Harold Creeny's Unfortunate Day
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Harold Creeny’s Unfortunate Day
Scott J. Callaway
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Copyright 2014 Scott J. Callaway
Cover Design by Scott J Callaway
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used factiously and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this short story may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
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Harold Creeny’s Unfortunate Day
From his fifth floor office window, Harold watched the oversized and fluffy snowflakes spiral out of sight. It was only a light snowfall, but he knew that could all change in mere catastrophic moments. He stared at all the innocent holiday shoppers below, astounded that they could concern themselves only with shopping lists of cheap family gift ideas. It was obvious they weren’t worried about what really mattered…
But it was on Harold’s mind. That cloying thought. The ever-present possibility. He knew, unlike everybody else, that death was but a step away.
Harold’s secretary knocked at his door. “Mr. Creeny, would you like a cup of coffee?”
Have you lost your mind, woman? There’s a new strain of flu virus going around, and you’re asking me if I’d like coffee brought to my lips in a cup that was handled by someone else’s germ encrusted fingers? Just imagine where their hands could have been! Or would it suit you to see me in a hospital gown clinging to life in a hospital bed where someone died yesterday?
That’s what he would have liked to say.
Instead, he conceded with “Two sugars and a cream, thank you.”
Harold had to face the facts: death was everywhere. It was in the center of every highway intersection, in the bushes of a hiking trail, inside midnight alleys, along the lining of every toilet seat, beneath cheap motel blankets, and on every slippery sidewalk. The Grim Reaper wasn’t without a plethora of methods to collect his trophies. But Harold was determined not to fall victim to death’s embrace before his time was surely well and done. There were still so many pleasures to be had in his lifetime.
“What pleasures?” his wife would say every other day, while knocking back her usual five o’clock glass of wine. “What experiences could you possibly look forward to if you’re so damned scared of everything?”
“I’m not scared of anything,” corrected Harold. “Why is it such a crying shame to simply be conscientious about cleanliness and safety?”
“Oh, so that’s what happened to my vagina! It’s just another one of your safety concerns. Then I suppose I should tell sleeping beauty here that her prince will never come!”
Harold stared down at his desk where a cup of steaming hot, freshly brewed coffee was now sitting. Regardless of what he had said to his secretary, he wouldn’t be drinking it. He only played along for the sake of appearance, lest the rest of the world regard him as did his nagging wife. He was a businessman. Despite his conviction for self-preservation, he was first and foremost an entrepreneur, and a damned good one, in his opinion. That’s why he needed at all cost to keep himself in good health and safe from danger. There was so much money to spend! The drama classes he’d taken in high school weren’t a waste of time after all.
After ten more minutes of work, Harold collected his contaminated coffee cup and discreetly made his way to the kitchenette to trash it. Now his desk was in a state of Zen once again, ready to help him take on more business endeavors. Subconsciously reaching over to his hand sanitizer, he dispensed exactly one and three quarter squirts, like an hourly mantra.
It was a hard truth that no one would ever really understand him. Like now, for instance, when he’d take the stairs every day up to and down from his office on the fifth floor of his company’s business complex. This also had been a bit of a difficult decision for Harold in the beginning. But even though the elevator was decidedly much easier and more convenient to use, he couldn’t bring himself to trust that the mechanisms wouldn’t barrel down the chute taking him to his death, or accidentally trap him inside for an entire weekend of sensory deprivation. He could already envision the hours of mindless babble: The walls are blue. The walls are blue. No, he thought, he would much rather trust the actions of his own two feet to guide his path. Though it was possible that he could trip and fall down the stairs, just as easily breaking his neck, at least this way he was in control of his every step and could adjust his pace accordingly.
If Harold had only known that today he would be fighting for his survival before he reached the bottommost step, he would have never left the comfort of his office chair and would have called his wife to say he’d be working late.
The first thing Harold failed to notice was the “wet floor” sign on the second floor landing as he made his way down the final flight of stairs. He was very caught up in his thoughts about his latest business deal, a particularly exciting one. He would finally be able to cash in enough to invest in the construction of a state-of-the-art home ventilation system that would prevent up to 99.9% of all harmful outdoor bacteria from entering his indoor breathing space. He was so preoccupied with these thoughts that he dared to momentarily let his guard down for the first time in years. As he reached the sixth step from the bottom, his feet went out from under him and he slipped, rolled to the floor, twisting and spraining his ring finger along the way.
“Oh my God!” said the building cleaner, who at the very moment of Harold’s fall had come into the stairwell and witnessed the accident. “Jesus, Mary, and, Joseph! Are you okay?”
Harold picked himself up off the floor, fending off the cleaner’s attempt to aid him, and spun in circles, checking to make sure all was well. Only his left hand ring finger was hurt. He looked at the man and realized from his shirt logo that he was one of the building janitors – the very culprit whose negligence had almost cost him his life.
“Good lord, man!” cried Harold. “Don’t you people put up warning signs for slippery stairs?”
The cleaner visibly bristled. “Of course we do!” He pointed to the second floor landing, straightening his back in a manner that said he wasn’t going to be derided by anyone.
Harold looked up, squinting. “Well, you couldn’t possibly expect people to notice it in such an out-of-way place. It’s practically hidden!” This, of course, wasn’t true. But Harold’s wounded pride was sorely in need of being assuaged like a monkey’s splintered ass. “I could’ve killed myself!”
“Surely, then, we’d have lost a proper treasure.”
Harold caught the obvious sarcasm dripping from his attempted murderer’s foul tongue. If only he had been a man of lesser integrity, he would have used his hands to seek revenge and make sure the perpetrator received his just deserts. But that would likely cause fractures to his own hands, leading to endless potential dangers in which physical disability would place him at greater risk of death. He luckily escaped the falling incident with only a bruised finger and ego. He would just have to rein in his primal urges and walk away before risking further complications. He clenched his teeth, brandishing one last hateful look at the cleaner, and walked away.
Harold was ever the more cautious during the rest of his walk to his car in the underground parking lot, scanning every step before him and the ceiling above. It wasn’t until he’d safely seated himself behind the wheel of his brand new sedan that he sighed in relief. His ring finger still ached and throbbed painfully. He absently massaged it as he processed his close encounter with death in the stai
rwell. It had happened so quickly. His life, with all its achievements, successes, and failures, flashed before his very eyes in less than the time it took him to dispense exactly one and three quarter sanitizer squirts. What scared him most was how vulnerable he had been, how he had zero control over his fate in that flashing instant. He hoped never again to be subjected to another moment of sheer helplessness.
Harold twitched in pain as he accidently applied too much pressure to his injured finger. He must have really hurt it. It continued to swell. He decided to gently twist off his wedding ring and place it in his pants pocket to give his finger more breathing space and to avoid cutting off circulation. Because, God forbid, he may have to have it amputated, which could lead to infection, and then a personally engraved headstone.
After his fall, Harold gave an extra few seconds of