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Member
Join Date: Jul 2005
Location: New Hampshire
Posts: 7
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The Short Saga of Mister Olmstead
John Olmstead woke up one morning and found his life staring at him, reflected in his coffee cup. Wrinkles, lines, rough patches, the weathered look that doesn't come from braving the elements but from braving the mundane. Deep lines were engraved between his eyes from an endless lifetime of scowling at that which was beyond his control, lines drawn alongside his mouth from an endless frown. He found himself looking not at his face but at his entire life, drawn out in wrinkles. The minivan sitting in the driveway, the kids off in college, the wife threatening divorce yet again. He rose from his chair and walked to the bathroom, opening his medicine cabinet. Zoloft, Vicodin, Viagra, Tylenol, Pepto-Bismol. Behind him in his bedroom he had a gargantuan television with all the channels, he could watch the big game from no less the twenty different angles. All his suits were Armani, and his shoes cost more than most diamonds. He looked into the mirror for a long time, trying a painful smile, then cracked open the bottle of Vicodin and took three. The steering wheel bit into his fingers like sandpaper. John clenched it as hard as he could, glaring at the traffic ahead of him, daring it to stay where it was. Distantly, he heard his cell phone ringing, but it didn't matter much. He would get to where he was going, and there wasn't a damn thing he or anybody else could do. Cars passed by, a shifting stream of red and white, unreal, unnecessary. He adjusted his lapel and cracked a brilliant, well-rehearsed smile. In his tape deck a voice was speaking. He reached into his pocket and downed another Vicodin.
"...this is your day, and only you can make the most of it. You..."
A taxi swerved in front of him, and John grinned as it came within kissing distance. Sometime he fantasized about getting into a horrific accident, one so bad that it blocked the entire freeway. There would be fire and blood, yes, lots of blood. He would spill across the entire freeway, a splash of red like a modern painting. Cars would screech to a halt and people would climb out and stare in disbelief, staring at the burnt stain on the pavement. His moment in the limelight. His face would be plastered on TV screens everywhere. Everyone would know his name, at least for a day.
"...special. The business world is yours for the taking, so go get 'em!"
The concrete behemoth loomed into site. Home sweet home. John gripped his wheel even tighter, switching off the tape player. The garage entrance yawned open like a mouth, and with a sense of doom and dread he drove in. Once parked, John stood next to his car for a moment, taking deep breaths. The garage was quiet for the moment, and he immersed himself in the cool stillness. Only the low buzzing of the lights made any noise, and John felt alone. His peace was shattered suddenly by the beeping of his cellphone. With a fresch scowl, he took two more pills and made his way to the elevator, slowly. It was quiet inside, but anything but peaceful. The occupants stood at attention, like soldiers about to clamber out of the boat at Normandy. It was the calm before the storm, and it was deafening.
John drove home that night in complete silence, the radio off, the windows up, and his breathing almost inaudible. He pulled into his driveway and rolled onto the couch, knowing that he wouldn't be welcome in bed. The sound of sirens and gunfire in the distance were his lullaby, and he slept soundly.
The next moring the TV was on. One of those damn soaps his wife watched, complete with cheesy music and acting not fit for a high school production of Peter Pan. His wife was really into the things, but he couldn't really see the point of caring. What does it matter who the script-writers want Juan the pool-boy to fuck and/or murder this week? Without saying a word to here, he shambled to the bathroom, thinking that he would need to refill his prescription. He poured a hefty splash of Absolut into his coffee, and slouched out the door.
"...you are a better person than you were yesterday. If..."
John sat in the parking lot for longer than usual. He slowly unlocked the glove compartment and removed the Colt Single Action he kept there as a defense from the nameless muggers and theives of the suburbs. He placed it in his mouth, stared down its stock, and sat like that for a while, tasting the bitter metal in his mouth. He stayed that way for a half hour, then put it back and went to work. That day his supervisor complained that he wasn't fraternizing with the other employees enough. John cracked his magazine-cover smile and said the five words that had got him as far as he was:
"I'll get right on it."
That night his wife wasn't home, but had left a note on the coffee maker. He didn't bother reading it and went to bed with a fresh refill of Vicodin sitting in the cabinet.
In the morning John was still alone in his house. The first rays of sunlight were just beginning to slip through the blinds as he made his way to the medicine cabinet. He looked at himself in the mirror for an eternity and clicked his tongue in disgust. He took 5 pills and walked ponderously to his car.
"...no one can hold you back. They..."
John grinned slowly. He agreed with the tape, no one could hold him back. Nothing was real anymore, this was all just a dream. If he opened his eyes wide enough, they would spring open in another world where he had something to look forward to. The cars swam by in lethargic ripples of color, they were all underwater. The bridge loomed up, blurred and smoky, and John began to laugh. As he pulled into the car park he reached into the glove compartment and removed the revolver. Pocketing this, he drifted into the elevator. In the tense silence, John felt completely at ease. He leaned close and smiled at the blurry, silhouetted form next to him, who began shrinking back. The melodious chiming of the passing floors sang lullabies to John until 42 lit up and the doors parted. His supervisor was already waiting for him, furious about some incomplete document or another. John Albert Olmstead, proud son in a family of lawyers and businessmen, took two steps out of the elevator, drew the Colt, and put a .45 caliber round directly into his superior's forehead. There was no small amount of flying bone and brain matter, but John's smile didn't waver amidst all the screaming. He turned on his heel and strolled back into the elevator, which emptied in an instant. He whistled as all 42 floors passed by.
About 15 minutes later, John found himself in grim pursuit of paradise. He knew it lay over the bridge, and if he only could make it in time he would be alright, everything would be alright. The accelerator was slammed to the floor and his lips were pulled back in a snarling smile despite all the sirens. He watched the cars fly by in slow blurs, and began to laugh in deep shuddering whoops. He was still laughing when the squad car rammed him and sent him over the side of the bridge. Even as the water burst through his windshield and snapped his neck like a twig, he was still grinning from ear to ear.
The accident appeared briefly on the news, after news of a celebrity wedding.
This is a short story that I wrote a while ago. The ending somehow disappeared (damn computers) so I wrote a new one as best I could at 1 AM. This is the first time I've posted on a forum like this, and I'm looking forward to the experience.
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