A man by himself

[engineer1984]

I walked into the room and it was just like the rooms in the movies. It was expansive and the marble floors reflected the world and all its undersides. So I stood in two parts: the part that was me and the part that was the me made of see through two dimensional marble outlines . And I stood there, in the middle of the room, equidistance between two black soft leather couches facing each other at a distance of maybe ten feet. A wooden bar on the left wall with the brass rail for your feet and the tiny hidden hooks for the purses. The kind of bar that a man with a moustache and a black band around his white shirt sleeve stands behind while drying a cocktail glass and giving you the eye and his head hovers at angle just above not being able to give you the eye. Always cleaning. And the whiskeys and the scotches and gins stand in columns, unsorted to give color to the drinker. To give a sense of wonder and to make sure the bar never looks organized.

And the mirror to your right sets atop a beautiful carved stand whose purpose is to dimension itself or maybe to add to the décor that sets atop it. The legs curl and swerve through the air from the burden to the support.

Not all the lamps are lit and the light given is kindly and courteous, not a bit over a glow. The wall I am currently facing is all windows and the night is dark and it sucks and sucks away the light. It pulls it from all the reflections and my countenance is barely visible in the floor.

So I stand on this rock that was hewn from the earth in great slabs and deposited here. And I think. A great white light suddenly switches on. The entire room white as the inside of a hospital. And it’s gone. The great clap, the whip crack, will come soon. It will come to play to the senses that weren’t touched by the light and leave the eyesight alone. So I wait and count the seconds. At one one thousand, two one thous – CRACK!

Of course it has to be storming because outside on the balcony of this 20th floor is a man in a suit holding onto the rail with both hands and looking downward in a slouching position as if the world around him weren’t crashing and spitting on him with the fury of ten thousand God’s. I don’t think he even twitched when the lightening hit. Bad decisions, and more importantly, consequences are piling up on him. And as you move closer to him, being careful to stay out of the rain, you see his hands are clenched tightly around that cast iron and that while his demeanor of arms stretched out, heels kicked out towards the apartment and head peering into the night look casual, his strength tells you otherwise.

He is chained down and he is lost. His world inside has been very carefully timed by God to match the outside that we all see. And while some of us are under a roof on a porch listening to a ballgame taking place in a dry part of the world enjoying the crazy outside in our own comfort, he is here and is exactly where he is supposed to be.

I mix myself a drink at the old western saloon against the now right wall that doesn’t have the barkeep that is always washing the glass and has the moustache and is looking up at you from his work. I mix a whiskey and ice in a short crystal glass that was made specifically for people to tell other people that they are rich and they can afford short crystal glasses with precision cuts and designs. And so I sip for a while and watch the outside and listen to the deadening white noise and await the brief blinding light followed by the crack of the whip of God.

After a piece, I walk back to the center of the balcony, just inside the room and watch our friend tick. The cogs are moving or aren’t they? And the wind blows and the curtains are pulled aside but they still blow in and out of the room. And why am I here? And what will I witness? And will he be angry, will he be beaten or will he forgive himself?

And after I while he brings his hands inward so that he almost looks akimbo and bends way over the rail to judge the distance to the ground. Or maybe to see a pretty woman on the street. Or maybe a million things, but he is judging the distance to the ground. So in one quick movement, for no one ever said he didn’t keep himself up and isn’t physically fit, he leaped to the other side of the rail. And now he was facing his own apartment and I know he saw me even though I knew he couldn’t see me.

His confidence and calm was still with him and he was so deep inside of himself that he failed to be phased by the light and the crack. And his hands were working the metal to death. His wedding ring popped up from the top of his finger and showed the pale band of skin where the ring had sat for five years now. Then he turned so that his dress shoes pointed outwards and his heels towards me and the wedding ring was on my left. And so I knew he wouldn’t forgive himself and I knew this was my act in the play.

I had already sharpened my blade and so just to prove my point I ran across the edge perpendicular with my thumb. It felt fine indeed and looked like a razor. So then I ran my thumb with the edge and cut myself deep enough to leave a scar, if I could ever keep a scar.

So he stood there, not forgiving himself, and I walked towards him without him knowing. As I got closer I could see he was shivering and the gravity of the situation seemed to have descended upon him. He understood that he had gone to the Other Side by now and it was merely the act which needed to be performed. He could not turn around and hop over the rail as easily as he had earlier. And in these situations I prefer to not let the victim waste himself any more slowly than they already do. So I reached out and let my pointer finger barely graze his coat, for all it takes is a graze.


****
So how is my grammar / sentence structure? I like sentences that sort of stop / start / pop. Like how thoughts might actually work. I don't know. Just curious what people think.

Thanks for taking time to read it. I hope you enjoyed it.

Cheers,

Andy

[DATo]

Well done !

One part that didn't seem to fit was the narrator fixing a drink for himself, also, I didn't know how to interpret the meaning of the "blade" and why it is in the story. If my overall interpretation of the story is correct he would not need the blade.

I think "equidistance" should be 'equidistant'; and, "And after I while" probably was meant to be written as, 'After awhile", but apart from that I did not notice anything glaringly wrong with the writing. I would also refrain from using "And" at the beginning of a sentence. The "and" at the beginning of the second paragraph, for instance, is unnecessary.

Actually, I like the way you phrase your writing and I like the idea you are presenting in the story and how it is delivered.

[engineer1984]

Thanks for the feedback!

So my idea is that the narrator is death doing a day job. I pictured death the way he / it is usually described, with a scythe, but I'm re-thinking this. Also, I thought of it as the fact that death can't decide weather a human takes or doesn't take their life, so he has to sort of wait around for the subject to make the decision. Why not grab a drink while waiting?

It definitely needs another iteration or so...

[DATo]

A SCYTHE !!! OK , now I get it. *LOL*

I did understand that the narrator was Death but I (inexplicably) didn't make the connection with the blade (scythe). Your approach to this theme is good but the description of Death as a cliche of The Grim Reaper makes the story seem more fable-like and contrasts sharply with the modern setting, but your description of the victim and his behavior, on the other hand, was very well executed in my opinion.

"... so he has to sort of wait around for the subject to make the decision. Why not grab a drink while waiting?"

I have a bit of a problem picturing The Grim Reaper pouring himself a drink, but would have no problem picturing the guy below pouring himself a drink. I swear I'm not trying to diss your story ... but, do you see what I mean? It just doesn't seem to work. Maybe if you wrote the Death character appearing as the hotel maid or the guy's butler ... ??? ... or maybe the guy's own best friend.

The theme you chose offers many possibilities for creative development of the story. Below is a link to a Wiki of a Twilight Zone episode which touches on the same idea. I saw this episode when it originally aired on TV. In this case Death appears looking like a normal guy in a black suit.

This link gives a summary of the Twilight Zone story.
http://http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/One_for_the_Angels (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/One_for_the_Angels)

This was Mr. Death's image in the TV show mentioned above.

http://media.tumblr.com/tumblr_lz9q1nM5Nd1qadrfr.png


EDIT:

Do you see the point I'm trying to make? If the story is set in the present one would expect Death to look like a present-day individual; if set in the distant past, and especially if told as one of those "Once upon a time ..." type stories, then the fabled image of The Grim Reaper might work better. It's sort of a matter of "period continuity", to coin a phrase. I think this is why I didn't pick up on the blade idea. I suppose I was unconsciously expecting Death to look like a modern day person in your story.

[engineer1984]

Thanks again, I'm thinking how I'll revise it : )

[engineer1984]

Rev 02:

I find myself with my feet planted in lush red carpet outside a door. A wooden door that looks solid and full, one that I may tap on with my middle knuckle and hear the thud of an entire maple tree, but I don’t knock and even if I tried I would hear no sound. I look around and find that I’m in a softly lit hallway with only two doors and the one behind me is an elevator. And no matter how nice a place you may find yourself, the elevators always have ugly plastic buttons and the doors are always sheet metal that scratches and bows.

I walk in and find myself in an expansive room with paintings on all the walls, big paintings too, the kind that show how the artist stroked this section or that and if you ran your hand along the surface it would feel like a topographic map except the ridges and peaks would represent the imperfections of heavy strokes laid by a heavy brush instead of arêtes, ridges, summits, and valleys. And on the right, there’s a door leading off to only God knows where. The marble floor has been laid out in squares like a chess board and it’s been waxed and cleaned and waxed. Its slick and it reflects the world above like a perfectly flat lake reflects the tress and mountains except there are no trees and mountains. Instead there are couches, stools, paintings, and tables to reflect. It doesn’t choose what to reflect so when little Tommy slips a sticky piece of chewed up gum under the coffee table or the side table, the icy stone reflection makes the secret known.

To my left a man is standing at the bar that is interrupting the gallery. The bar is a beautiful piece of work with heavy dark woods and a glossy finish and tiny purse hooks slightly in view and a brass rail to kick your feet on while you’re sitting on your too high for your feet to touch the marble ground stool or to stand there like Don Juan with one foot on the rail and the same forearm resting on the bar towards the lady you’re trying to bed. But the man that I see is all alone and there is no woman to seduce so he stands over his drink and with the hand that is levered from his propped elbow he is mixing the brown liquid with a black straw and a limp wrist. He’s standing on the customer side with the bottle on the bar top and continues to mix the drink. The ice is melting and God’s green Earth decides its way past time to wet the outside of the glass with little drops of dew that appear out of thin air. Suddenly, the hand that was propping up his head as his other hand spun the cubes smacks the bar top, he throws back the drink with the little black straw caught between the crystal and the crook of the pointer finger. The empty of alcohol short glass is brought down with a thud and left to sweat while the man at the bar who is handsome but not trying to swoon any women walks away towards the glass wall directly across from the door I entered.

He opens the doors two at a time like a politician making a grand obscene entrance on a world of constituents that adore him and he knows it. The curtains blow in the wind and make the exit even more of a show and any small paintings that exist around the room rustle on their small hooks, but manage to stay attached after the initial fight with this new invisible onslaught. The outside roars with a deafening dull noise and the curtains continue their blowing and the paintings continue to fidget. The marble near the balcony entrance takes on a film of water and the already glossy floor becomes actually slippery instead of apparently slippery and so one should be careful when entering and exiting.

I walk towards the now gaping mouth in the curtains and windows that is sucking rain into the room with each gasp and causing the room to suddenly become drafty and so the temperature drops. As I near the balcony the world suddenly turns white like the paintings of Heaven depicted in ancient Rome and then just as suddenly the world is back to the night and dark and the glassy marble and the caramel colored whiskeys. And soon God will crack a whip that sounds like a thousand avalanches condensed in a split second noise.

The man in the black dinner suit looks weary and wears the countenance of one who is calm but his hands are tight around the black railing. His arms are stretched out and his heels are kicked out toward me and he looks out into the rain and slouches there and pretends for the moment like the world isn’t crashing and spitting on him with the fury of a thousand Gods. But it is and maybe he thinks its only him and the outside world, the real world, isn’t actually in a rage.

I can feel the air and the electricity in it and I can feel the tension in his body and I know this is when I may be needed, but at this point it could be anything. So I stand there and wait and when I am needed, if I am needed, I will act graciously and without remorse. We both play our part and I wonder if he will forgive himself. And the short crystal is sweating and the ice cubes are melting. The paintings are twitching and the whiskeys, gins, and scotches are standing still waiting for their patient.

He begins to stand up straight and brings his arms inward and looks out into the dark sheets of rain that reflect the light from this over classed apartment. Then he sighs and bends over at the waist using the black cast iron as a support with arms bent outwards like he is standing akimbo and he is looking downward below him. Maybe he sees something, a damsel in distress running with a soaking wet newspaper over her head or studying how the streetlights cause all the rain to look as if each strand is being willed and bent toward the spot of light on the ground or maybe a million other things. But he’s judging the distance to the wet curb and the spots of light from the street lights.

In one quick movement, for no one ever said he didn’t keep himself up and isn’t physically fit, he leaps to the other side of the rail. And now he is facing his own apartment and I know he sees me even though I know he can't see me.

He turns outward and now his back is to me and the dress shoes are facing the rain. His hands are working the metal to death. His wedding ring pops up from the top of his finger to show the white band of skin that hadn’t seen the light of day for only God knows how long. And so I know he won’t forgive himself and I know this is my act in the play.

So there he stands there, not forgiving himself, and I walk towards him without him knowing. As I get closer I can see he is shivering and the gravity of the situation seems to have descended upon him. He understands that he has gone to the Other Side by now and it is merely the act which needs to be performed. He can no longer turn around and hop over the fence as he had earlier. And in these situations I prefer to not let the victim waste himself any more slowly than they already do. So I reach out and let my pointer finger barely graze his coat, for all it takes is a graze.