A Day In The Life, Part II
Jun 25 '04
The Bottom Line ...Again, enjoy.
This is the second installment of the short story I wrote for my Writer's Craft class, in which the plot is finally actually revealed. For part one head here.
* IV *
The droplets of water pattered on the windshield of Herbert Smith’s worthless car. The road was slick and there was no grip left in the stripped Goodyear tires; one of the wipers was broken, leaving half of the front windshield heavily streaked with running rainwater. And the engine, fresh from the scrap heap, a dirt-cheap replacement, was whinnying loudly and emitting long puffs of noxious fumes. It coughed and sputtered for the whole twenty-minute commute. In fact, the stout man had to be careful not to speed up or slow down too quickly for fear of the whole vehicle bursting into flames. So he carefully watched the yellow lines on the road, crawling along at much slower than usual.
A long line of vehicles, many of them SUVs that dominated Herbert’s rear-view window, was beginning to form behind him. They honked vigorously and continuously, impatiently waiting for the stripped-down little sedan to jolt into action. The vehicle pulled off of the main street after several miles, turning onto a suburban road split by a grassy median, with carefully manicured flowers and low-growing shrubs. A single house eerily lined the entire street; rather, eighteen identical suburban dwellings erected seven years ago as part of a city renewal plan - two floors, white siding, with a long porch and a carefully constructed moonlight flooding each interior with natural light during the day. Each had an adjacent single-car garage and a magnificently groomed front lawn, not a single blade out of place or a quarter-inch too tall, no matter where you happened to look. No leaves, no weeds or patches of dirt. In front of some homes children played ballgames, while others found middle-aged women in wide-brimmed hats on their knees, tending to a garden - the prior homes with minivans or sport utility vehicles parked in the driveways, the latter with sports cars or classy luxury sedans. No doubt with leather interiors and expensive sound systems, topped off with the expensive premium gasoline. Just the type of car Joseph Trescott might drive.
But Herbert drove past this long block of infinite déjà vu, braking slowly as the machine squealed its resistance in front of the corner and gently manoeuvring into the gravel driveway of his own property. He felt no joy; he rarely did find any form of happiness in this abode, a single-story, red brick building rejected by the other homes on the block and frequently subject to neighbourhood petitions fretting over its continued existence (“a travesty”) and the state of disrepair it had fallen into since Herbert’s father - upon rejecting the city’s offer to buy the property along with the rest of the block - had slumped to the ground dead from an undetected aneurysm in his brain. The way things had been going, Herb was very near to the point of wishing for one of those himself.
With a heavy sigh - revealing the weight of dual worlds on his slouching shoulders - Herbert trudged up the home’s crumbling front steps and opened the screen door that was riddled with long tears, barely hanging from its frame. Nearly everything about this house needed work (“A fixer-upper,” one real estate agent said through a tight smile, but it was apparent that the word he had been looking for was in fact ‘dilapidated’).
The front lawn was riddled with clumps of grassless dirt where displaced wild animals had no doubt been digging for their food, and the flowerbeds had long been consumed by weeds, but the house made the grass look like a putting green. The front porch, initially built with a construction worker’s cost-cutting mixture of cement and sawdust, was dry and brittle. Fissures ran up and down the steps, and fragmenting, foot-wide gaps appeared at several spots. The whole structure was rumbling beneath, as it was built on a non-existent foundation.
The shingles of the roof were all but gone - the attic leaked and the water often trickled down to the main floor - and the chimney was hanging at a 70-degree angle, Deacon Street’s answer to the leaning tower. The windows, their shutters banging open and shut wildly in the wind, were in desperate need of replacement. Repair, however, costs money. Money that Herbert didn’t have, and suspected he would never see so long as he lived.
The interior was just as bad; the open front door revealed a home that was even smaller than the exterior made it appear. Consisting of four rooms, none of them large enough to comfortably seat more than five people (not that guests were a frequent occurrence, in fact they were quite the exception), with painfully low ceilings that forced everyone to hunch low and strain their back. The front living room was filled with a mess of yard sale furniture; brown chairs contrasted by a white, flowery couch, a card table crammed in the middle of the space (upon which sat a week-old newspaper opened to the classifieds and covered in red ink) and various odds and ends. Piles of cloths on the couch overflowed onto the creaking, stained hardwood floor.
A miniature refrigerator hummed gently in the far left corner, balanced precariously on a random desk chair. Picking through the garbage covered-floor, Herbert opened the fridge and withdrew an open six pack of some cheap, domestic beer; twisting the cap off the first bottle, he opened his mouth wide and downed most of its skunky contents without a second thought.
Straight through the living room was a short, marginally well-kept hall that branched in three directions. Further straight down it was a bathroom with chipped yellow tiles and a continuously dripping toilet, a damaged sink that ran brown liquid most of the time - except when it was running black - and a broken light fixture hung loosely from the ceiling, swinging gently over the stained porcelain bathtub.
The left branch of the hall lead to a kitchen, actually just an all-purpose room with bare cement floors, in which sat another card table and a retro, vomit-green fridge. A sink and a grey counter along the room’s back wall were inundated with unpacked bags of groceries and heaps of used, sticky dishes stuck to one another and reaching well over two feet above Herbert’s head.
And the right branch of the hallway ended in the home’s lone bedroom, one with no windows and plain white walls, on which damp spots were forming from the roof’s many leaks. In the centre was a mattress with no box spring, covered in Star Wars linen. About a foot from the end of the bed, a thirteen-inch black and white television was propped up on a pile of old phone books. Beside the bed there was another open newspaper, at least two weeks old, opened to the obituaries and carefully folded. Herbert glanced down and read the name near the top of page D8 aloud:
Joseph Trescott
Aside from these few necessary items, the room was empty. No family photos, no books, and no recordings. Not even a plant, not that one could ever survive in the room’s suffocating atmosphere of fear and loneliness.
Herbert knelt down by the television and turned the largest knob; the antiquated machine crackled to life and the picture skittered madly in and out of focus for several seconds before slowly adjusting itself. The oppressive grey screen provided the room’s only light and while it danced wildly over the wall, Herbert slowly removed his shoes and his black business suit, laying them out carefully on the floor. Then, in his boxers, he fell back onto the mattress and polished off the rest of the six-pack, finishing the case with a satisfied smacking of the lips and a pleased belch. He finally drifted into an uneasy sleep as the rain pattered loudly against the home’s walls and the cracks of thunder shook its very foundations.
* V *
With no windows, it was difficult to tell exactly what time it was when Herbert finally opened his right eye and coughed violently, moving to grip his violently throbbing head in his forearms. He rolled from the mattress onto the floor and shakily stood, using the wall to stabilize himself in his current state of vertigo. He glanced at his watch (an expensive silver timepiece he had inherited from his father and the only item that he always carried with him) squinting in a vain attempt to get the numbers on the face to stop shaking. Already late.
Herbert stumbled into the bathroom, stopping three times along the way to rest against the wall and let the awful nausea in his stomach subsist.
When he finally did emerge from the bathroom, twenty or so minutes later, a blast of humid air escaping behind him before he shut the door, he was finally beginning to feel a little better. Showered and cleaned up, the massive headache had fallen to a dull roar and life didn’t seem quite so bad. His diminishing horseshoe of black hair was carefully combed back over so as to cover the growing bald spot and his face was freshly shaved, removing the stubble that had sprouted the night before. Returning to the bedroom, Herb sniffed the conservative suit laid out on the floor and, with a dismissive shrug, he dressed himself in it.
He grabbed the car keys from the card table in the living room and left through the front door (without locking it; there was little point anymore) and stepped into his car. The thunderstorm that had begun the night before, and which had left oversized ponds of water up and down the street, was finally receding into a light drizzle. Even the sun was beginning to reveal itself. The key turned, the car groaned and resisted before sputtering and grumbling to life. The vehicle lurched backward and turned out of the driveway and into the street. It jolted heavily into gear, whipping Herb’s head forward and a broken man rode his jet-black, scrap heap-worthy BMW down the plant-lined lane.
* VI *
Joseph slammed the car door with a reverberating thump and quickened his pace toward the sidewalk that ran along the parking lot and toward the Shauster headquarters building. A thin layer of rust, Joseph noticed as he glanced back from the walkway, was beginning to form along the car’s underside and driver’s side door. No doubt a few grand to repair… Joseph made a mental note to call the mechanic as he marched to the building’s front door and let it slid open before him. The clouds were now fully dispersed and the sun was again radiating, warming Joseph’s back as he walked inside the main lobby and whistled just to hear the echo of his own voice resonating from the foyer’s high ceiling. The light dimmed as he reached the outskirts of the room; he stopped for a moment to blink out the bright spots and shake his head.
The security guards, whispering quietly amongst themselves looked up as the front door slid shut with a whoosh. The tallest of the four men leaned over to one of the others and tapped him on the shoulder - they animatedly exchanged words about something that must have been quite important, occasionally pointing toward the entrance behind Joseph’s back.
Joe straightened his tie and glided down the wide lobby, giving the few men and women still standing around the room a wide berth and slowing as he reached the quartet of men huddled behind the security stall - who were now reviewing a videotape and thumbing madly through a set of photographs. The only one who Joseph recognized, Leroy - with his shaved head and carefully trimmed beard - was tracing his forefinger over one particular photo in loops, over and over again. Joseph nodded his head as he moved past the desk, waiting for one of the men to return his gesture. There was no reaction from any of them.
Where the lobby narrowed, Joseph glanced behind him for what must have been the fifth time, curious as to what exactly was going on. A system failure? A security breach? Terrorism? A test? The tall guard now had a telephone receiver pressed to his right ear and was glancing nervously from side-to-side as he scribbled intensely on a sheet of paper in front of him. Another guard, a heavy-set gentleman with short shocks of bright red hair, sweat glistening over his face and a doughnut half-protruding from his wide mouth, was bent over, rummaging alarmingly through an open shelve adjacent to the security counter.
Joseph drummed his fingers on his dark pants and depressed the elevator button, when he heard a voice coming from behind him that was nearly lost in the lobby’s echoing chamber, yelling excitedly, “Herbert Smith!”
Joseph glanced back. Hobos in the anteroom again, no doubt. Seeking refuge from the elements in the carefully controlled environment of the lobby.
The elevator dinged and the heavy metal doors grated open.
“Stop! You, right there,” the voice was closer now, heavy footfalls were moving down the hall. Joseph turned and glared at the assemblage of security guards, a wall of four white shirts running down the hall toward the elevators, the heavy-set redhead at least a few steps behind the other three; Walkie-talkies were lifted and their mouths were flapping open and closed as they argued into the mouthpiece. Joseph glanced around, looking for the man attempting escape, but he was the only one in the hall.
Joseph curled away in terror, pressing himself against a wall and lowering himself to shield his body from attack.
“Someone’s in the building, someone’s in the building,” he closed his eyes and mouthed the same words again and again as he dropped to the floor, resting on his backside, trying to stop himself from shaking.
He felt the shadow as it closed in on him; air choked in his throat as a sense of claustrophobia and panic enveloped him. Opening his eyes he saw that the guards had retreated off to the side and were replaced by two police officers, dressed in matching black pants and buttoned-up blue shirts, badges displayed over their hearts. Both wore black baseball caps with the brim pulled down low to cover their eyes. The one on the left had a thick black moustache, the other had no facial hair but did wear an elongated, crooked nose and a short, bright red scar under his lower lip. They stood over Joseph Trescott, thumbs in their belt-loops and loudly smacking their mouths on a piece of bubblegum. They looked at each other, identical smiles on both of their faces.
“Herbert Smith?” the officer with the scar smirked as he reached into his belt for something.
Joseph slowly began to rise to his feet as his knees buckled wildly beneath him. His breath was coming in short, ragged gasps now, “No… Joseph Trescott…”
The officer glanced at the security guards - they nodded in unison, no words necessary - and back to the terrified, shrinking man before him.
“Identification?”
Joseph clenched and unclenched his fist and mouthed an ‘okay’ as he reached for his shirt pocket; silently he withdrew his fake leather wallet and flipped it open, nearly dropping it several times because of his body’s shaking and the clamminess of his hands.
He lifted the driver’s license from its pouch and studied it slowly. Then he carefully placed it back and snatched at his torn birth certificate. The police officers waited patiently as Joseph Trescott poured slowly over the document before slumping to the ground, eyes closed and body heaving with sobs; only a gurgle escaped from the heap of a once proud man laying on the handcrafted floor.
“I’m Officer Stewart Johnson, this is my partner Officer Louis McDeere. You’re under arrest for trespassing on private property; you have the right to remain silent…” the burly policeman bent over and dragged the body to its feet, fastening the handcuffs behind its back, “…Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law…” the elevator doors dinged and shut, thundering back to life as the two officers walked back the length of the hall toward the front entrance, each using one arm helping to drag the perpetrator along.
“…Do you understand?”
Herbert Smith murmured that he did but kept his head ducked low and marched in file with the two grizzled police veterans - not a sound escaping his throat and no thought of escape crossing his mind. They guided him through the front doors and into the fresh air, where the sun had yet again fallen back out of sight, replaced by those same menacing clouds and a driving shower that was beginning to blanket the city.
Herbert’s eyes blurred: he stared unblinking at a puddle in the distant parking lot, watching one drop, then two, then three rippling in and disturbing the once-still water.
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