by Adam Light
©2011,AdamLight. Self-publishing. [email protected]
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author / publisher.
Greg Everett sat up straight in bed, his head still foggy from a recurring nightmare. His body ached, his mouth felt stuffed with cotton and it took him several moments to open his eyes. Looking at the alarm clock that mocked him from the nightstand, he slowly realized that he had overslept.
His heart accelerated from the steady gait of peaceful slumber to a panic-induced gallop. The quickening of his pulse shocked him completely awake. Cursing as he stumbled his way out of bed in a jumbled mess of blankets, he nearly fell to the floor. Luckily, his hands flashed out instinctively to ward off harm to his face. The left wrist took the brunt of the fall, and pain spiked up his arm, but he felt fortunate to have not broken his neck. He freed himself, regained his balance and momentum, and sprinted down the hallway praying that his bedside clock was wrong, the whole time.
The microwave confirmed that it was twelve after seven. Greg took a moment to evaluate his situation. Rather than brew a pot of coffee, take a shower, and eat breakfast; he opted for deodorant, cologne, and Starbucks. He needed caffeine, and quick. Food was secondary.
Greg threw on a pair of wrinkled black slacks and a musty white dress shirt he found in what he assumed was a pile of clean laundry, and finished off the ensemble with a crusty pair of socks. It was seven seventeen already.
Where were his work shoes? One of them was lying next to the front door, but the other was nowhere in sight. He slipped his foot into the available shoe and felt a pang of déjà-vu so strong it buckled his knees and nearly made him collapse. To keep himself from falling down, he placed his hands flat against the front door. The room spun around him crazily for a minute. He felt as though he were on an out of control carousel, all he needed was some spooky pipe organ music to complete the scene.
After a moment, the instability subsided. Greg felt sure enough to pick up where he had left off. Still, he felt a little shaken. He was determined to make his morning a good one, and not let this setback ruin it for him. Still, he could not help but think, stroke!!!
In the living room, he dug to the bottom of a heap of laundry, searching for his missing shoe. He scattered the garments all over the room, then ran to his bedroom and did the same thing with another pile of clothes in there. Greg was the second or third least organized man on earth. Frustration mounted as his shoe continued to remain unfound.
The next stop was the bathroom. There was a mound of smelly towels on the floor in there. Greg poked around but revealed nothing but the tile floor.
A large palmetto bug crawled out of the disturbed blob of neglected towels. It scrambled behind the toilet in anticipation of a crushing blow that would smash it into oblivion; but Greg had no time to clean up guts this morning.
“It’s your lucky day, punk,” he drawled and aimed a finger gun at the little guy, firing an imaginary bullet into its sleek brown carapace “You’ve got ‘til sundown to get outta my town.”
Greg went back into the kitchen. Reluctantly he checked the refrigerator, knowing that it was ridiculous to expect his shoe to be in there. Still, he figured it was worth a shot. All he found was a half-eaten burrito from Taco Bell, an empty two-liter soda bottle, and a squeeze bottle of mustard.
Instead of shutting the refrigerator door, he grabbed the mustard bottle. He flipped the crusty cap open and squirted an enormous yellow glob into his mouth, and almost gagged.
After a moment of indecisiveness, Greg gave up. His shoe hunt had cost him precious time, and he knew he had to go if he was to get any coffee. There was simply no choice but to break dress code on top of being late. An old grass stained pair of sneakers would have to do.
On his way out the door, he stopped to look at his messy living room for a moment. It was cluttered, as was the norm, but there lingered a feeling of inexplicable emptiness here that he had not previously noticed. Before the strange feeling could set him off balance again, he dashed out the front door. Hurling himself behind the wheel of his car, Greg prayed he would catch a break at Starbucks. It was coffee or death at this point.
Blanding Boulevard was the main artery between the small town of Orange Park and the metropolis of Jacksonville. Greg was speeding down that street within two minutes. The heavily traveled road was usually a bumper-to-bumper mess during rush hour, but Greg had not run into a lot of traffic so far. Then he rounded a long bend and the main drag came into sight ahead. Dismayed at what he saw, he irrationally jammed his palms into the hard plastic of the steering wheel. The line for Starbucks was not just around the building; it had actually snaked its way out into the street. A twisted tangle of vehicles spilled out into the main flow of commuters.
Greg watched with bitter disappointment as trapped drivers attempted wild maneuvers to navigate around the congestion and get on with their mornings. A dark gray Hummer, the driver obviously unable to wait any longer, jumped out of the Starbucks line right into Greg’s path. For a split second, the sun reflected off the gigantic vehicle, and Greg had to put a hand up to shield his eyes. He stepped on the brake pedal and the oversize SUV was able to speed away without incident. The Hummer had left a wide gap in the Starbucks line, and he was going to fill it. Immediately, Greg removed his foot from the brake and gunned the accelerator. He got the spot, and felt heroic in having done so, but something strange occurred.
Time slowed down. Greg had another more minor since of deja-vu. It was as if he were one-step ahead of time but unable to influence it. He knew that he had to do something, but no idea what that was. Then, he blacked out.
In the blink of an eye, he was back in the flow of traffic again, slick with sweat, and despairing for his sanity. Despite having, only a moment ago, lucked into a great spot in line, he had never gotten any coffee. Now here he was, driving along as if it had never happened. His reflection in the rearview mirror appeared haggard. There had been no time to make himself presentable to the public this morning. There was a modest growth of whiskers on his chin and upper lip, and a few spider legs of hair peeked out of his nostrils. The bags under his eyes were more like steamer crates. In a nutshell, he looked as if he had been ridden hard and put away wet.
Greg thought for sure he was going to have a full-blown panic attack. His heart was thumping like a thrash metal bass drum soundtrack to the madness he had been swept into. Nevertheless, the thought of being at work soon, surrounded by other people, was reassuring. The rest of the drive was not chaotic. Greg was thankful.
Apparently, mustard was not a substantial enough breakfast, for his stomach gurgled uncontrollably. Greg hoped all the morning’s strangeness was merely a side effect from hunger and caffeine withdrawals.
With Starbucks no longer in the equation, he would have to settle for the off brand sludge they provided at work. Arnie, one of the higher paid accountants at the office, was a speed freak, and he methodically arrived fifteen minutes earlier than anyone else did so he could brew a double-bagged pot of the foul shit unchallenged. Arnie’s was a desperate brew for a desperate caffeine junkie.
Right now, Greg epitomized that description.
Without any further strangeness, Greg finally pulled off Blanding. The large building that housed Princeton and Associates came into Greg’s view at exactly eight o clock. It dawned on him that he had begun to wonder if the office would even be there. That was ridiculous, but today had proven unequivocal in its weirdness
, and nothing was off limits. Moreover, it was still early.
A parking space was available about fifty yards from the front. Greg veered into it, barely able to wedge his little car into the tight area. He hit the ground running.
Despite the fact that he set the thermostat to sixty-eight degrees, Mr. Princeton propped the door open with a large gaily-painted rock during the summer. Greg used this quirk to his advantage, and was able to sneak into the office and get to his desk without alerting anyone to his late arrival.
The place usually bustled like a hive inside, and today was no exception. His coworkers were all present, and hard at work.
Greg logged into his workstation and glanced down at the clock. He had only been a few minutes late; perhaps he would be okay after all. A helping of unexciting work would be enough to calm him down a little.
Greg’s job was data entry. It was perfectly monotonous. He rattled away at his keyboard, quickly filled in a dozen spreadsheets with their appropriate figures, hoping to distance himself from the weirdness that had settled over him like a blanket of dense fog.
The menial task his job provided did have a calming quality. At first, he expected Mr. Princeton to materialize over his shoulder, but Greg had not seen his boss among his coworkers at all this morning. Then he began to wonder where Princeton was. After awhile, Greg surmised his boss was, in fact, absent.
The man never missed a day.
Maybe he called in sick… maybe I should have!
Without the boss stalking around pitilessly under-appreciating the productivity of his staff, the day took on almost a pleasant mood. There was a sense of freedom in the office without Princeton micro managing the daily operations.
No one bothered to strike up any meaningless banter with Greg throughout his shift.
He was not persona non-gratis; it was just that none of his coworkers really had a whole lot to say to him. There was no love lost there. Most of them, rightly, considered themselves his intellectual superiors. This rolled right off him. It was Greg’s estimation that water cooler talk was overrated. He did not impose on them, and they left him alone. It was a no lose situation. Greg was there for one reason only: to earn his paycheck. It was a waste of time for him to try to get to know his coworkers on a personal level. There was no future in it. He simply needed his paycheck.
Narrowing his vision to the work at hand enabled Greg to eliminate distractions. His fingers moved deftly over the keys. He peeked over the top of his cubicle to look at Kirsten, Princeton’s secretary, leaning against her desk near the front door. Okay, she was certainly a distraction. She was extremely attractive; he would gladly engage in conversation with her anytime. Unfortunately, on the spare occasions that he had summoned up the nerve to speak with her, she always seemed to be preoccupied with something else, anything else - perhaps a strange bug on the acoustic tile ceiling, or a tiny chip in her fingernail polish.
On the occasions Greg needed to speak to Kirsten, she would nod her head courteously and respond with polite affirmatives, but her stunning violet eyes would invariably drift away to some imperceptible something up there. He had even followed her gaze a few times, hoping he would indeed see something more interesting than he was just over his shoulder.
If she would look at him and really talk to him he felt she would get lost forever in his gaze, and they would surely fall hopelessly in love. Greg resolved that he would gather up what little courage he possessed and pay her a visit today.
There was always a chance that he could redirect the course of this day. Noon seemed as far away as Neptune right then.
Startled, Greg saw that it was five minutes until noon already. He blinked and rubbed his weary eyes with his fists. He looked again. Now it was noon.
It felt like only a few minutes had passed since he had begun working. He had not even had a cup of coffee yet, and it was already lunchtime.
Like a man walking the plank, he made his way slowly toward the propped-open front door.
Shaken though he was by the way the day had flown by so quickly, he was still determined to talk to Kirsten. He struggled to regain his composure as he approached the reception desk. Kirsten was wearing a pink cashmere sweater and a knee length black skirt with slits up the sides that accentuated her sleek curves. It also revealed a demure but sexy amount of her thighs. She had her long auburn hair tied in a bun and pinned to the back of her head. A few little wisps of loose hair that fell out here and there framed her delicate face.
Greg’s confidence began to falter as he neared her.
Screwing his face up into what he hoped was a genuine looking smile, forgetting that he looked like hell; he attempted to speak to her. To his dismay, when he opened his mouth all that came out were a series of clicking and cracking noises. A voice that sounded like a crow pecking away at a rodent’s skull, eager to reach the delicious brain inside emitted from his mouth. She refused to acknowledge his presence. Not even his strangeness intrigued her.
His ineptitude embarrassed him, and he rushed outside to get away. He decided he would have two double cheeseburgers today. Hold the mustard.
McDonald’s was busy, but the line moved fast. When it was his turn to order he felt for his wallet, but it was missing. He patted his other pockets, hopeful. This was not good. A shoe was one thing, but it was murder when a wallet went missing. The stomach pangs became daggers of hot pain.
Greg hung his head and shuffled away from the counter without speaking to the frazzled looking cashier. He nearly collided with a little girl that had been standing too close to him. Luckily, he did not knock her down.
“I’m so sorry,” he blurted out.
She gave him a curious look and shrugged. “It’s okay. I knew you would look out for me.”
Greg thought that was an odd thing for a little girl to say to a stranger, and he stared at her for several long seconds, perplexed. His vision swam in and out of focus, and a new wave of pain stunned him. This time the piercing fiery pain blossomed in his chest and radiated out to his limbs, doubling him over.
The little girl smiled at him, obviously unimpressed with his show of agony. Maybe she thought he was faking it.
“Lilly!” A man’s voice boomed from behind the girl.
Greg realized that since he had first laid eyes on the girl, he had forgotten everything else around him. His chest pain ebbed and then vanished almost as suddenly as it had set in. There was a man in his forties staring at the little girl with a mix of concern and impatience.
The man spoke again, more harshly. “Please, Lilly, the man is waiting.”
He pointed at the bored looking cashier, and gently propelled her forward with his hand. Greg felt an unexplainable pang of resentment toward the man.
Oddly, the fellow showed no interest in Greg. Greg thought he would have said something to a strange man talking up his daughter if he had one, and felt more contempt for the fellow than before.
As the two approached the counter, the girl turned her head and looked at Greg with fondness. He was suddenly sure he recognized her from somewhere, but when he attempted to figure it out, he drew a blank.
The man that accompanied Lilly shoved her in the back again, and this time, Greg made his exit.
Back in the car, he scratched his head, perplexed. He fumbled under the driver’s seat for his lost wallet, but found nothing but a couple of discarded French fries and a penny. He half expected to find his shoe under the seat.
There was still enough time to drive home and grab his wallet. He could hit a drive thru on his way back to work and eat lunch at his desk.
On his way back to his house, he encountered only light traffic, which was typical at this time of day on Blanding. However, there was still a nasty looking snarl of traffic around his favorite coffee shop.
There had been an accident, Greg could see. The two vehicles involved looked like metal hamburger meat. Blue and red lights pulsed everywhere. There were two ambulances, a fire truck and several police cruisers at the sc
ene. Eastbound traffic had dead-ended here. Police officers cast somber glances at rubber-neckers in the westbound lanes, pleading for everyone to be respectful and just move along.
Nothing to see here folks, they implied.
Despite their earnest protestations to the contrary, there was definitely plenty for all the morbidly curious people to see.
Greg craned his neck to get a better look and check out the smashed vehicles. One was clearly a station wagon. He could not identify what type of vehicle the other twisted chaos of metal was. Police officers were taking statements from several people on that side of the street. Greg tried to avert his gaze from the scene, hoping that no one had been seriously hurt.
He also decided to take the back roads on his return trip to work.
Trying hard not to stare at the wreck, he drove along toward his house. Curiosity got the better of him, though, and he glanced over his shoulder once last time before continuing home. One of the responding officers was standing near the median with what looked like a long pole shoved out in front of him, a bloodstained shoe dangling precariously from the business end. The cop crinkled his face in disgust, and appeared to be on the verge of losing his lunch.
