William Martin
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The Bank Robber

4/5/2017

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The Bank Robber
William Martin
 
            The kid stood in front of the bank doors reading its hours of operation and other information: please remove helmets, sweatshirt hoods, and sunglasses; Do not leave car unattended for long periods of time.
            He had no car. He had walked the entire way to the bank, his baggy jeans barely hanging onto his thin frame, yet still able to hold the .38 revolver in the center back of his waistband. He could feel the weight of the gun now as it rested there, the four inch barrel just touching the crack of his ass. He reached behind him and withdrew the gun. It felt heavy and powerful in his hand and he tossed it up – just a bit – to get a better feel for it and its weight. He looked back at the sign on the door.
            He still had his sweatshirt hood up, his aviator sunglasses still on, but it didn’t matter. The bank was closed. It was closed every weekend and closed weekdays at 5:00 p.m., Fridays at 6:00. It was Saturday and nearing dusk.
            He stood frowning at the front doors, his gaze shifting from the doors to the gun in his hand, as though trying to make up his mind. Then he stepped over to the ATM to the far right of the front doors.
            He stood in front of the ATM, but back about 12 feet. He planted his feet in a combat stance, raised the gun and pointed it at the glowing screen.
            “Okay, motherfucker, give me all your cash.”
            The ATM squatted in front of him, its screen glowing and silent.
            “I’m not fuckin’ with you,” the kid said. “Get those fuckin’ hands where I can see them and start handing over your cash.”
            The ATM’s screen continued to glow in response.
            “Okay, fucker,” the kid fired off three quick shots into the ATM screen. The gun bucked in his hand and two bullets hit the screen, one above the other. The third bullet wanged into the metal above the screen, leaving a small, black hole. Pieces of the heavy plastic cover flew out while the rest of it cracked into a spider web. A small spark sputtered beneath its remaining surface, but otherwise there was no change in the machine.
            The kid, on the other hand, felt as if his ears had been pierced by ice picks. His head ached and his ears rang as though clapped by a pair of stove pot lids. He shouted his next words as much to be able to hear himself as to warn the machine once again.
            “See? I’m not fuckin’ around here. So hand over the fucking money or I will empty this gun into you and fuckin’ kill you.” The kid’s ears began settling down and he could hear sirens, but the ringing kept him from being able to tell how far off the sirens were.
            “Last chance,” he warned. Again, the machine failed to even acknowledge the kid’s existence. The kid fired his remaining shots into the ATM, bursting the plastic on the machine and killing its steady glow. The shots also burst his ears back into a faint, whining pain. He ignored the impulse to reach up with his hands to cover his hears. Instead, he held his hands straight out from his body, like a forgotten scarecrow or Christ giving it up on the cross, the now empty gun dangling from the index finger of his right hand.
            The first of the three police cars came screaming into the bank parking lot. It slammed to a stop in behind the kid and both its occupants bailed from either side of the cruiser. One cop scuttled out of the driver’s seat and to the rear of the patrol car. The other cop bailed out of the right side of the cruiser, using its front end and passenger door for cover. The driver leveled his pistol at the kid’s back, while his partner rested a short barreled shotgun between the cruiser’s door and window frame.
            The two other police cars were soon on the scene as well, bouncing over the parking lot entrance, their tires screaming to a stop. They hung further back and to the outside of the first car. The doors flew open and the two additional officers settled into position with their guns on the kid.
            The driver of the first patrol car took charge. He had a small microphone attached to the front shoulder of his uniform shirt and he reached up to squeeze the handset. As if by magic, his voice boomed from the bullhorn of the cruiser.
            “Put your hands out away from your body,” the voice commanded –unnecessarily, because the kid’s hands were already in that position.
            “Let the gun drop from your hand.”
            The kid did as instructed.
            “Now put your hands behind your head and lace your fingers together.”
            The kid complied.
            “Now get down on your knees and do not move. I want to see those hands remain right where they are.”
            The kid eased down, the asphalt hard on his knees, but before he had even settled into the position, something seized his right wrist, pulling it down and behind him, while his body was slammed forward onto the asphalt. He barely had time to move his face aside, avoiding losing some teeth to the pavement. His aviator sunglasses clattered across the asphalt. His other wrist was jerked behind his back and he could hear the handcuffs snapping into place, pinching the skin on his wrists. A knee found the center of his back while one of the cops pulled his hood back and grabbed a fistful of his hair. They lifted the kid to his feet and walked him to the patrol car.
            “What the hell was that shit?” The cop in charge asked. “What did you think shooting an ATM would get you? I mean, besides arrested?” He slammed the kid over the hood of the patrol car and gave him a quick but thorough patting down.
            The kid smiled. “Aren’t you going to read me my rights before you question me?”
            “Son, you just shot the shit out of an ATM. There’s enough evidence to prove your guilt ten times over. We’ll let the detention officer go over the Miranda crap with you.” The cop put his hand on the kid’s head and eased him into the backseat of the cruiser. “Mind your head now.”
            “What do you think they’ll charge me with?”
            “That’s up to the prosecutor’s office, but let me see,” the cop feigned rubbing his chin as if in deep thought over the issue. “Well, there’s attempted robbery of course, destruction of property, illegal carry of a firearm, illegal discharge of a firearm within city limits, probably illegal possession of a firearm…hell, I haven’t even began to go into what the feds will do. Should have stuck to robbing quickie marts, Paco.” He looked over the top of the cruiser to his partner. “Any other charges that come to mind, partner? I’m sure there’s a shit ton of others.”
            “The biggest one that stands out to me,” his partner said. “Is illegal employment of massive amounts of stupidity.” 
            The two cops laughed as they pulled from the parking lot, leaving one cruiser behind to secure the scene of the attempted robbery.
            The kid sat in the backseat of the cruiser and smiled.
 
*****
 
            The two officers stood on either side of the kid and led him through the back door of the station house, down a long gray hallway, down a flight of stairs, and into the booking room. Beyond the booking room a row of 12 jail cells stretched to the end wall and then made a 90 degree turn with four more cells. For the most part, the inmates in the cells were quiet. The drunk drivers, drug addled, and homeless made up most of the residency, however four of the cells contained inmates arrested on more serious charges. Three pairs of arms stuck out between the bars of three cells, their tattoos illustrating stories that only the inmate could tell with certainty.
            The kid said nothing, but continued to hold his half-smile. The officers led him past the booking agent and to the front of a holding cell to give the kid a more thorough search.
            “So this is the badass bank robber I heard about over the radio, huh?”
            “Yep. Shot the shit out of an ATM. If you take cards up your slot, you could be in danger with this one.”
            The detention officer laughed. “If you’ve given him the once-run, bring him on over here and we’ll get him booked.”
            The first officer directed the kid to the desk, his hand on the kid’s elbow. “How about we do a handoff here and you can finish up?”
            “Oh no. You are officially the ‘arresting officer of record,’ so you get to stick around with me so Dan Dangerous here doesn’t go all kung-fu on my ass. Your partner can go book the gun into evidence and get a head start on your paperwork though.”
            “Great,” the partner said. “I’ll catch you upstairs where the humans still dwell. No offense D.O.”
            “None taken. Give the land of the living my regards.”
            The arresting officer walked the kid to the detention officer’s table, which was bolted to the floor. He unlocked one side of the handcuffs and locked it to a steel ring set into the table.
            “Okay,” the D.O. said. “Empty your pockets. Put everything on the table here and we’ll do an inventory.”
            The kid smiled as he dropped his wallet on the table, some coins, and a single key.
            “You’re a happy little bank robber, aren’t you son?” the D.O. said. “What were you trying to gain by shooting the crap out of an ATM? You do know it’s a machine right? And that it can’t listen to what you tell it to do?”
            The kid met the D.O.’s eyes, but only widened his smile.
            “That’s okay,” the D.O. said. “I prefer the strong silent types myself. It beats listening to the same old bullshit from every suspect. Let’s see who we have here.” He flipped open the wallet, took out a few small bills, and then removed other cards, pieces of paper, and a single condom. “Well, at least he’s a safe-sex bank robber, which is good. We wouldn’t want the ATM bandit here to be reproducing.”
            “So who do we have here?” said the arresting officer.
            “One of those from the southeast side. You know those apartment complexes that look like a city within the city, only they smell a lot worse? That’s where Bandit here hails from.”
            “Shit, that would have been my first guest,” the arresting officer said. “I should have tried to bet you before we found out for sure.”
            “Those asshole spics come out of the womb with a knife in their hand ready to rob and rape their own mothers.” The D.O. looked over to see if he had struck a nerve. Usually, any comments towards an inmate’s mother got some kind of reaction, but the kid simply kept his smile on the D.O.
            “Can I ask, sir, how long you’ve been doing this job?” The kid said.
            “This is my twelfth year.”
            The kid looked around at the gray painted walls and jail cell bars. “And do they let you out into the daylight much? Hell, you’re as much in jail as any man here, except you draw a shitty paycheck at the end of the week and probably go home to a fat wife every night. Does anyone really even know who you are?”
            The D.O.’s smile dropped. “Okay, smartass. We’ll get you fingerprinted and get your mug shot and then you can make use of one of our exclusive accommodations. There won’t be an ATM for you to fuck up, but there’s a television in the corner. If you can’t see it from the cell, you can listen to it and try to form mental images in that pea brain of yours.”
            The kid smiled. “I appreciate that, sir.”
            “Yeah, whatever. Now pull out your shoelaces and give me your belt. We can’t have a world-class bank robber going for the easy way out, can we?”
            The D.O. inventoried the kid’s belongings, had the kid sign a receipt for the items, finished processing him, and then felt an even greater sense of satisfaction than usual when he slammed the cell door shut. The kid’s cell was in the middle around the corner and he could see most of the other cells and their occupants.
            “You just rest easy Bandit,” the D.O. said. “The prosecutor will have your charges drawn up sometime Monday morning. Meanwhile, enjoy your lovely cot with single pillow and blanket and your exposed commode. Try not to shit on yourself if you use it.”
            The entire time the kid said little to nothing, but held his pants up by gripping the front waist and continued to smile. The D.O. walked back to his desk with the arresting officer.
            “Fucker keeps on with that weird smile,” he said. “Put that with his shooting up an ATM and you’ve got a mental case for sure. Now his lawyer will step in and use that to get him off. Then we repeat the cycle. Load, wash, rinse, repeat. Fuckin’ head job.”
            “To protect and to serve,” the arresting officer said. “It’s the code I live by. But tonight I think all I did was serve to protect a mental deficient from hurting himself. It’s times like these when we should stay the hell out of the way of Darwin and let these kind kill themselves off with their stupidity.”
            “It’ll be interesting to see what the ATM video shows. Who knows? Maybe there was an accomplice,” the detention officer rounded his desk and sat down with a sigh. “Although it’s kind of depressing to think there might be some others of his mental caliber out there in this world.”
*****
            The kid sat on the edge of his bunk, looking down at his lace-less shoes. He slept restlessly the night before and the day had dragged by. He had passed on the food that was served.
            “Going on a starvation diet?” A new D.O. had come on duty, but the kid found him as snide and condescending as the first. “That’s going to gain you about as much as shooting up an ATM.” The D.O. had laughed and some of the other inmates had joined in. The D. O. seemed to like having an audience and since the kid said nothing, he became an easy target.
            The jail was full. Over the course of the night the kid watched four drunk drivers go through processing, each one managing to get someone to come bail them out and take them home. A vagrant also came through, but had both pissed and shit himself at the beginning of processing. The other inmates were quick to show their disapproval.
            “Oh, come on now,” one said. “Do not put that guy in the same fucking building as us, let alone in one of these cells.”
            “He’ll probably get a better place to stay by pulling that off,” another laughed. “Maybe we should all shit ourselves.”
            “Go ahead, asshole,” the first answered. “They’ll just leave you to sit in it until Monday.”
             The kid had no idea where they took the guy who had shit himself, probably somewhere with a strong hose.
            The television played constantly. Apparently, the other inmates were used to the incessant noise, because the kid heard more than a few snoring off and on through the night. He couldn’t see the television from his cell, but it was tuned to some classic television channel that ran a marathon of situation comedies, the canned laughter beginning to scrape along the kid’s nerves. The irony of the television’s tuning wasn’t lost on the kid.
            The news had come on three times since the kid was placed in the cell. There was one report of an attempted home invasion, which earned one of the inmates a smattering of applause, but there was no mention of the attempted ATM robbery. The kid wasn’t surprised. You fuck with a bank, it’s federal, and they don’t broadcast any federal shit until the feds had the whole thing sewed up as tight as the stitching on a baseball.
            Still, he stayed awake and through the second night kept his ears open to any change on the television.
            Just before breakfast on Monday, the news came on again. The newscaster presented a few pieces of national news, but then her tone changed and the kid knew this was it. He stood and stepped to the front of the cell. He held one of the bars with one hand and held his pants up with the other, straining his ears to hear.
            The announcer’s voice came across, feminine, suddenly light-hearted, but consummately professional.
            “In other news, a local bank robbery with a strange twist. The suspect, a young Hispanic man, approached an Automated Teller Machine as you can see in this film from the actual ATM. Watch what transpires in this strangest of armed bank robberies.”
            Other inmates began to point towards the television beyond the kid’s sight, shouting to him and laughing.
            “Shut up!”
            The inmates fell silent as the sound came from the ATM and through the television video. “Okay, beeeeeeeeeep, give me all your cash.”A pause.“I’m not beeeeeeep-ing with you.  Get those beeeep-ing hands where I can see them and start handing over your cash.”A pause. “Okay, beeeep.”
            Three muffled pops came from the television. The inmates remained silent as they watched the scene on the screen unfold.
            “See? I’m not beeeeeping around here. So hand over the beeeeping money or I will empty this gun into you and beeeeeeping kill you.”
            Another pause and then, “Last chance.”
            The next three pops sounded and, although the kid couldn’t see, the picture blurred and diagonal lines waved through it. The other inmates watched the video as the kid spread his arms out, the gun dangling from his right index finger. The picture froze and recessed into a background shot behind the newscaster.
            “The video, now being dubbed as the “Armed ATM Bandit” surfaced from police evidence and has since went viral, garnering over six and one half million hits in only 36 hours. The previous record for a viral video pales in comparison and if this one continues, it will surely surpass all previous views for a viral video on YouTube. It is now being broadcast in Britain, France, and other countries throughout Europe and Asia. News agencies and entertainment sources from around the world are already lining up to interview the “Armed ATM Bandit.”
             The other newscaster’s comment faded in the murmurs of the other inmates’ sudden chatter. Their voices rose in volume, but then fell to a few furtive whispers.
            The cell block lay still for a lone, silent moment…
            And then exploded into whistles, applause, and cheers…
            The kid, his fists held high, jumped up and down on the balls of his feet like a prize fighter. “Yeah, motherfuckers!” he screamed. “I am fucking international!”
            As he jumped up and down, his unsecured pants fell unnoticed around his ankles. The inmates of the cell block cheered as though meeting the latest, greatest rock and roll sensation.
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The Meeting (Part I)

3/8/2016

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The Meeting 10/27/2013
The School Department Meeting

            “Okay, so it looks as though we’re all here, which is great, because it means we can adhere to our communal agreement to honor each other’s time. Susan, could you please record the individual names of those who are present?”

            “Um, okay, but didn’t you just say that everyone was here?”

            “Yes, Susan, but it needs to be recorded for the current meeting minutes.”

            “Oh, okay.”

            “Also, we should point out in the minutes that Susan is taking meeting notes and Bill has volunteered to keep time, so that we stay on track with the meeting topics and honor everyone’s time.”

            “But what if we stray from the meeting topics to clarify other aspects that invariably come up when we attempt to discuss an issue?”

            “Susan, please take note that Fred has introduced another topic for consideration, which we will address as time allows when we’ve completed our current agenda.”

            “But that doesn’t address the immediate consideration of allowing us to explore varied opinions and concerns in regards to our current meeting agenda.”

            “Fred, we haven’t even started the meeting proper yet, but you seem to have an issue in regards to our proceedings, which we all agreed upon at our last meeting. Do you have an issue you’d like to bring up at a future meeting?”

            “Um, no. Never mind. I’m okay.”

            “Good, then we’re able to proceed without further interruption...although if you feel the need to interrupt the meeting with other thoughts or input, we’re more than willing to stop and consider any and all input, even though it may extend our time frame, which will not honor our agreement in respecting each other’s time. Now, the first item on our agenda has to do with the school-wide policy on pencils.”

            “I’m a little confused as to how ‘pencils’ are on our department’s agenda.”

            “Bob, this has been a district wide concern that each department and each individual within that department should have concern over.”

            “But aren’t pencils just pencils?”

            “Bob, as you were informed of via email and in the email reminder of meeting minutes and the copy of those concerns placed in your mail box as you came in this morning, and the email immediately prior to this meeting, pencils are a very important issue within our department and within every department in the school. It literally reflects our school district’s policy and communication to the general public.”

            “I guess that’s where I’m a bit confused. Aren’t pencils just pencils? How are they a matter of department, school, and school district policy? I don’t get it.”

            “Let the record show that Bob ‘doesn’t get it.’ Bob, have you ever thought about what a pencil is and what it could potentially be?”

            “Um, I guess not. I guess I’ve always thought of a pencil as a pencil.”

            “Bob, I think it may be a matter of your not considering the bigger issues at stake here.”

            “What issues? Isn’t a pencil just a pencil?

            “Bob, I really wish you would have taken the time to read through the paperwork placed in your mailbox and read the emails referencing this particular topic.”

            “I’m sorry. There are just so many emails, copies of which are put in our mailboxes, and which we review at staff meetings, which are also put in our mailboxes. It’s difficult to discern what is of actual importance and what is simply repeated for repetition’s sake.”

            “Bob, it seems as though you’re approaching this meeting with a bad attitude. Is everything okay at home? How are your wife and daughters?”

            “Uh, they’re all okay. My comments have nothing to do with, nor reflect upon them.”

            “Okay then, if there’s not a problem, then perhaps we can continue?”

            “Sure. Whatever. Go for it.”

            “Thank you, Bob, for allowing us to continue while honoring everyone’s individual work time.”

            “Okay.”

            “So, back to the pencils.”

            “I thought the issue of the pencils was determined last night at the school board meeting.”

            “Fred, they discussed it at last night’s board meeting, but they still require our input.”

            “Actually, I don’t think they do. They voted and reached a decision. The local newspaper printed a column on their debate and decision today. I think it may be a dead issue.”

            “Fred, administration has asked for our input on the issue, which is the primary purpose of our meeting today.”

            “Why would we meet on an issue that has already been decided? It looks to me like they’re just giving us the illusion of having input. The issue regarding pencils has already been decided.”

            “Fred, that’s where we’re trying to be proactive in regards to other aspects of the pencil issue.”

            “But what is there to be proactive about? The board decided that a pencil wasn’t a lethal weapon unless sharpened beyond a .02 diameter tip and the student illustrated ‘intent to harm.’ What else is there to be proactive about?”

            “Fred, I want to put this across professionally, without you taking it as a personal statement or attack, but have you considered the implications of varied sexuality when it comes to the pencil?”

            “Sexual implications? What the hell kind of sexual…”

            “Which is my point, Fred. We can help each other in being more proactive in understanding the varied implications of an issue, rather than the one that seems most apparent.”

            “But how the hell does a pencil relate to sexuality?”

            “You illustrate my point exactly, Fred. Have you not noticed that most pencils are --and I mean this with all decorum-- hard? And it goes without saying the implication of pencils having pink erasers on the tips. Ticonderoga is probably the most obvious example of this and in their blatant insensitivity to race, because of their particular color.”

            “They’re yellow. Is that what you mean?”

            “Um, yes Fred. Haven’t you noticed the implications of that? We’re not only talking sexually, but also in regards to ethnicity. As you know, we’re all supposed to be a bit more sensitive to those issues.”

            “Okay. Give me a moment to wrap my head around that one. Please go on.”

            “Okay then. Administration would like to have our input on the pencil issue.”

            “Our input, specifically, in regards to what?”

            “Hannah, have you not been paying attention? We need to come to a consensus regarding whether we consider wooden pencils to be a potential weapon in the hands of a student or not. Can we have a show of hands? Please raise five fingers if you believe they are and we’ll work our way down to one if you don’t think they are.”

            “But what if we’re the only one to raise one finger? Won’t that single us out?”

            “No, not at all. We’re sensitive to everyone’s opinions and input. If you vote with a single digit against everyone else, we will simply stop and re-discuss the issue until a consensus is reached.”

            “But if I’m the only one to disagree, won’t it amount to my being bullied into agreeing or being labeled as a troublemaker?”

            “Fred, I think that’s a rather cynical viewpoint. Can’t you at least give the agreed upon system a fair try? Of course, if you disagree, we’re more than happy to consider your thoughts and opinions.”

            “Um, okay.”

            “Okay then. All who vote five? Okay then, all fives except for Fred’s single ‘one’ vote. So, Fred, what can we do to convince you that you should vote along with the other fourteen of us?”

            “I guess….maybe it’s just a matter of my being confused…but you’re asking us to vote on an issue that’s already been decided, but if we don’t agree with the other votes, it will be a matter of record and we will be met with frustration and disagreement until we vote with the majority?”

            “That’s a very cynical way of looking at the proceedings we all agreed upon Fred. Would you like some time to reconsider your vote or would you like to discuss the issue that the school board voted for last night so that you might contribute in…some way?”

            “No. No. I think I understand the issue at this point and the varied opinions of all of those in our department who have contributed.”

            “Good then. So we can call it all fives. I can’t tell you all how happy I am with what we’ve accomplished today. And I really appreciate everything that everyone in our department contributed to the discussion and decision. I’ll report our thoughts, opinions, and votes to administration.”

            “Um, I don’t mean to be the spoiler in the group, but we’ve went beyond the hour of allotted time.”

            “Thank you Bill, your contribution to making sure we were all on task and accomplished so much is very much appreciated. I feel good about what we’ve managed to accomplish today people. It makes me feel good about each of you and the good things we can continue to do in the future. I look forward to letting administration know what we’ve decided here today.”

            “Um, but…

            “What was that, Fred?”

            “Nothing. Just clearing my voice a bit. I look forward to our next meeting and all that we can accomplish.”

            “Good for you, Fred. That’s the kind of input and attitude everyone can benefit from.”

            “Just noticing. We went over by four minutes on our meeting.”

            “Thank you for that input Bill. We'll talk to those who feel the need to move beyond our established time frame with our next meeting, perhaps you can help with minutes as well as time-keeping?”

            “Um. Sure. Okay. Happy to be able to contribute. As I’m sure, all of us are.”

            "Fred, in between now and the next meeting, would you like a pencil or two, just to look over and possibly take notes on so you'll be better prepared for our next meeting?"

            "That sounds great. I'll look the pencils over real well before the next meeting."

           "That's the spirit Fred. It's always a good sign when you know you have a solid team player working with you."

            "Um, thanks?"


                                                                                                                                  --William Martin
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The Novel

3/8/2016

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The Novel
*Hooray! My short story "The Novel" won The Pen Central's July Writing Challenge! The challenge stated the story had to be exactly 1000 words long --no more, no less-- and had to contain the words 'mountain,' 'lake,' 'carriage,' 'albatross,' and 'vision.' It was certainly a challenge to take on, but one that was fun and I'm very pleased with the end result. I hope you like it as well. Thanks to Shay Davidson and The Pen Central for all of her support and friendship.* 


The Novel

            I began writing the novel in 1988. I know it may seem obsessive to many, but since my typewriter clacked the first letter, I didn’t leave the house. It was a story unlike any other. I knew…was certain…it would topple Tolstoy, humble Hemingway, and even (dare I say it?) surpass Shakespeare. It was, --to put it humbly-- the pinnacle of perfection. I worked late into the night and early hours of the last morning and it was complete. Twenty-five years in the making, but, you can’t rush genius.              

             At times during my work, the typewriter sounded like a chorus of machine guns, snapping out over the trenches, the cling of the carriage barely audible.  At other times it felt like a forty pound albatross hanging around my neck, pecking at me as I pecked at it in an attempt to break free. I ordered food in. I wore my clothes until I couldn’t stand to be in them. I spent my inheritance. Some bills I paid, although my electricity was shut off in 1993. Still, during sunlight or moonlight, through blissful pain and excruciating joy, my vision of my masterpiece never wavered. It burst forth from my fingertips day after day, night after night, for two-and-a-half decades.  

             I looked upon the mountains of pages, satisfied and anxious to rush it to my agent. I hand washed a shirt, shaking it out to dry. I had become so thin I had to use a lamp cord to hold up my pants. I didn’t shave because my beard had grown so long, it would have taken far too much time. As I prepared myself I paused, trying to remember the last time I spoke to my agent.   

             If memory serves, it was in 1997. He stopped by my small house by the small lake. I opened the door --just a crack-- in answer to his knock. I poked my head outside and peered around, making sure no suspect stranger waited to force himself inside to steal my epic work. My agent stared, one eyebrow arched quizzically, the other narrowed down rather judgmentally.  

             “I wanted to see how you are,” he said. His gaze shifted from me to the lake.  

             “I told you before. The novel is coming along nicely.”   

            “You told me that three years ago,” he said. “I’m worried about you. No one has seen you. No one has heard from you. Are you okay?”   

             “They stopped my phone. I don’t remember when,” I said. “But the book is coming together. I should have it done soon.”   

             “You told me that three years ago as well,” he replied, “And three years before that.” He stood on tiptoe, attempting to look around me. I pulled the door a bit closer, obscuring his view.   

             “Look,” he said. “I’m honestly worried. You’re becoming a recluse. When did you last talk to your family?”   

             “Yes. Well, it took some doing, but I finally persuaded them to leave me to my work. Far too many interruptions.”   

            That odd expression appeared again and I began to suspect perhaps he might attempt to steal my work. He stood silently for a time and then sighed.  

             “Okay. I guess I’ll leave you to it then.”   

             “Thank you. Thank you. I’ll have the book completed very soon.” I shut the door then opened it again, just a bit, and watched him walk away, placing his hat upon his shaking head.   

             Now the epic novel was done. I lifted the stacks of manuscript and placed them into the boxes I had saved for twenty-five years. It occurred to me that it had been years since I had owned a car, but I remembered a wheelbarrow tucked away in the shed behind the house and I rushed to get it.   

             The wheelbarrow’s tire was cracked and contained very little air. Harder pushing it, to be sure, but it wasn’t far into town and to my publisher’s. Maybe three miles. I had no doubt that in my excitement I could get it to him. I mounded the file-boxes of manuscript into the wheelbarrow. The tire was now nearly on its rim, but I set my teeth and pushed.   

             It took time to get into town, which had grown since my last venture there. New storefronts lined the streets and I saw few I remembered. However, I knew where my agent’s office was and I smiled, picturing him reading, a look of awe on his face as he encountered supreme literary genius. I put my last bit of energy into rounding the corner to my agent’s.   

             It wasn’t there. I looked back at the corner street sign. Yes. That was correct. I looked around again. His building was gone and in its place a glassy storefront with an oddly figured green sign: Starbucks.   

             My head spun, trying to find something recognizable. Then I saw the small printing shop I remembered from years past. I left the wheelbarrow at the curb and ran in.  

             “The literary agency that was over there. Where is it?”   

             “Oh,” the proprietor pointed. “He was bought out by Acme Mega Publishing just down two blocks.”   

             I hurried, pushing the wheelbarrow full of manuscript to that mountain of a building. I parked the wheelbarrow at the curb and rushed in. I stumbled to the front counter, panting.  

             “I have my book,” I pointed. “It’s finished. I have it out front. There.”   

             The young, blonde girl looked up from a glowing square.   

            “I’m sorry, sir. We only accept submissions via email or our online submission site.”   

             “What? I’m sorry, but can I talk with an agent or publisher?”       

             “Again, I’m sorry sir. You’ll have to go online. We only consider manuscripts submitted via our website submission form or email system.”   


             I turned away. The floor seemed to slide from under me. My vision blurred as I watched two kids run up to the wheelbarrow, knock the lids off the top boxes and gleefully throw the papers into the wind. 

                                                                                                                                                                                        --William Martin
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    William Martin

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