A rewrite
Before reading this, take a look at the Clover & 4th post which follows this one. Clover & 4th is my first stab at an idea. This is a rewrite with a minor modification to the story. Let me know what you think... Also, my next rewrite will involve reworking The Barker House. I know you just can't wait. :)
CLOVER & 4th
I arrived back in my office after lunch. As I rounded my desk to sit down, I noticed an envelope in my chair. I picked it up and placed it on the desk in front of me. I had a sense of foreboding as soon as I saw the envelope.
I looked at it, laying there on my desk on top of the clutter of papers that were scattered about my desk. It was a regular letter-sized envelope. The flap was not sealed or folded in, and my name “John Carruthers” was typewritten on the front, along with the phrase “Personal and Confidential,” which was bolded and underlined.
I slid the envelope back and forth, not wanting to open it, and not knowing why. I pushed it to the side and thumbed through a stack of paperwork to find a letter that I had been reviewing for a client. I found it and began to read it, trying to focus on the task at hand. Instead, I found my thoughts and my gaze drawn back to the envelope.
Finally, giving up on the idea that I could put off opening the envelope and actually get some work done, I reached for the envelope. It slipped out of my hands and dropped to the floor. When it landed, the paper inside had started to come out of the letter. A yellow corner poked out of the envelope.
I picked it up off of the floor and let the paper slide out onto my desk. Maybe if I didn’t touch it, it would go away. After a few seconds of wishing, I realized that it wouldn’t go away on its own. I also realized that I was being silly. It was a stupid piece of paper. Probably just some note from somebody else in the office. What was I scared of?
I unfolded the paper to see what it was. Centered on the piece of paper was the following, “It is in your best interest to meet me at the corner of Clover and 4th today at 4:00. Don’t worry, you may not know me, but I’ll know you. If you arrive as suggested, I will make my presence known to you.”
I turned it over to make sure that there wasn’t anything on the other side. There was no signature and no other words on the page. That was the extent of the message and I didn’t know what to make of it. Some person thought I should meet him, or her, at an intersection just a few blocks from my office. No reason given, no identification provided. Just a suggestion. And, apparently, it was somebody who knew me.
Now that I knew what the envelope contained, I was able to put it to the side and focus on my work. There was no chance I’d be meeting anybody, let alone some anonymous stranger, at 4:00 that afternoon. It was Tuesday and I had to leave early to pick up my 8-year-old son and take him to baseball practice. It was the highlight of my week--the opportunity to spend some time having fun with a group of kids while teaching them how to become baseball players. The idea that some weirdo thought I’d drop whatever I had planned and have a clandestine meeting on a public, and very busy, intersection was baffling. So, I went back to my work.
I reviewed the letter I had picked up a few minutes before and gave it to my secretary with some changes. At 2:00, I met with a client I was representing in a lawsuit against a rental car company. At 3:00, I had a short meeting with the partner who supervised my work. And at 3:45, I turned out the lights in my office and began the walk to the parking garage where my car was.
To get my son and get to his practice required a carefully planned routine of leaving my office at just the right time, getting to my car and then hoping that traffic wasn’t too bad. I had to get home, change clothes, and then hope John, Jr., was ready to go--the greatest struggle of my adult life. If everything went right, I could get to the field where we practiced with a couple of minutes to spare.
Just before I left my office, I glanced at the note again. I put it back in the envelope and threw it back on the desk. It landed, leaning against a framed picture of John, Jr., from last baseball season. In the picture, he was swinging, as all 7-year-olds do, mightily at a pitch. The bat was about two feet above where the ball was. But, he looked good doing it.
I walked out of the building and headed towards the parking garage, a walk of about five blocks. About half way there, I was stopped by a “Don’t Walk” sign glowing from across a busy intersection. Traffic on Clover, the street that ran north to south, whizzed through the intersection, while the drivers in their cars on 4th sat patiently waiting their turn. There were a few pedestrians standing at the other corners, but I was alone on my corner.
I looked at my watch. It was 3:59 p.m. I glanced at my watch a moment later as it went from 3:59:59 to 4:00:00. Just as the digital numbers made the switch, an old man walked up to share the corner that had been mine for the last couple of minutes. He looked at me and said,
“Good afternoon, son. Glad to see you could make it.”
At least that’s what I think he said. It was difficult to tell for sure with his lips, wrapped around his toothless gums, smacking together with each syllable.
“Huh?” I grunted.
“Well, it looks to me like it’s your time.”
“What do you mean?”
“Didn’t you get the note?”
“Oh,” I sighed. Suddenly, I remembered the mysterious note and realized that I was standing at the corner of Clover & 4th. How convenient that it was on the way to my car. “What do you want?”
“It’s your time to cross to the other side.”
“No, it isn’t. It says ‘Don’t walk.’ Why did you give me that note?” The ‘Don’t Walk’ that was glaring at me from across the intersection had to be the longest ‘Don’t Walk’ in the history of traffic.
“Because it’s your time, John.”
“What the hell do you mean?”
“John,” he said, looking up at me for the first time, “it’s your time to cross to the other side.”
The light bulb went off in my head with a blinding flash. Oh, my God. This old man was trying to tell me it was my time to die, like he was the Grim Reaper or something. He didn’t have a scythe with him, he wasn’t wrapped in a dark cloak, and he didn’t tower over me like the depictions of the Grim Reaper I had seen ever since I was a child. Instead, he was a stooped old man, hobbling along on a cane.
“You’re kidding me . . . wait a sec, how’d you get that note into my office?”
“When you get to the other side, you’ll understand everything. But, now, it really is time.”
With that, he disappeared. I looked around. I thought it was odd that there was still nobody else at the corner of the intersection where I stood. I glanced across the street to the northwest corner, noticing briefly that the sign still said ‘Don’t walk.’
I was about to look back to the spot where the old man had stood just seconds before, when I saw a child I knew standing on the corner, facing me and about to step into the street. It was John, Jr.
What was he doing there? There was no way we’d get home and have him ready in time for practice. Why was he stepping out into traffic? Where the hell was his mother? Cars were speeding through the intersection as they tried to beat the light before it turned yellow and then red. Just as it turned yellow, John, Jr., stepped out into the street and took three steps. I yelled “stop” at him and dashed out into the street. Just as I did, a Hummer, one of those six ton monstrosities that define the excess of American consumerism, bore down on the crosswalk.
Just before the Hummer struck me, my final thought was that the old man was right. I would be crossing to the other side. In my last second of life, I looked up to see if John, Jr., was okay. He wasn’t there anymore. After I crossed to the other side, I learned that he was never at Clover & 4th that day.
CLOVER & 4th
I arrived back in my office after lunch. As I rounded my desk to sit down, I noticed an envelope in my chair. I picked it up and placed it on the desk in front of me. I had a sense of foreboding as soon as I saw the envelope.
I looked at it, laying there on my desk on top of the clutter of papers that were scattered about my desk. It was a regular letter-sized envelope. The flap was not sealed or folded in, and my name “John Carruthers” was typewritten on the front, along with the phrase “Personal and Confidential,” which was bolded and underlined.
I slid the envelope back and forth, not wanting to open it, and not knowing why. I pushed it to the side and thumbed through a stack of paperwork to find a letter that I had been reviewing for a client. I found it and began to read it, trying to focus on the task at hand. Instead, I found my thoughts and my gaze drawn back to the envelope.
Finally, giving up on the idea that I could put off opening the envelope and actually get some work done, I reached for the envelope. It slipped out of my hands and dropped to the floor. When it landed, the paper inside had started to come out of the letter. A yellow corner poked out of the envelope.
I picked it up off of the floor and let the paper slide out onto my desk. Maybe if I didn’t touch it, it would go away. After a few seconds of wishing, I realized that it wouldn’t go away on its own. I also realized that I was being silly. It was a stupid piece of paper. Probably just some note from somebody else in the office. What was I scared of?
I unfolded the paper to see what it was. Centered on the piece of paper was the following, “It is in your best interest to meet me at the corner of Clover and 4th today at 4:00. Don’t worry, you may not know me, but I’ll know you. If you arrive as suggested, I will make my presence known to you.”
I turned it over to make sure that there wasn’t anything on the other side. There was no signature and no other words on the page. That was the extent of the message and I didn’t know what to make of it. Some person thought I should meet him, or her, at an intersection just a few blocks from my office. No reason given, no identification provided. Just a suggestion. And, apparently, it was somebody who knew me.
Now that I knew what the envelope contained, I was able to put it to the side and focus on my work. There was no chance I’d be meeting anybody, let alone some anonymous stranger, at 4:00 that afternoon. It was Tuesday and I had to leave early to pick up my 8-year-old son and take him to baseball practice. It was the highlight of my week--the opportunity to spend some time having fun with a group of kids while teaching them how to become baseball players. The idea that some weirdo thought I’d drop whatever I had planned and have a clandestine meeting on a public, and very busy, intersection was baffling. So, I went back to my work.
I reviewed the letter I had picked up a few minutes before and gave it to my secretary with some changes. At 2:00, I met with a client I was representing in a lawsuit against a rental car company. At 3:00, I had a short meeting with the partner who supervised my work. And at 3:45, I turned out the lights in my office and began the walk to the parking garage where my car was.
To get my son and get to his practice required a carefully planned routine of leaving my office at just the right time, getting to my car and then hoping that traffic wasn’t too bad. I had to get home, change clothes, and then hope John, Jr., was ready to go--the greatest struggle of my adult life. If everything went right, I could get to the field where we practiced with a couple of minutes to spare.
Just before I left my office, I glanced at the note again. I put it back in the envelope and threw it back on the desk. It landed, leaning against a framed picture of John, Jr., from last baseball season. In the picture, he was swinging, as all 7-year-olds do, mightily at a pitch. The bat was about two feet above where the ball was. But, he looked good doing it.
I walked out of the building and headed towards the parking garage, a walk of about five blocks. About half way there, I was stopped by a “Don’t Walk” sign glowing from across a busy intersection. Traffic on Clover, the street that ran north to south, whizzed through the intersection, while the drivers in their cars on 4th sat patiently waiting their turn. There were a few pedestrians standing at the other corners, but I was alone on my corner.
I looked at my watch. It was 3:59 p.m. I glanced at my watch a moment later as it went from 3:59:59 to 4:00:00. Just as the digital numbers made the switch, an old man walked up to share the corner that had been mine for the last couple of minutes. He looked at me and said,
“Good afternoon, son. Glad to see you could make it.”
At least that’s what I think he said. It was difficult to tell for sure with his lips, wrapped around his toothless gums, smacking together with each syllable.
“Huh?” I grunted.
“Well, it looks to me like it’s your time.”
“What do you mean?”
“Didn’t you get the note?”
“Oh,” I sighed. Suddenly, I remembered the mysterious note and realized that I was standing at the corner of Clover & 4th. How convenient that it was on the way to my car. “What do you want?”
“It’s your time to cross to the other side.”
“No, it isn’t. It says ‘Don’t walk.’ Why did you give me that note?” The ‘Don’t Walk’ that was glaring at me from across the intersection had to be the longest ‘Don’t Walk’ in the history of traffic.
“Because it’s your time, John.”
“What the hell do you mean?”
“John,” he said, looking up at me for the first time, “it’s your time to cross to the other side.”
The light bulb went off in my head with a blinding flash. Oh, my God. This old man was trying to tell me it was my time to die, like he was the Grim Reaper or something. He didn’t have a scythe with him, he wasn’t wrapped in a dark cloak, and he didn’t tower over me like the depictions of the Grim Reaper I had seen ever since I was a child. Instead, he was a stooped old man, hobbling along on a cane.
“You’re kidding me . . . wait a sec, how’d you get that note into my office?”
“When you get to the other side, you’ll understand everything. But, now, it really is time.”
With that, he disappeared. I looked around. I thought it was odd that there was still nobody else at the corner of the intersection where I stood. I glanced across the street to the northwest corner, noticing briefly that the sign still said ‘Don’t walk.’
I was about to look back to the spot where the old man had stood just seconds before, when I saw a child I knew standing on the corner, facing me and about to step into the street. It was John, Jr.
What was he doing there? There was no way we’d get home and have him ready in time for practice. Why was he stepping out into traffic? Where the hell was his mother? Cars were speeding through the intersection as they tried to beat the light before it turned yellow and then red. Just as it turned yellow, John, Jr., stepped out into the street and took three steps. I yelled “stop” at him and dashed out into the street. Just as I did, a Hummer, one of those six ton monstrosities that define the excess of American consumerism, bore down on the crosswalk.
Just before the Hummer struck me, my final thought was that the old man was right. I would be crossing to the other side. In my last second of life, I looked up to see if John, Jr., was okay. He wasn’t there anymore. After I crossed to the other side, I learned that he was never at Clover & 4th that day.
posted by Sparky at 7:19 PM
1 Comments:
Very interesting story, Mark. I was intrigued by the idea of a "date with death" -- how often we go about our daily routine and encounter things that we tend to dismiss, only to find it could be our calling card to the other side. Very clever. I like the way you rewrote it too -- you gave the character more humanity. This story leaves me wanting another "chapter" so to speak, seeing as how it's in the first person and Jack is telling us about his own death. What happens after he crosses to the other side?
By the way, I greatly enjoyed the story about Jack & IBS -- can't recall the title right now. It's a real life story -- something we can all relate to, whether we have IBS or some other "syndrome" that completely changes our identity -- and requires us to rethink things -- even the things so simple as what to put in our mouth.
That said .. I'm off to make burritos. Mmmmmm.
Post a Comment
<< Home