Fifty Seven Days

Sam got out of the car when he saw the old man walk out onto the lawn. Though they were fitted, Sam wasn’t used to the new clothes, or maybe nerves convinced him his hands weren’t busy enough. He checked his pockets three or four times before the old man saw him. Sam smiled and was unsure if it was appropriate to hide his smile or not. The stern look on the old man’s face assured him it would be best to do away with the smile and shake hands. The old man looked at Sam’s hand for a reasonable second before shaking it. Two large men were carrying a large dresser out of the old man’s front door.

“What’s going on?” Sam asked. “Are you guys moving? I thought you loved this place.”

“Actually, we’re starting renovations on the house this weekend.”

“Looks like you’re moving a lot of stuff.”

“We’re doing the whole house, practically.”

“Nice!” Sam was unsure if he was feigning interest or not. “So Paul is going to get a bigger room?”

“Paul won’t be living with us anymore.”

“Why not?”

“He’s moving out, heading to college.”

“College? Wow! That is excellent news. I can’t believe my little brother is headed out to college. I bet he’s super smart too. He was always the genius of the family.”

“We’re all very proud of him.”

“That’s going to be an awfully big house to be living alone in… what with the renovation and everything.”

“There’s going to be a guest house out back. Down the line we’re going to start renting it out.”

“Oh?”

“It’ll be a good source of income for when your mother and I retire.”

“Any prospective renters yet?”

The old man didn’t answer. Instead he looked back at the movers.

“Hold on,” the old man said to Sam. He walked over to the movers and said something to them. Sam couldn’t hear but was sure it was some detailed direction on how they were moving furniture incorrectly. Sam chuckled to himself as he thought of it. “Sorry about that, Sam.”

“That’s all right.”

It was quiet. There was a nice breeze, like the conversation was trying to take a breath.

“You look well, son. Looks like you’ve put on some weight since the last time I saw you.”

Sam put up his arms and looked down at his body. He playfully patted his gut.

“It’s good,” the old man said, “You look healthy.”

“So are you guys finally putting in a pool too?”

“Nah, it seemed like a good idea when he had kids running around the house. It actually doesn’t do much for the property value either.”

“I remember one summer it was so hot mom decided to buy us one of those inflatable pools.”

“I thought you and Paul hated that thing.”

“Yeah, it was only about two feet deep, barely 15 feet wide. It was like a glorified bathtub. By the time that cheap hose would fill it up the water would be so hot anyway, remember?”

“Just barely,” the old man answered.

“I got a job.”

“Did you?”

“Yeah, I’m working on cars again. Not a big garage, it’s just one of those drive-thru tune up and oil change deals, you know?”

“That’s something.”

“Hey, is my mom going to be coming by soon?”

“She’s actually at your aunt’s place right now. That’s where we’ll be staying until the renovation is over.”

“Oh.”

“Something wrong? I can call her right now if you need to speak with her.”

“No, that’s okay. I was just hoping that maybe I could come over for dinner tonight.”

“Maybe some other time.”

“Right.”

Sam turned towards his car and reached into his pockets for his keys. Instead he pulled out a small metallic disc and quickly turned around. He gave it to the old man who looked at it, confused at first but the hint of a smile melted his otherwise stern face. The old man examined it closely and saw the etched equilateral triangle on one side and the number “45” on the other.

“Forty five days, eh?” the old man asked.

“Yeah. Well, technically it’s been fifty seven days but with the new job I really don’t go as regularly as I used to. I figure it’s good if I aim for nice round numbers anyway, give myself something to shoot for.”

The old man gave it back to Sam.

“Actually,” Sam refused to take it back, “I was hoping to show you guys at dinner tonight. But since that’s not happening I thought I’d just show it to you now. You can keep that since I’m hoping to get the sixtieth this weekend.”

The old man insisted on Sam taking it back. Reluctant and dejected, Sam plucked the disc from his hand.

“Here,” the old man said pulling out a business card, “You can reach me at the cell phone number. Call ahead and you can tell her over dinner tomorrow.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Sam smiled and didn’t bother hiding it. His eyes glistened as he looked at the business card as if he were trying to memorize the phone number straightaway. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his car keys.

“Son?” the old man said before Sam got in his car. “Keep it up.” And with that Sam drove back home.

A Bout with Writer's Block

I certainly hope that you, the reader, would find it in your heart to forgive me for making you wait so long in between releasing stories. You see, I’ve run into what we in the trade like to refer to as writer’s block. It’s a concept that I’m sure you’re all too aware of. Even as I commit these words to the page I haven’t the foggiest notion how to tug on that proverbial narrative thread. But to make up for my long absence, I present to you, to the best of my recollection, what has occurred during my unannounced hiatus as I battled writer’s block. What follows after this paragraph is based on true events (mostly).

Poised at my desk with my wrists elevated over the delicate keys of my aged Underwood, the ideas were all but flowing. I looked behind me at the open door to my office and called for Muse. I would not be so presumptuous as to call her mine, but she had seemed to favor me lately. Perhaps I was hers. She doesn’t have a true name so one day I referred to her simply as Muse, a moniker she seemed to find amusing. This particular day her fickle heart brought her—Well, I had no idea where she was. I still don’t. This would not be a problem if I wasn’t so near to the end of a story and was in dire need of her inspiration.

Calling once again to her, I heard the rapid approach of footsteps and immediately recognized them not as Muse’s, but as my faithful friend, Jack. When I brought him home, he was a forlorn pup. Not only was he the runt of his litter at only six feet tall, but he was also born with one head. It’s a most embarrassing malady for a Cerberus but I love him all the same. There never was a more faithful hellhound. I climbed upon his back and we rode north in search of the elusive Muse.

When we were nearly to the Northern Bay there was a shriek as if someone were being attacked. Jack leapt to action before I could direct him to do so and we found the source of the incessant screams coming from the top of a dried, bare tree. One would think that such noises could not be produced by so burly a knight. A rather large dragon was lying down at the bottom of the tree but the source of the knight’s trepidation was not the fire-breathing dragon. Just behind the dragon were the lovely and brave Lady Caitlin of Livermore and her trusted saber-toothed cat, Nesbitt.

“Do you need help there, good sir?” I yelled to the knight.

“Not at all, dear scribe,” he replied with the slightest of wavers in his voice. “You just caught me in the middle of rescuing this fair damsel in distress.”

“Do I appear to be distressed?” Lady Caitlin interjected. Her voice was a stern contrast to that of the knight’s. Nesbitt approached the tree and elicited a whimper from the knight. Nesbitt was a loyal companion as one would be to a woman who, just about a year prior, had rescued the poor cat from river demons.

“I just thought you could use—” the knight added.

“How about you do less presuming about what I could use and leave these poor dragons alone?” Lady Caitlin cared a great deal about all the creatures on her land. “This one is lucky I was nearby eradicating a troll’s nest. He’s just a baby and you were just about ready to slay him. You should be ashamed of yourself!”

“I am, princess.”

“I am no princess. Now get out of here before Nesbitt realizes she’s hungry.” And with that the knight ran down the field towards his steed in the distance never to be heard from again.

“Good morning, Lady Caitlin. And to you, Nesbitt,” I greeted them.

“Are you here to ‘rescue’ me as well?”

“You’re far more experienced with that than I could ever dream of. I’m actually in search of Muse. She hasn’t been around these parts, has she?”

“Can’t say that we’ve seen any muse let alone the one you refer to as such. But then again, I’ve been busy ridding the countryside of would-be knights in shining armor. But I will surely send word if Muse is seen around these parts! I do enjoy your sonnets, good scribe!”

“Thank you so much, Lady Caitlin. I suppose I will head back home and hope Muse will aim to do the same,” I bowed, as did Jack, and we set on our way back home.

Back at my desk, I stared blankly at the curled sheet of paper within the typewriter; its words sprawled about as if looking for a conclusion that may never come. I looked at the stack of pages that yearned to be completed with the final sheet. Words that may never come lingered in the air and there was no way for me to pluck them, no way for me to even see them without my dear friend Muse. I began to wonder if there was anything I said to have offended her or driven her away. But it was futile, for even if I had realized that that was the case there was little, if anything, that could be done about it.

Perhaps, I thought to myself, I can’t undo something said to Muse but there is a very real chance I can undo something said to me. Jack lay still under my desk as I reached down to rub his belly. I tiptoed out of the office to let him sleep and snuck into the garage. What I had in mind would only take but a few moments, maybe even fewer than a few.

It was dusty in the garage. I lifted the tarp and found my most dangerous and prized possession. You would think that operating a time machine would be like riding a bike but I can assure you that it’s a much more complicated process than pedaling. Fortunately, I was a stickler for detail and kept copious notes of operating the infernal machine. I knew the exact day I wanted to visit. I was eight years old and I had just received word that I won an award for a short story contest in which my teacher had submitted one of the first things I had ever written. That was the moment I knew I wanted to become a storyteller. I had put pen to paper and have never stopped since.

I knew that if I could convince my younger self of what’s to come, then I can avoid the having to seek out Muse each time I wanted to complete a story. However, my younger self had something else in mind. I didn’t speak much. The words I used were never spoken, only written. Words of poets and novelists who were long gone before I had even been born were stacked neatly around my tiny bed. The picture books I never learned to let go of were always under my pillow. They were stories that I knew I could depend on when sleepless nights were aggressively sleepless. And then there were the comic books. There were first editions and collections that lined the shelves. Clothes were foregone to make more room for books that I would never have time read. The bound stories, paperback and hardback, surrounded the younger me like a shell that I used to protect myself from the harsh reality of adulthood.

There was no way I could convince my younger self that writing wasn’t worth it. While I basked in the warm light of nostalgia, I was dejected that I was stuck with a story in need of a resolution. And that’s where this story ends. Perhaps by the time your eyes meet these words, I will have found an ending to my novel. Who knows? Maybe Muse found it in her heart to lend me a hand one last time. But until then, I apologize, once again, for boring you with the banality of my life in the absence of writing.