at, except to say that he loves this place dearly and he hopes that anyone who were to take care of it would hold it in the same regard he does himself. So I answer, cautiously, in much the same vein of thinking that I believe he is taking. “I think so,” I utter, hearing an unsure voice escaping from my lips. “You think of this place almost like a child, and you’d expect anyone else who cares for it to treat it the same, or else you’d be letting that man before you and yourself down.” My answer comes more from reading the man and trying to guess the answer he wants than from my own personal convictions. Unfortunately, his enthusiastic response makes me think the latter is the case.
“You see where I’m going,” he blurts ecstatically, “You see what I’m saying.” He is obviously very happy about my answer, as if by relaying it him, it has answered some question he was debating. “Now, on to the question I kinda derailed my self from with that little tangent of a pet store history lesson.” I shudder a bit at the question, beginning to realize the gravity of my emotional good-guy-guessing-game the last time around. And the question comes, just as I knew it would.
“Would you mind lookin’ after the place for the next day or so, you know, while Tony recovers and while I look after him? I think of the boy like a son, and it would trouble me dearly if I couldn’t entertain him and take care of him while he’s held up in that hospital.”
“I would love to,” I hear myself say, almost as if I’m watching a movie unfold on the screen with no power to control the dialogue. The response is so quick out of my lips it was almost as if the words never had a chance to travel through my brain. I once again have given the man the answer he wants to hear rather than an answer based on how I truly feel, almost a battle going on between my subconscious actions and my timid conscious mind. My lips threw the words out there because they’re the words I’m supposed to say, but, as man with little to no experience with animals, I am deathly afraid of the havoc I could naively wreak in this place the next few days, due to my fear and sometimes unknowingly pompous lack of responsibility. I had better address those concerns now, before we get too far into this. “I should warn you, though, I don’t have much experience with animals, and being alone with them for a day or so, I can only hope…”
Bruce cuts me off. “Oh, you’ll be fine. I’ll come by a few times a day to look after the ‘kiddies’, you’ll just have to worry about the animals who walk on two limbs and come in and out the front door.” He chuckles at his own joke, and I flash a smile in return, although my fear of doing something wrong now has begun to stranglehold my other senses, not allowing a full laugh at his try and humor, as I normally would. Plus, the joke just wasn’t that funny. Perhaps a late night crowd influenced by the proper substances might give him a chuckle, but normally, I would think it would only deserve a smile. Thinking that thought makes me chuckle. And in that lighthearted second, him laughing at his own joke and me laughing at my own joke about his own joke, something in me tells me that I should be able to handle this responsibility, just as I’ve handled many others before.
I begin to emerge from the black of unconsciousness with a foggy halo of light surrounding my existence. My back is cold, as I must be resting on some cool, hard, flat surface. I feel so very tired, and this floor actually seems like it would make a good resting place for the time being. And so, I drift away once more, enjoying the dim light of wherever I have found myself, on the cold yet uncomfortably comfortable floor, in this quiet yet disheveled room. I am fading in and out, like a cat resting in the warm of some sun near the window, except that I am perfectly content in my distressing surroundings. The world around fades back and forth between dark and light; my ears hear as if I’m leaning in an out of that tunnel I found myself exploring when trying to speak with the emergency assistance operator.
Suddenly I hear footsteps working their way near me, and the opportunity to focus on a sense not directly related to my own nervous system perks me up a bit. Almost immediately, the hazy fog of near unconsciousness relinquishes its steely grip, and I work my eyes long and hard enough to accomplish a vision-clearing blink, like the first pass of windshield wipers on a suddenly soaked car front.
The feet continue to make their way towards me, little brown leather shoes that look like they carry someone of less than formidable size. The two shoes waddle a little closer, shuffling along the concrete floor as they do, like two little bread muffins coasting along a plane. My eyes make their way up from the shoes directly in front of me, seeing some red old plaid pants wearing an old man. He has obviously shrunk just a little bit since the days when he fit into those pants and purchased them, but they have an age and an antiquity that makes them more worthwhile then they appear. I finally turn my head a bit, grogginess be damned, and I see an old man peering over me, eyes opened fully, staring down at me with a genuine bit of concern on his brow.
“I see you’re starting to come around,” he utters through a voice that seems so gravely perfect it should have been transferred via transistor radio. He bends down quickly to check on me and perhaps the validity of his statement, as I haven’t responded quite yet. His quick actions show that he is quite spry for his age.
“Where am I?” I ask, and as I hear my own words, I realize that my speech was a bit slurred, stooped in a bit of grogginess itself.
“Well, it may not look like the nicest place, but you’re in the back room of my pet store,” he says with a casualness that makes me wonder if often has company on this concrete floor. “It seems you may have passed out in the middle all the excitement out there, but luckily, you were just in time, and they whisked away Tony to the hospital, where it looks like he’ll be all right.”
“Tony, the pet shop owner?” I ask, hopeful that uninformed paramedics didn’t storm into some other building and miss the man I was trying to help.
The old man cocks his head quickly. “Well, not pet shop owner, but pet shop employee. If you’re looking for the one who pays the bills and keeps this place floatin’, that would me, Bruce.” There is a lovely confidence in the way he claims responsibility for this place and proclaims his name. It is a feeling that I wish I had for something in the world; perhaps it is the driving force behind wanting to write something to give the world – something to be proud of when someone has the gusto to ask.
“Oh,” I say, unsure if his answer is enough information to explain why I have ended up in the back room of a pet shop and not in the back of an ambulance, or at least near some sort of medical care professional.
“I see your concern on your face,” he replies, almost reading my expressions as if they were words in the conversation. “You’ll be just fine. The paramedics took a look at ‘ya after they had Tony stable in the cab of the ambulance. They may have had bigger fish to fry, literally and figuratively, but they said all you needed was some well-placed bandages and a quiet place to rest for a while.”
“That’s good to hear,” I reply, relieved that I hadn’t accidentally found my way to the ER because of a misstep on the curb. I feel my knee, arm, and head has been bandaged, but besides feeling a little headache and a little shot to my pride, a little rest on a concrete floor certainly has been good for me, as oddly as that may seem.
“You certainly saved the day,” the man says, interrupting selfish thoughts concerning my personal health. “If you hadn’t intervened in your own frantic way, well,” he pauses for a moment, considering the possibilities of Tony alone and in trouble, “well, things could’ve been a whole lot worse.” I consider that the man would’ve most likely enjoyed his sandwich in peace if I hadn’t stumbled in here earlier, he would have never gone back in this back room searching high and low for bird seed, and he probably wouldn’t have fallen victim to the choking power of peanut butter and jelly. For a second I feel a twinge of guilt deep in my stomach, but then I realize that I can trace all of these inconveniences back to a strange man in an alley yesterday, and my interesting meeting with my new animal friend.
“Well, I’m glad I could help,” I respond, realizing that I was just sitting in the floor with an old man crouched over me considering my own guilt for a few seconds, leaving a hole in a conversation that shouldn’t need any extra holes. I sit myself up finally, feeling bruises and scrapes in places seconds ago I was aware of, a wreck of a human being. But yet, a little nugget of pride is hiding somewhere deep inside of me, perhaps a little vestige of the confidence Bruce spoke with when talking about this pet shop. I helped a man today that needed my help, even if I was the cause of the disturbance. The feeling is quite welcome, as the past few days have been quite empty, even if I have been focusing so hard on something yet to exist in my writing, it is nice to have a tangible and real effect on someone here in the real world.
Bruce works his way around me as I gather myself, as he gathers together the room that a few minutes ago appeared in complete disarray, quietly humming a tune to himself. He is an old man, appears sort of lost in his own thoughts, distant from the world yet so completely comfortable living in it. His actions and movements reinforce that aloof attitude, for he looks like a small child experiencing the world for the first time, enjoying the spectacle that is planet earth and humankind. As he reorganizes the room, there is no look of disgust or non-belief at what has occurred that many people would have after an accident like this; no, he simply seems aware of the current situation in the room, stepping lightly over fallen boxes, rummaging through fallen containers to return the room to the gracious order it obviously once maintained. There is a hop in his step, a constant soft smile on his lips, and an underlying happiness that caused me a slight bit of jealousy at his content demeanor, for any man that satisfied with his own existence obviously has found a place for everything that needs a place. He is a captain on calm seas…an ocean that he maintains…a world that he controls, and I am utterly jealous of his comfortable content. His confidence seems so simple, yet it is worlds away from where I sat now in the back of this pet shop, on the cold floor.
My legs are surprisingly limber, yet when I stand up, I feel the blood rushing away from my head. Bruce pulls away from his organizational endeavors and stares right at my eyes, almost as if he’s trying to see something that’s too small to catch immediately.
“May I ask you something?” His voice is now gravely and serious. I cock my head as if to receive the question without uttering an immediate response, and nod silently in response. “I’ve run this shop with quite a zest over the last few years. This place is sort of my baby, so to speak. I worked as a Postal Carrier for my whole life, and then one day I retired, thought I was done working, would spend the rest of my years in a constant vacation. I enjoyed that freedom for a few years, but then realized that I needed something more to occupy my time. I settled on this pet store.” There is something absolutely fascinating about his storytelling capabilities. He transmits the story so intimately, as if I am an old friend sitting around the coffee shop. “The man who owned it before me was pining for his own glorious retirement, so he brought me on for a few months and taught me how to run such a place, even though my only experience in the past had been my own dogs in my back yard. I could tell he loved his craft, the animals, this place,” he mutters, as he gestured around the room with an all-encompassing swoop, “so he wanted to entrust it to someone with that same attitude towards what he loved. Understand what I’m saying?”
I don’t really understand what he’s getting at, except to say that he loves this place dearly and he hopes that anyone who were to take care of it would hold it in the same regard he does himself. So I answer, cautiously, in much the same vein of thinking that I believe he is taking. “I think so,” I utter, hearing an unsure voice escaping from my lips. “You think of this place almost like a child, and you’d expect anyone else who cares for it to treat it the same, or else you’d be letting that man before you and yourself down.” My answer comes more from reading the man and trying to guess the answer he wants than from my own personal convictions. Unfortunately, his enthusiastic response makes me think the latter is the case.
“You see where I’m going,” he blurts ecstatically, “You see what I’m saying.” He is obviously very happy about my answer, as if by relaying it him, it has answered some question he was debating. “Now, on to the question I kinda derailed my self from with that little tangent of a pet store history lesson.” I shudder a bit at the question, beginning to realize the gravity of my emotional good-guy-guessing-game the last time around. And the question comes, just as I knew it would.
“Would you mind lookin’ after the place for the next day or so, you know, while Tony recovers and while I look after him? I think of the boy like a son, and it would trouble me dearly if I couldn’t entertain him and take care of him while he’s held up in that hospital.”
“I would love to,” I hear myself say, almost as if I’m watching a movie unfold on the screen with no power to control the dialogue. The response is so quick out of my lips it was almost as if the words never had a chance to travel through my brain. I once again have given the man the answer he wants to hear rather than an answer based on how I truly feel, almost a battle going on between my subconscious actions and my timid conscious mind. My lips threw the words out there because they’re the words I’m supposed to say, but, as man with little to no experience with animals, I am deathly afraid of the havoc I could naively wreak in this place the next few days, due to my fear and sometimes unknowingly pompous lack of responsibility. I had better address those concerns now, before we get too far into this. “I should warn you, though, I don’t have much experience with animals, and being alone with them for a day or so, I can only hope…”
Bruce cuts me off. “Oh, you’ll be fine. I’ll come by a few times a day to look after the ‘kiddies’, you’ll just have to worry about the animals who walk on two limbs and come in and out the front door.” He chuckles at his own joke, and I flash a smile in return, although my fear of doing something wrong now has begun to stranglehold my other senses, not allowing a full laugh at his try and humor, as I normally would. Plus, the joke just wasn’t that funny. Perhaps a late night crowd influenced by the proper substances might give him a chuckle, but normally, I would think it would only deserve a smile. Thinking that thought makes me chuckle. And in that lighthearted second, him laughing at his own joke and me laughing at my own joke about his own joke, something in me tells me that I should be able to handle this responsibility, just as I’ve handled many others before.
tank you veddy much
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Comments
"my ears hear as if I’m leaning in an out of that tunnel I found myself exploring when trying to speak with the emergency assistance operator" -
which seems to relate to an earlier episode in your story, you could use flashback as a device to confuse past and present sense perception so that for a moment you're back in that tunnel.
I would avoid "realist" narrative here and there, and bring in elements of the uncanny and Gothic - not too much of course - just to much this passage seem a bit more freaky (without venturing into crassness).
It's really good though. I know what you're trying to do here and am just thinking of ways you could make it punchier and stranger at the same time. It needs to flow a bit more and dialogue needs to take precedence over description (which the speaker would need to be in all his senses to speak).
Cheers.
That should read, "just to make this passage....", not "much".
Thanks for the input. It's sort of just started a while back and grown into this, something that never had an outline but became something kind of interesting to me. Other stuff that I've planned out never felt all that organic, so that's why I kind of like this.
I appreciate the comments, and I intend to add some more dialogue, as it usually propels the story more and is more interesting to read. Plus, I like your ideas of making it just slightly on the edge of creepy or gothic, which I've tried to do in other places, but probably need to add a little more throughout.
I'd post more of it, but the limit makes that a little difficult. Thanks for the interest.
thumbs up!
“Well, unless you want to work this evening, watching my ‘babies’ sleep, I think I’ll allow you a night’s rest before you get to work here in the morning, “ he replies, pointing at the clock on the wall which reads seven o’clock, which I can only assume is deep in the evening. Once again I am amazed at my utter loss of a sense of time after my unconsciousness. It really is something I should be concerned about, but right now I am thinking of my upcoming internship here at the shop.
“We open at nine tomorrow, and I’d expect you here none earlier than a few minutes beforehand. Like I’ll said, I’ll take care of all the feeding and watering and clipping and talking that these little ones need, you just take care of the big ones coming through the door there, until Tony is up and about and off my worrying mind in a few days.” Bruce has a way of making the whole thing sound so easy, so nonchalant, that I can’t help but go along with him. His ability to instill confidence and pass along that wonderful feeling of calm clarity makes me think he’d be wonderful in a position of power that demanded just the right amount of constructive conscience, like a coach or a father.
“Well then,” I say as we emerge from the back room of the pet store into a closed-sign-already-flipped darkness, “I guess have nothing to worry about.”
Bruce glances up at me, pulls himself out of a sort of overwhelmed look as if he is just realizing all that has occurred here today, lassos the last bit of my words, and says, “Then neither do I.” He smiles a soft little smile and drops me a little wink out of the corner of his right eye that makes me feel like I could accomplish just about anything. He chucks me the keys to the establishment, tells me how I can avoid the street door in the morning by entering in the back alley, and advises me to go home and get some rest before the big day.
And just as I’m about to leave, turning my body towards the door, I glance the picture of the old man in the corner of my field of vision, and I hesitate, transfixed by the story contained in that Polaroid, old man and dog, so many tales interwoven just beneath its shimmering surface.
“Ah ha,” Bruce, says as if he has noticed my fascination with this particular photograph. “Forgetting one thing, aren’t I?” Suddenly I am frozen, unsure how ridiculous I look to be so focused on this “random” picture. Perhaps my blatant fascination with this old man in the picture has given me away, and this pet shop owner is going to investigate my secretive delusions.
But Bruce’s hand drops into his pocket, and when it returns it is holding a small can. He tosses it in the air to me with a little flick of his wrist, it rotates in slow motion for a second, drawing ever closer, and I make a spectacular over-the-shoulder basket catch as if I’m channeling Willie Mays; the can drops softly into my outstretched hands. No butterfingers am I, I think, and chuckle a bit to myself, as if I’ve passed some audition. I turn the little cardboard container around to read the label, and it is a can of birdseed. “Tony mentioned you were looking for some hearty cuisine for a newfound buddy. That should do the trick,” he says, pointing at the can as another small wink escapes from the corner of his eye.
All I can do is smile at the thought of Tony, who has just emerged from consciousness in the emergency room, needlessly yet honorably worrying about the pet food needs of a clumsy customer. It makes me realize that Bruce seems to hire good people, people concerned with other people’s needs, and that thought makes me proud, proud enough to crack a smile, even if the description isn’t completely transferable to myself. “I’ll see you in the morning,” I say, hearing a bit of Bruce’s trademark confidence shining through my own words.
And with that, I am out the door, surrounded by a cool calm night on Turner St. There are stars above my head, fresh air in my nose, and a welcome lucidity present in my motivation that I haven’t felt in quite a while. Purpose is a wonderful commodity.
…
I hustle back to my apartment, skipping stairs as if they’ve been declared an Olympic event, seemingly unfazed by my previous physical disruptions and the bandages subtly restricting my movements, and burst through the door like a parent eager to present his four-year-old with a fresh Happy Meal from the world’s favorite fast food restaurant. Mockingbird slides off the top of the cage like the fortification bar being removed from a castle gate, as if it is very heavy and moves very slow, with some kind of important purpose. I try slipping my fingers underneath the rim of the colander to make just enough room to slide in some grub to my patient without giving him a proper chance to escape from this countertop Alcatraz. The red winged animal waits until I’ve left him with his food, and he gobbles it up with as much conviction as small, injured bird can.
I turn away to give my friend some time alone with some much needed grub, and I see my typewriter sitting below the window, papers filled with gobblygook strewn all around. The machine is much too heavy to lug to my “job” for the next few days, but I can’t afford to waste anymore of this fruitful artistic time not writing. I need to get to work. And in a brief moment of clarity influenced heavily by the mess of white around my writing contraption, I realize that I must make the transition from old technology to new technology if I want to stay in the game.
The decision flows from my thoughts so quickly, I am a bit impressed at myself and my ability to solve this problem, no matter how minor it may appear. My infatuation with that old Smith Carona began long ago, but the question of portability has never been an issue. Now that it has become a problem, I need to make the change, and the Carona will still sit by the window and get work, just not when I’m out in the world, on assignment.
Energized by my rejuvenating quick decision and my half-day’s rest on the concrete floor, I grab some portable grub in the form of a Pop Tart, throw on a jacket for the cool evening, and jump down the stairs like a ranger parachuting out of his plane at 10,001 feet. I have a mission, a mission indeed, and, because of the current state of commerce, not even the late hour can stop me.
My car sits idle in the well-guarded garage, cold after a few days of sitting alone while I walked to get where I needed to go. I prefer to use my own to feet, that is true, but the time being late evening and the distance to the store make me choose this cruising machine this evening instead of my walking machines. The vehicle is an old Mercury Grand Marquis, and no vehicle quite floats down the road like it does. There is perhaps no better vehicle for a casual evening drive.
I cross town, and arrive at the glowing, welcoming lights of the 24-hour Wal-Mart, and I pull into the parking lot. From the size of the lot, it is obvious to anyone that this is no ordinary Wal-Mart; no, this store deserves the Super designation given the sheer breadth of products available at any occasion. Just make sure you have those batteries on Christmas morning, otherwise you can get anything you want anytime at this consumer’s wonderland. What a spectacle.
I park my car in one of the numerous close spots available at this time of the evening, and walk across the bright parking lot. Light is a sign of safety, I suppose, and it also makes late night shoppers more willing to shop later. Here I am, ready to buy a computer at nearly midnight on the clock, one day teetering into another. The sliding automatic doors open before me, and I slip inside, like a virus infecting a cell. The place is even brighter inside, reminding me of a casino, where once inside, you will find no indication of what the world outside weather conditions are. A man pushing a floor cleaner walks by a few feet ahead of me, and his glistening trail of waxy clean gives me only a vague visual hint that this establishment is not entering prime time for customers. Otherwise, it’s the same store at midnight that it is at noon.
The issue of portability limits the selection considerably. Price also comes into question, as I don’t want to spend too much on a not-quite-integral piece of technology. So I meander down to the lower priced laptops, not interested in anything that might have too much capability for what I really need it for. Nope, a glorified word processor is all I need, something light and portable, with a keyboard that agrees with me, and an easily understandable operating system.
Each laptop gets a full once over from my judicious shopping eye. Feeling a little like Goldilocks, I have a small yet ruining complaint for each one – too large, too much, too silver – until finally the one on the end strikes my fancy. My hands feel quite natural on the keyboard, even though I’m holding them unnaturally high to reach the shelf. The screen is bright, the body of the laptop is small, and it appears to be the right size for me. It is black in color, nothing too extraordinary, but nothing that will draw unneeded attention to the computer. This is definitely the one. This will be by writing implement when I am unfortunate enough to have to spend writing time away from my beloved typewriter.
I leave the electronics section and try and track down someone to give me access to one of these beautiful machines, and I have a little bit of trouble. There is no one at the electronics section counter, no one at the cell phone sales counter just across the way, and no one at the photo counter just around the corner. If it weren’t for the whirring sounds of productivity all around and the bright white lights pouring down like the sun at noon, the place would seem vacant.
Stumbling into an aisle nearby housing what seems to be everything you could ever want to cover your walls, I see a young man of no more than his earlier twenties stocking shelves with cans of paint. He is engrossed with his actions, taking from the palette of paint cans and lining them up perfectly on the shelf. I stand at the end of the aisle for almost a minute or more, though it seems like longer, entranced with the deliberate execution of his rudimentary duties. I am just a figure at the end of this canyon of shelving, dialed in on someone who seems so very content doing a job that seems far from extraordinary. Once again, I discover purpose is a wonderful invention.
The young man, pushing up small glasses from his nose and pulling back down his dirty working hat, finally notices me in a small break between emptying the pallet. “Can I help you?” he questions, and the passion in his delivery knocks me aback a bit. Here is a young man working nights at a large Super Center, the General Store equivalent of McDonald’s, stocking shelves in a job that can give him much stimulation, and when he beckons if I need any assistance, I truly believe that he has focused his every attention on serving my needs. His eyes are focused on mine, his voice has the passion of a good friend concerned with my future.
“Y-yes,” I reply, stumbling out of my internal discourse to return his volley. “I’m looking to purchase a laptop from over there,” I throw a point in the direction of the electronics department, “and I was trying to find someone…”
“Oh, sure. I’ll track somebody down for you,” the young man interjects before I can finish my thought. I’m sure he’s been in this situation quite often, perhaps once an evening, but his sincerity is hard to miss. He approaches my location at the end of the aisle, pulling off his protective gloves. “I’m David,” he says, making direct eye contact the entire time, extending an arm in my direction.
“Nice to meet you, David,” I hear myself say, as I extend a hand to him and engage his hearty shake.
“Actually,” he utters with a moment of hesitation, “I’m pretty sure we’ve met before.” I’m a bit taken aback, a little unsure as to how important not recognizing someone I’ve known might be. Even with his mention of this, I am still unsure of where I’ve met this “David” before. “You come into Rombasky’s pretty often around lunch-time – I’m part-time through the week and full time on the weekends,” he says, and suddenly I have that guilty feeling of not remembering the everyday people I meet. Granted, the glasses and the hat have obscured his true identity, a reporter’s costume for Jimmy Olsen perhaps, but I still should have recognized him right away, given our nearly once-weekly contact.
“Ah, yes,” I say, trying not to relay the surprise in my voice that I have completely overlooked his identity. Unsure where to direct the conversation after this revelation, I jump right for the obvious. “So, a guy like you has to work two jobs to make ends meet in this crazy world?” I say, as he leads me out of the aisle and to the proper laptop assistance.
“Well, actually I’m applying to law school in the fall after a year away from school, and I’m trying to make as much money as possible so I’m not so dependant on loans down the line,” he replies in a completely logical manner, although the thought of my waiter at the diner going to law school seems completely absurd. Perhaps this Jimmy Olsen is more of a Lex Luthor.
“That’s very sporting of you to try and tackle that much work right before you enter law school,” I utter, and as I do I shudder and realize I threw the word “sporting” out there just like this guy had come in from the fields hunting rabbits, covered in mud and enveloped in camouflage. Perhaps the pool from which I’m drawing my word choices has been getting a bit muddy, with all of my bumps and bruises of late - not a good development for a writer.
He nods in compliant agreement, and looks for a moment to be unsure if he is David the Wal-Mart late night stocker, David the Rombasky’s waiter, or David the pseudo-acquaintance. After a moment, his reply is ready, delivered in-between all three of those characters. “To be honest, this kind of thing,” he throws an arm back in the direction of the palette of paint cans as we trod up to the front of the store, “really lets you free your mind from what you’re doing and clear your head, you know?”
I see where he is going with his suggestion, but the fact is, I don’t really know. I can’t relate to what he is saying. The truth is all I’ve been doing the last few weeks with this writing gig has been clogging my head more than clearing it.
He continues. “I’ve sort of been getting my mind ready for this fall with all of this work. I’ve been reading constantly, working constantly, and sleeping when there’s time to sleep. I guess, besides the money, which isn’t as much as I could earn doing something else, I’ve dived into all this work as a sort of a small training regiment in preparation what lies ahead.” I nod in agreement, overwhelmed not only that what he is saying could be applicable to my current situation, but that what he is saying could be a model for existence. Suddenly the Jimmy Olsen in him has overshadowed the momentary reign of Lex, with a bit of Clark Kent thrown in for good measure.
“Well, it sounds like you’ve got all your cards in order,” I say, wishing I could add something to the conversation that would sound like Bruce from the pet shop: something friendly, something motivational, something important. Unfortunately that sort of charm has escaped my genetic makeup. And then the words come to me.
“From what I’ve learned in my time,” I hear myself utter, as if suddenly channeling someone with more than a sliver of real world know how, “it’s more about visualizing the hurdle and preparing for it rather than making the actual jump. You seem to have the preparation side covered. When the time comes, you’ll know when and how high to jump,” I finish, unsure where my last few sentences came from, perhaps from some Bruce-ian channeling, except with less real world relevance. In fact, the words I have just spoken sound like something my high school track coach would have said and I would laughed at later, repeating it in a mocking tone. Perhaps coach’s advice were better for metaphor than practical application.
“That’s what I’m hoping,” David replies, cracking a small smile as if my little reply has encouraged him somewhat.
“How may I help you, sir?” she asks, and underneath her question I sense just a hint of a southern accent, either fading away from a distant past or integrated into her pattern of speech as a little spice for her professional diction.
“I need to purchase a laptop,” I reply in a matter of fact way, as my waiter/stocker/pseudo-acquaintance pats me on the back on his way to get back to his mind-clearing work. I reply to his gesture, “Thanks Jimmy,” and as soon as the words clear my lips, I shudder at my second false recognition of him this evening. A cringe works its way down my spine, letting me know of my error almost before it has a chance to saturate the air. Sure, I know his name is David, my brain knows his name, but my mouth remains transfixed on the Jimmy Olsen comparison.
David stops, the word “Jimmy” hangs between us for just a moment like fog over a early morning pond, and he quickly brushes it off with a smile, probably assured that I can’t even remember my mother’s name. “You’re welcome,” he says. “See you around.” I smile back, hopeful that there are no serious repercussions to my blunder. I doubt there will be, but I will certainly be checking my drink the next time I stop by Rombasky’s. For the record, my mom’s a Mabel and my dad’s a Paul. Just don’t start integrating them into some comic book metaphors.
Linda (I saw her name on her appropriately labeled Wal-Mart manager’s smock) leads me back towards the Wal-Mart electronics section, and the walk is such a long way it makes me realize I must have been completely engrossed in my conversation with David. These stores are really quite enormous, a few laps around the main aisles would be good practice for any track team, although with their current mirror-like cleanliness, the squeaking involved would be too much for just about anyone to handle.
We return to the vacant electronics section, she asks me to point at which one I want like a child in a storefront window at Christmas, and she proceeds to open the cage that contains them and pluck my shiny apple from this laptop tree. Linda carries the box over to the electronics counter, types some magical order of numbers into the register after inserting her decidedly managerial keys, and promptly scans the barcode on the box. Transactions like this always feel a bit strange, especially when buying something fairly expensive like a computer. Just a scan of the barcode, as if all I’m buying is a pack of gum. It’s all so quick, especially given the apparent gravity of the purchase. It seems like in the old days you’d really jaw the details over with a salesperson, cement the deal with a sturdy handshake, and then fill out some kind of paperwork, if only a nice hand printed check.
However, in those days I wouldn’t have been able to make my purchase at midnight – and such is the give and the take of modern civilization.
A long receipt pours out of the register printer, perhaps the only vestige of the antique large purchase with the hand shaking and the paperwork, and Linda rolls through a spiel about some sort of extended warranty that I can purchase for only a fifth of the price of my laptop that will extend my warranty by 3 years. I politely decline, unsure with the current state of technology if this laptop will even be able to run a modern toaster in more than five years. Alas, just as David was moving paint from a palette quicker than I can utter the thought, Linda too is only doing her job, programmed by years of working in the same place, where the routine of a job well-done can feel strangely zombie-related.
I’ve had many such jobs, especially early on in my career history, well before the jobs that occupy the bottom of my current nonexpanding résumé. The one I remember in particular, the one that I still can feel in my bones when I pass a bustling factory was working in a refrigeration parts distributor one long summer between non-consecutive semesters college. Nearly that entire few months has gelled into one lump of balled-up emotions: sweating from the amazing heat generated inside the factory, the mindless work of doing the same thing over and over and over again for eight hours each day, and the buzzers that rang out to start and end each day like a grade school gone awry. Certainly, getting lost inside your own mind was an advantage in such a situation, for it allowed you to cruise through the day more easily than would be possible if one focused on every similar detail, but it was also that environment and the ones that followed in other odd jobs that made me want the life of a writer, to be free creatively as well as structurally. No matter if I was pressing sheet metal or answering phones, those jobs felt the same even though the physical and mental drains of each were significantly different.
And it is that history that gives me a slight bit of jealously in David and Linda’s almost mantra-esque work ethics, seeing the light at the end of their respective tunnels almost without seeing the tunnel at all. David enjoys unloading one of everything in the universe off of pallet after pallet each morning after midnight – there is a release in his strict law school preparation I envy. His example almost makes me want to have something in my life that would offer the same sort of restrictive yet mind-freeing work, but then I remember how those jobs become mind numbing more than mind freeing for a personality like mine, and I am lead to wonder if it is my work ethic or my disposition. Mostly it is that enjoyment in the work–the purpose of place-of which I am envious, but I realize such satisfaction is self-initiated rather than pasted on the walls of an environment like this or included in a training video played in a back room. To be sure, David and Linda enjoy their jobs because they have that drive and direction, and hopefully my misdirected drive at writing a novel will someday come to fruition. Until then, I can observe people like Linda, David, Bruce, Tony, and the interesting old man in the corner at Rombasky’s and meticulously document the scenes I catch them in, perhaps someday to understand that drive and ambition, in part to give me creative fuel for my novel, and in part to know what to do with that artistic fodder.
But perhaps they don’t really like their jobs. Perhaps they just put on that face to get through the day, and there is something else entirely bubbling just beneath that smile…
Now returning from my thoughts, I see the laptop on the passenger’s seat that will become my portable conduit for all of my novel-furthering notions. It seems not only people like David are capable of escaping into their thoughts, for a moment ago I was at the register and now I am in the car, having gone through motions I’ve found myself in so many times before, concentrating on other things deep inside my head.
The roads are wet and dark as I drive home. The windows are down on this roadster, and the night air is cool yet inviting, sweet smells lurk on the calendar’s horizon, as early spring will throw off its similarities to winter and soon bloom in full. The weather feels as though it is just on the cusp of something new. The wind howls into the cabin if this beast as I accelerate all eight of its cylinders, pushing back my hair, surrounding my face, making me feel like a man on an adventure. To be on an adventure in a normal set of circumstances is the goal of a writer, I think, for such situations stir the creative elements inside to business.
The typewriter lounges at home, ready for my fingers. The computer rests quietly next to me in the passenger’s seat-we are on our first date and barely know each other, yet are excited about the endless possibilities of this blossoming relationship. Now I have definitely have the tools I need for the novel I’m creating in my head. Now I just need that work ethic I’ve seen earlier in the day to complete my project.
As I enter the house, my lights are on, and I wonder if and why I left them blazing when I hustled out earlier. Technological anticipation, I suppose. I drop the box down right in the middle of the living room, just far enough from the couch so I can prop my tired body against it while I unpack the prize. My body is creaky and unresponsive as I drop it down to the floor. I wrap my arms around the box and crack it open, revealing a nylon bag for easy computer transport perched on top, and my new laptop surrounded by protective Styrofoam and clear plastic bags just below. I pull it out like a father grasping for a newborn son, and gently remove its protective plastic. My nose whiffs the smell of new electronics from the bag, a smell so intoxicating it may be linked to some sort of compulsion for purchases like the one I’ve just made this evening. There is just some aspect of that smell that is so inviting, perhaps taking me back to birthdays and Christmas mornings, that makes it an almost addictive chemical. The thought makes me think I should commission a study on the lasting effects of “New Electronics Smell,” or NES for short. I’m sure there’s funding out there for such tomfoolery.
The computer nestles in a nice little spot just across the desk from the typewriter, and I decide it would be a crime to impede on any of the typewriter’s hard earned personal space. No, the old key-clacker dwarfs the shiny new laptop, and due to its tiny presence, it doesn’t take up any of the desk. I fire up the small yet powerful beast, entertain myself through some graphic-and-sound-filled tutorials, and after a little searching find my way to the included word processor. My fingers find the familiar home keys, yet I have a sudden feeling that the computer is not unlike the Styrofoam that it was wrapped in. Sure it serves its purpose, but it doesn’t have that weight and sturdiness that I’ve come to appreciate with the Smith Carona. Yet the ease of the keys throws a benefit the way of the laptop, as the less resistance against my fingers allows them to type quicker and longer.
After sorting through some of my previously typed attempts, I decide to pick out the gems from what I’ve got going earlier. I rattle through the pages emulating Linda from a few hours earlier, furiously excavating little jewels of literary nonsense from my earlier work. I am amazed at the ease of the constructing of the stories on the laptop: I can move things around at my will, arranging and rearranging at a whim, cautiously molding the story like an artist working with clay. My fingers fly with a frenzy not seen for a while, and though I’m not creating any new material, this reorganization really makes me feel like I’m accomplishing something. The work takes me deep into the evening, just a few hours from when I am supposed to arrive at the pet shop ready for employment.
Eyes now heavy and ready for sleep, I carefully save my progress, shut down the laptop, and creak my seemingly quickly aging body over to the inviting couch, and set my amazing Timex to wake me up a little while before I’m supposed to be at work. And with the lights still blazing behind me, my eyes collapse like a parachute falling to the ground. Darkness surrounds me, the couch feels like a gently worn leather baseball glove lovingly holding me, the game-worn baseball, and soon I’m off to dreamland as quickly as a homerun leaving the yard.
END OF CHAPTER SEVEN
Sorry for the length.
http://www.lulu.com/content/533928
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Description:
Follow a writer attempting to eliminate a crippling bout of writer's block and see the world from an entirely new perspective. Journey deep inside the mind of an author seeking inspiration for his novel. Written mostly in first-person present tense, this book is an open conversation with the thoughts of an aspiring writer who seemingly sees everything in the world as possible literary fodder. There is a tale tied to each person we meet. Whether we choose to pursue that story or not often relates to how much their journey interests us. The company we then keep reveals a great many details about the chosen path. This is the story of creating a story...a story written for authors on the prowl of their next novel idea.
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http://www.lulu.com/content/533928
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Hope you feel better!