Chapter One- The
Vision
As he slowly rose from bed,
only one thing ran through Peter McCowley’s mind. “I hate the morning,” he
thought. To tell the truth, it was a wonder he didn’t cause an accident each
morning on the freeway. And as always, the haze left his eyes as he downed his
coffee and read the paper. With the greatest reluctance he pulled himself up
from the table to start the commute. How others did this everyday was beyond
him. Perhaps they merely had jobs they enjoyed. He sincerely doubted it.
“Do you have those numbers in
for me yet, Pete?” shouted John from across the room. “I need them in before my
11:45 this morning.”
“Almost. You didn’t exactly
give me a huge advance notice.”
“That’s life. Just get it
done.”
Pete swore to himself quietly.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, he was cognizant of the fact that his job
here would not last much longer, but the sheer volume of work kept him from
brooding too much. He sighed and kept working. He thought not of the pile of
papers he would have to complete before the end of work today, but of a woman,
with red hair and piercing green eyes. The load of paperwork he had ahead of
him now seemed just the smallest bit more bearable.
That night, Peter walked
through his door to find a woman standing there. Yet, as happened every day, he
was disappointed to find her hair a deep brunette, with hazel eyes. Again he
kissed her hello and smiled just ever so insincerely, but she took no notice.
Why had he ever thought it would be a good idea to give her a key?
“You work too hard, Peter,”
she told him for the thousandth time. “I really would like to be able to spend
more time with you.”
I’ll bet you would.
“Honey, we’ve been over this. I want to spend some more time with you too, but
work is flooding in right now. It’s our busiest season of the year.”
“You said that last month.”
Peter wished that his
girlfriend understood the difference between a season and a month. A girlfriend
who did not make him feel as if he were babysitting, who gave him a feeling of
adventure. A girlfriend with fiery red hair. Christine.
“Are you listening to me,
Peter?”
Peter put on his plastic
visage once more, praying his discontent had not broken too obviously through his
facade. He needn’t have worried. “Of course I’m listening, Melissa. You were
saying how you wanted takeout?”
She raged at this injustice
for what seemed to be much longer than fifteen minutes.
Guess takeout’s not gonna
help, concluded Peter. Going out to dinner seemed to be more appropriate to
her. Peter consented, and they got into his car to leave. He recalled another
time he had entered a car in the dead of night with a woman, also against his
will. He and Christine had gone to school together, Catholic parochial school.
Both had hated it from the start. Near the end of their sophomore year, they
had decided to take the headmistress’ car for a joyride. No one was hurt,
though he and Christine had ended up spending a lot more time together. Mostly
in detention.
He ran a red light, swerved
and narrowly avoided an oncoming car, receiving a slap on his arm from Melissa.
“What the hell do you think
you’re doing, Peter? We’re not even going the right direction! I thought we
were going to Va Benne.”
“We are.” And, half an hour
later, they arrived. Peter eyed the menu, but did not see the penne alla vodka
or the fettuccine alfredo.
Instead, he remembered a
ladleful of vodka sauce pouring over Christine’s pasta as they both still
panted from their recent chase. They were always running from something, it
seemed, whether a mall security guard or a teacher from school. Not yet fully
in control of his breathing, Peter watched Christine eat calmly, as if they had
not just barely escaped the clutches of, this time, an angry shopkeeper with a
newly shrunken inventory and no money to show for it. He realized, as she often
said herself, that her name didn’t fit her startling red hair any more than
Catholic school fit her personality.
Peter snapped out of his
reverie and glanced quickly to the side. He hoped Melissa hadn’t noticed, but
for someone so oblivious to most aspects of life, she seemed to have an uncanny
sense of when Peter was not granting her his full attention. He finally decided
to order fettuccine with an olive
marinara sauce once Melissa started to tap her foot like an irritated
metronome. Peter sat back, unconsciously distancing himself from his
girlfriend’s incessant criticism. The waiter shot Peter a sympathetic look
before bringing their orders to the kitchen.
Dinner passed much the same as
the beginning of the night, with Melissa’s voice washing over Peter’s unhearing
ears, and Peter’s mind washing over half-forgotten memories of Christine as he
pushed the food around his plate halfheartedly, while his subconscious echoed
the hope, long forgotten, that he and Christine might have another chance.
Melissa was lucky that she was hot.
Slumping in through his front
door, Peter exhaled deeply as Melissa got into her car and pulled out of the
driveway. He had forgotten to lock his car. Shivering at the thought of the
cold air outside the house, Peter decided it wouldn’t run away before morning
and headed upstairs. This day had been as uneventful as the last, as the night
would be. How could he possibly know
that the phone, which would ring that night, would herald the change of not
only his life, but his dismal prospects in it as well?
“Another day, another takeout
dinner,” Peter mumbled. Several hours later, another takeout dinner translated
into another session divesting himself of it into the toilet. As always, his
work wasn’t limited to his seven hour work day. Right after his shower, he
dressed himself rapidly and headed downstairs towards his computer. The phone rang.
At first he almost missed it, wrapped up in his bubble of imminent failure. It
always seemed to him that people dialed right as he was about to start
something productive, or when he was about to finish an assignment three months
overdue. Slowly, he reached down to pick up the phone.
“You aren’t going to believe
me,” said the voice on the other line. “At least you won’t until your seizure
tomorrow.”
“I’m sorry?” Peter answered in
confused tone. “You must have the wrong number. Goodbye.”
“We both know you aren’t going
to hang up. You’re extremely confused, but you’re also intrigued. And you might
not admit it to me or yourself, you are also scared. Just remember this phone
ca-”
Click.
Despite not believing a word
that had been said, Peter’s hand shook while he replaced the phone on the
receiver. Peter had no idea how much he would regret simply hanging up.
The next morning followed the
typical daily script. He awoke with the same dull thoughts. Again he made the
commute to work, never knowing just how many times he came close to ending his
life by turning the wheel too quickly, or neglecting to brake soon enough.
He arrived in his usual
stupor, vaguely wishing he had made a much stronger brew of coffee. Once more,
Peter sat down to his desk to find yet more applications and reports piled
there. Pushing himself harder than perhaps he ever had before, he crunched
through paper after paper, calling client after client. Twice the phone rang
that morning; each time he picked it up just as thoughtlessly. The first was a
dissatisfied customer who had to be referred to Peter’s supervisor. He picked
up the second call after it rang for almost a minute, delaying his answering
because he was putting the finishing touches on a promotion for the very
printers he was trying (and failing) to sell. Without thinking, he finally
answered. “Hello, F.M. Printers, how may I help you?”
“Well, hello again.”
Peter froze. Hearing the voice
from last night, he quickly slammed the phone back into its holder. For the
next hour and a half, he ignored the phone and concentrated on the pile of
paperwork in front of him.
“Finally, lunch,” Pete
mumbled. “These data analyses could bore a horse to death.”
How far off his lunch break
truly was, he did not realize. At that moment, the phone rang again. He let it
ring. And ring. And ring. Nervously, he eyed the base. After about two minutes,
he grabbed the phone off the hook.
“Hello? Hello….? Hello?!?” he
shouted. He received no answer. The air in the office got heavier and heavier
and the anticipated relief of the lunch break was a distant memory. Peter took
no notice of anyone else in the room as he rose from his seat. He needed to get
out. He needed to leave. There was too much movement, too much noise. The last
thing he remembered was looking up at the secretary with a blank stare as she
stared most concernedly downward.
To Be Continued...
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