Justin couldn't have told you how long he spent outside the building, his back to the wall. The salty tinge of sweat on his lips was about the only thing keeping him tied to reality; his vision was all color, no form, and there was only a dull sense of sound in his ears. He observed the world as if he was looking at it from a million miles away, and for all he knew, he was a million miles away. His muscles wouldn't move, as much as he willed them, and someone came over and asked him something, obviously concerned. He was vaguely aware of him making some sort of response, but he didn't know what. He must have looked like he was on drugs. And, to be honest, he thought, that would have been preferable to the reality. Justin attempted to pry his feet from the ground and make it back home before he drew any more attention.
Alright, then. Walking. One foot in front of the other. You just walked through...through time, or something. Surely you can make it a couple of blocks. Right foot, left foot. There you go. That was easy.
It was nighttime before Justin wandered sleepily into his apartment. He was initially surprised by the vaguely romantic presence of candles everywhere before recalling his light switch didn't work due to lack of electricity. He was not quite as surprised by Chadwick, who was eating Chinese food on his couch (more specifically, he was unsurprised at Chadwick's presence but found his food choice odd; Chadwick didn't seem the type to eat anything that wasn't colorful, low in calories or European).
"You know," he said, wiping his mouth, "General Tso's specialty was actually cakes. He was good with tortes, too. Pies, he never really grasped. I don't think the man cooked a chicken in his life."
"I suppose that's understandable. 'General Tso's Cake' doesn't have as much of a ring to it," Justin muttered, as he lay down on the carpet. Finding his way to an actual sleeping surface felt like much too much work.
"Went well, then?" Chadwick asked, cocking his head to the side slightly.
Justin paused for a few seconds before he responded.
"Did you know what was in the package?" he finally asked.
"I knew who wanted it delivered, and I knew why. I can infer what it was, but I don't actually know."
Justin hesitated again. He knew he should leave it alone. He knew there was absolutely nothing good that could possibly come out of asking his next question. This made him feel all the more foolish when he actually asked it.
"The hallway-"
"Anyway, you're hired."
"Excuse me?" Justin said, sitting up.
"I have to admit, I wasn't completely honest with you before. This wasn't just a test for you, but for me to know that you were right for this job," Chadwick said, as he took his take-out container to the garbage. The candles around the room cast a soft light on everything, but the dramatic shadows being cast made the apartment look smaller than it was.
"Most people would have walked into a perfectly normal apartment building, delivered an uninteresting package to no one in particular, and their lives would have remained largely unchanged. You, however, and may we note for a second that I was impeccably right about this, were able to see what the hallway really was, where it really led. Most people are far too ignorant of their surroundings to realize that sort of thing.
"She...she didn't seem to like what was in the package."
Chadwick sat back down on the couch, and was silent at first. He seemed to be choosing he words, which Justin hadn't seen him need to take time to do before.
"You can't run away from time, Justin," he finally said, in a voice that was a tad softer than usual.
"She managed to get a few decades more than she should have. Time had to move forward sometime. She-"
Justin interrupted him. "Wait, did I kill her?"
"Justin, she was maintaining her own pocket of time in her apartment for years, there was only one-"
"You didn't answer my question," he said, glaring at Chadwick, straining to read his expression in the candlelight.
"What you did was show her some sort of evidence of today's date, correct? She had stopped time. Rather, she kept it from ever entering her space; all you did was show her that it wasn't her decision to make. That she wasn't the boss."
That didn't comfort Justin. He began to feel sick, and stumbled into his bathroom. Chadwick sauntered over and stood in the doorway.
"Think about it. An apartment in an abandoned building in which time does not pass. Imagine if it were demolished. Do you have any idea the kind of horrible mess that would create for her? It may seem bad, but in the long run what you did was put things back in their natural order, and ensure she didn't get in any trouble later on."
The thing, Justin mused, that he despised most about Chadwick was that even when he couldn't grasp a thing that he was talking about (this, of course, encompassing most of their conversations thus far) he knew, somewhere in the back of his mind, that Chadwick was unequivocally right and to attempt to prove him wrong would most likely result in him looking like a complete moron. He always felt like a child in Chadwick's presence, and this made interacting with him an immense pain. And yet, Chadwick was the sort of person you knew instinctively you could never get away from, unless he wished it to be so. He began to wonder just how much choice he had in this affair.
These thoughts were interrupted by a stack of $20 bills being lowered in front of his face.
"Your payment. And a bonus, for your troubles. But I'm afraid I really should get going. Its been fun, but there's work to be done. This is your last chance. You've seen what I have to offer. You've received a fairly large amount of money, with which you could pay off your bills and go on with your horrendously boring and unstylish life, or push through the veil of reason and reality and make more money than you'll ever know what to do with."
Justin stared intently at the money in front of him. Even if he paid off everything, he had no job, nor a college to go back to. He was knocked out of his deliberations by a knock on the door. The voice of his landlord came through, some business about "rent" and "months" and several vague threats involving a wrench. Justin pocketed the wad of cash, and went to his bedroom to stuff what little he found important into a duffel bag.
Elmer Rocca was gripping a large wrench tightly in his left hand. Justin was a nice kid, and before this year he was always good about payment, but hey, he needed his money, and being a good guy does not make a profit for a landlord. He didn't imagine that, when it came down to it, he could actually do any of the things to Justin's head with the wrench he said he would. His arm, maybe. Not to break it, or anything like that, just a bruise. Maybe rip his shirt up a bit. That would teach him. Justin emerged with an effeminate man dressed in purple and red, and, well, Elmer didn't want to say he'd known it all along because there wasn't anything wrong with that, he lived in America and all now, but he'd always felt Justin had that feel about him. He shook Justin's hand, patting him on the back.
Having not injured Justin with a plumbing implement, he readied himself to head back, when Justin handed him a large sum of money, in cash, and informed him he was moving out. This, to say the least, made Elmer very happy. He was going to inquire when the marriage was going to be, but the two seemed in a hurry.
Chadwick had a stylish but decidedly nauseating shade of purple adorning his Corvette. He put Justin's bag into the back, as Justin took one final look at the life he really didn't care much for to begin with.
"So, where do you live?"
"Where do you think? England."
Showing posts with label Justin. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Justin. Show all posts
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
AEAJ - Chapter 6
Chapter 6 - In Which Justin Decides Something, And Is Threatened With a Wrench
AEAJ - Chapter 5
Chapter 5 - The Longest Apartment Building Hallway on Earth
The package was a simple brown box, about the size of two gallons of milk, though it weighed very little. There were no markings, no stickers, nothing to discern it as anything other than a regular, uninhabited box. The apartment Justin was delivering it to lay in an old but otherwise normal-looking building four blocks away. Chadwick had taken it upon himself to stay in Justin's apartment, and he was to return there once the package was safe.
Inside, the building was truly showing its age. The floral wallpaper was peeling in the halls, and the wood floors creaked loudly with each step, warped and flimsy. From what he understood, there shouldn't have even been anyone living there. The owner of the building had passed away thirty years ago, and his son had closed down the building, finding it more cost-effective to go into the hotel business with the money left to him that was meant to fix up the place. He kicked everyone out, and the building degraded over time. Squatters occasionally made it inside, but even they had better places they could live.
This story gave Justin an overwhelming sense of discomfort as he ascended seven sets of crumbling stairs. He walked slowly, and while he felt this was safer the constant, slow sounds of wood that should long have collapsed filled his ears, and he found himself trembling slightly as he came onto the seventh floor. There was a long hallway ahead of him, lined with doors that hadn't been opened in decades. A wooden table was positioned near the stairwell, a cracked vase holding some black water, surrounded by a powder that may have once been flowers.
Eager to get out of the building, he started down the hallway. Windows at either end of the hallway illuminated the fine dust, shifting suddenly as Justin waded through it. The air was thick and heavy, and beads of sweat were starting to form on his head. He was leaving footprints on the ground, as if he were walking through a light dusting of snow. At length, he came to apartment 746. He knocked on the door three times, creating a dull echo. He thought he heard something on the other side, but couldn't quite be sure. He began to wonder if anyone lived here. Perhaps Chadwick was raiding his apartment, taking everything of value and getting out, while he waited here in a building that no one in a healthy state of mind would choose to live in.
Of course, the joke would have been on Chadwick, because the contents of the apartment would probably just barely compensate him for the five hundred dollars he'd left in the letter. No, he'd been sent here on a real delivery. He had to do this. To see if Chadwick was right. To see if there was another life waiting for him, now that his old one had so efficiently crumbled. Justin almost instinctively reached for the doorknob, and turned it.
The apartment was smaller than he'd expected. The air was slightly clearer, but still not without the hint of age.
"Hello?" Justin called in, and though he got no answer he knew almost immediately that the place was occupied. Nervously, he stepped inside. To his side was a small couch and coffee table. A cup and saucer sat on it, and they looked new. His eyes locked on the table as he realized it was perfectly clean; someone was definitely living here. As his gaze traveled back up, he looked once more upon the couch, but found five sets of slanted eyes staring back at him. They belonged to cats.
The cats were unmoving, their green eyes showing nothing of what they thought of him. Justin swallowed, and looked around. He couldn't count the sets of eyes this time. The apartment was full of cats, perhaps two or three dozen. They were all shapes and sizes, here a red one, here a white one, shaggy and slender and fat. He had never seen so many of them in one place, and they were all staring directly at him. Gripping the package so tightly his knuckles were white, he froze. He could barely breathe, and in this he took almost a mild comfort, feeling as if any slight move would have the lot of them descending upon him. He was now saturated with sweat, but he dared not wipe any away.
He was broken from his trance by a raspy but kind voice.
"Is that a visitor? Come into the kitchen, I've just put on some tea." The kitchen was half-obscured by a wall, and he could not see who owned the voice, but she seemed to be human so he cautiously made his way through the apartment. He stared at the floor, trying his hardest not to look at the feline eyes that watched his every move. He lifted his head when he got into the kitchen, which had, of course, even more cats, but also, notably, a human woman.
She was perhaps sixty or seventy, plainly dressed and standing over a pot of tea. It seemed such a normal scene, if not for the cats everywhere. Justin had always heard about old ladies surrounding themselves with cats, but he always figured that if the archetype had any truth to it there was at least a single-digit limit.
"Please, sit down. Its not often a visitor stops by. You'll have to excuse my appearance, but when you don't go out much you don't find much need to dress fancy, eh?"
"I'm, er. I'm here to deliver a package," Justin said, sitting down awkwardly.
"A package? My my, I wasn't expecting anything. That's always a nice surprise. Do you take any cream or sugar?" she responded, as she poured the tea into two porcelain cups.
"Just sugar is fine, thank you."
Several minutes of silence passed. At length, she smiled at him, and started to stir her tea with a spoon.
"I suppose you're wondering about the cats."
Justin practically spilled the contents of his cup, and tried to tell her she was wrong, but she simply chuckled and raised her hand, silencing him.
"Don't worry. If I was your age, and I saw an old lady surrounded by cats, I'd have my questions too. At my age you can't go around being embarrassed about things. I'm an old woman. I've lived a damn long time, and I've known a damn lot of people. And, well, I've been through a lot of stuff, and I decided one day that I'd had enough. Society is great, its got a lot going for it, but I felt like I'd seen everything I needed to see. All I wanted to see. But I wasn't ready to die. Not yet. Living isn't all about doing exciting things, you know. I'd had enough of doing things. You can live day to day without needing to entertain yourself. Me, I was content to live out my days in peace, no cares. But a woman can't live alone forever. Not me, anyway. I always loved taking care of my husband. To truly be there for someone, to devote yourself completely to them. He died, though, you know. Accident at the factory. He went quickly, nothing too painful. So I bought myself a cat. My first one, the black and white tabby over there. We lived out our days peacefully, with each others' company. We connected, you know. So I got some more cats. Can never hurt to have a couple friends around. The more I had them around, the more my days became happy. Taking care of so many, feeding and grooming and petting them, it gave me all the worldly pleasure I needed in this world. Time didn't matter anymore. We're slaves to time, we are. It's a useless thing, once you've got rid of it. I had nothing to do but take care of my cats, and I lived a simple existence. Its hard for you to understand, I'm sure. But I'm not ready to go back out there, don't think I ever will be. So I created my own world."
Justin listened intently. He didn't know what to say. In her own strange way, she was making a sort of sense to him. He understood her, in all her complex simplicity, and he felt a strange sadness for her. He wondered what kind of pain could have caused her to recede into this world of devotion and stillness, but he dared not inquire further.
"Oh my, but I do ramble. I'm sorry, dear. Now, what's your name?"
"I'm Justin. Nice to meet you." It sounded stupid, and he wished he hadn't said it after he was done.
"Justin? A good name. Strong name. Now then, let's see about this package, eh?" she said, pushing her cup and saucer aside. Justin had almost forgotten about the package, and leaned over, finding it on the ground. A few cats were circling it, sniffing it. He put it on the table and slid it over to her. She used the end of her spoon to tear the tape, and reached inside the box. However, she stopped short, and asked if Justin could take it out, she didn't have her glasses on.
He pulled out a rolled-up newspaper. Justin tilted his head as he unfurled it. It was a perfectly normal newspaper, though there appeared to be a note in the box. He looked it over quickly.
"A newspaper...I suppose its today's?" She said, her voice almost a whisper.
"Yeah," Justin said, “June 17th-”
"Wait!" She shouted, holding up her hands and looking away. Justin was shocked.
"Don't tell me the date! I don't want to know! Please, get it out of here!"
"I'm sorry, I don't understand, what's-" Justin was cut short. He had stopped talking so he could listen. There was a low hissing noise, coming from all around him. It was the cats. Their eyes were once more focused on him, and he started to slowly back up and get out of his seat. Before he could finish, however, they were upon him.
Justin bolted back, covering his face with one arm. However, he soon realized there were no cats on him. He opened his eyes, and saw them destroying the newspaper. They clawed at it madly, tearing it beyond recognition. The old woman had her heart on her chest, and tears were beginning to make their way down the labyrinth of her wrinkles. "I'm sorry, I didn't.."
"Please, just go. I'm not ready. I'm not ready for today yet. Please."
He turned around and began to walk out. Behind him, the cats were still hissing as they wrought havoc on the day's news. He hurried out, and leaned against the door when he finally closed it, breathing hard. Nothing that had gone on made sense. Then he opened his eyes.
The air was crystal clear, the floorboards shining. The wallpaper was vibrant and alive, in pristine condition. There were nameplates besides each door, and at the end of the hall a bright vase held a large bouquet of sunflowers. Jaw open, Justin rubbed his eyes. It was impossible. The place had been ready to collapse. He began to walk down the hallway.
As he did this, dust began to circulate. The wallpaper dulled, ripped, peeled from the wall. In front of him, the flowers began to droop, to dry up, and, as he got close to them, to crumble into a fine dust. The floor had sagged perhaps a few inches, and the air was pungent and old once more. Justin stood where he'd entered the hallway, once again trembling, much more noticeably this time. Throwing caution to the wind, he descended the stairs in a mad rush to leave the building.
Inside apartment 746, bony hands held a small letter. She read it intently, though tears blurred her vision slightly.
Hello Irma. Enclosed, you will find today's newspaper. I trust you'll find the news to be of profound interest. You might not be happy, I'm afraid, but all dreams have to end, all songs have to stop. It was clever of you, to figure out the thing with the cats. Some people say cats can see time, with their slitted eyes. That they can see the future, or the past, and everything in-between. This, they say, is why they were worshiped. If only they knew, eh? Well, you've had a good run but you can't stay in the same year forever, dear. I really am sorry.
"I'm not ready yet," she said, crumpling the letter up and throwing it behind her. A gray cat with a slightly bent tail nuzzled its way into her lap, and she stroked it idly.
The package was a simple brown box, about the size of two gallons of milk, though it weighed very little. There were no markings, no stickers, nothing to discern it as anything other than a regular, uninhabited box. The apartment Justin was delivering it to lay in an old but otherwise normal-looking building four blocks away. Chadwick had taken it upon himself to stay in Justin's apartment, and he was to return there once the package was safe.
Inside, the building was truly showing its age. The floral wallpaper was peeling in the halls, and the wood floors creaked loudly with each step, warped and flimsy. From what he understood, there shouldn't have even been anyone living there. The owner of the building had passed away thirty years ago, and his son had closed down the building, finding it more cost-effective to go into the hotel business with the money left to him that was meant to fix up the place. He kicked everyone out, and the building degraded over time. Squatters occasionally made it inside, but even they had better places they could live.
This story gave Justin an overwhelming sense of discomfort as he ascended seven sets of crumbling stairs. He walked slowly, and while he felt this was safer the constant, slow sounds of wood that should long have collapsed filled his ears, and he found himself trembling slightly as he came onto the seventh floor. There was a long hallway ahead of him, lined with doors that hadn't been opened in decades. A wooden table was positioned near the stairwell, a cracked vase holding some black water, surrounded by a powder that may have once been flowers.
Eager to get out of the building, he started down the hallway. Windows at either end of the hallway illuminated the fine dust, shifting suddenly as Justin waded through it. The air was thick and heavy, and beads of sweat were starting to form on his head. He was leaving footprints on the ground, as if he were walking through a light dusting of snow. At length, he came to apartment 746. He knocked on the door three times, creating a dull echo. He thought he heard something on the other side, but couldn't quite be sure. He began to wonder if anyone lived here. Perhaps Chadwick was raiding his apartment, taking everything of value and getting out, while he waited here in a building that no one in a healthy state of mind would choose to live in.
Of course, the joke would have been on Chadwick, because the contents of the apartment would probably just barely compensate him for the five hundred dollars he'd left in the letter. No, he'd been sent here on a real delivery. He had to do this. To see if Chadwick was right. To see if there was another life waiting for him, now that his old one had so efficiently crumbled. Justin almost instinctively reached for the doorknob, and turned it.
The apartment was smaller than he'd expected. The air was slightly clearer, but still not without the hint of age.
"Hello?" Justin called in, and though he got no answer he knew almost immediately that the place was occupied. Nervously, he stepped inside. To his side was a small couch and coffee table. A cup and saucer sat on it, and they looked new. His eyes locked on the table as he realized it was perfectly clean; someone was definitely living here. As his gaze traveled back up, he looked once more upon the couch, but found five sets of slanted eyes staring back at him. They belonged to cats.
The cats were unmoving, their green eyes showing nothing of what they thought of him. Justin swallowed, and looked around. He couldn't count the sets of eyes this time. The apartment was full of cats, perhaps two or three dozen. They were all shapes and sizes, here a red one, here a white one, shaggy and slender and fat. He had never seen so many of them in one place, and they were all staring directly at him. Gripping the package so tightly his knuckles were white, he froze. He could barely breathe, and in this he took almost a mild comfort, feeling as if any slight move would have the lot of them descending upon him. He was now saturated with sweat, but he dared not wipe any away.
He was broken from his trance by a raspy but kind voice.
"Is that a visitor? Come into the kitchen, I've just put on some tea." The kitchen was half-obscured by a wall, and he could not see who owned the voice, but she seemed to be human so he cautiously made his way through the apartment. He stared at the floor, trying his hardest not to look at the feline eyes that watched his every move. He lifted his head when he got into the kitchen, which had, of course, even more cats, but also, notably, a human woman.
She was perhaps sixty or seventy, plainly dressed and standing over a pot of tea. It seemed such a normal scene, if not for the cats everywhere. Justin had always heard about old ladies surrounding themselves with cats, but he always figured that if the archetype had any truth to it there was at least a single-digit limit.
"Please, sit down. Its not often a visitor stops by. You'll have to excuse my appearance, but when you don't go out much you don't find much need to dress fancy, eh?"
"I'm, er. I'm here to deliver a package," Justin said, sitting down awkwardly.
"A package? My my, I wasn't expecting anything. That's always a nice surprise. Do you take any cream or sugar?" she responded, as she poured the tea into two porcelain cups.
"Just sugar is fine, thank you."
Several minutes of silence passed. At length, she smiled at him, and started to stir her tea with a spoon.
"I suppose you're wondering about the cats."
Justin practically spilled the contents of his cup, and tried to tell her she was wrong, but she simply chuckled and raised her hand, silencing him.
"Don't worry. If I was your age, and I saw an old lady surrounded by cats, I'd have my questions too. At my age you can't go around being embarrassed about things. I'm an old woman. I've lived a damn long time, and I've known a damn lot of people. And, well, I've been through a lot of stuff, and I decided one day that I'd had enough. Society is great, its got a lot going for it, but I felt like I'd seen everything I needed to see. All I wanted to see. But I wasn't ready to die. Not yet. Living isn't all about doing exciting things, you know. I'd had enough of doing things. You can live day to day without needing to entertain yourself. Me, I was content to live out my days in peace, no cares. But a woman can't live alone forever. Not me, anyway. I always loved taking care of my husband. To truly be there for someone, to devote yourself completely to them. He died, though, you know. Accident at the factory. He went quickly, nothing too painful. So I bought myself a cat. My first one, the black and white tabby over there. We lived out our days peacefully, with each others' company. We connected, you know. So I got some more cats. Can never hurt to have a couple friends around. The more I had them around, the more my days became happy. Taking care of so many, feeding and grooming and petting them, it gave me all the worldly pleasure I needed in this world. Time didn't matter anymore. We're slaves to time, we are. It's a useless thing, once you've got rid of it. I had nothing to do but take care of my cats, and I lived a simple existence. Its hard for you to understand, I'm sure. But I'm not ready to go back out there, don't think I ever will be. So I created my own world."
Justin listened intently. He didn't know what to say. In her own strange way, she was making a sort of sense to him. He understood her, in all her complex simplicity, and he felt a strange sadness for her. He wondered what kind of pain could have caused her to recede into this world of devotion and stillness, but he dared not inquire further.
"Oh my, but I do ramble. I'm sorry, dear. Now, what's your name?"
"I'm Justin. Nice to meet you." It sounded stupid, and he wished he hadn't said it after he was done.
"Justin? A good name. Strong name. Now then, let's see about this package, eh?" she said, pushing her cup and saucer aside. Justin had almost forgotten about the package, and leaned over, finding it on the ground. A few cats were circling it, sniffing it. He put it on the table and slid it over to her. She used the end of her spoon to tear the tape, and reached inside the box. However, she stopped short, and asked if Justin could take it out, she didn't have her glasses on.
He pulled out a rolled-up newspaper. Justin tilted his head as he unfurled it. It was a perfectly normal newspaper, though there appeared to be a note in the box. He looked it over quickly.
"A newspaper...I suppose its today's?" She said, her voice almost a whisper.
"Yeah," Justin said, “June 17th-”
"Wait!" She shouted, holding up her hands and looking away. Justin was shocked.
"Don't tell me the date! I don't want to know! Please, get it out of here!"
"I'm sorry, I don't understand, what's-" Justin was cut short. He had stopped talking so he could listen. There was a low hissing noise, coming from all around him. It was the cats. Their eyes were once more focused on him, and he started to slowly back up and get out of his seat. Before he could finish, however, they were upon him.
Justin bolted back, covering his face with one arm. However, he soon realized there were no cats on him. He opened his eyes, and saw them destroying the newspaper. They clawed at it madly, tearing it beyond recognition. The old woman had her heart on her chest, and tears were beginning to make their way down the labyrinth of her wrinkles. "I'm sorry, I didn't.."
"Please, just go. I'm not ready. I'm not ready for today yet. Please."
He turned around and began to walk out. Behind him, the cats were still hissing as they wrought havoc on the day's news. He hurried out, and leaned against the door when he finally closed it, breathing hard. Nothing that had gone on made sense. Then he opened his eyes.
The air was crystal clear, the floorboards shining. The wallpaper was vibrant and alive, in pristine condition. There were nameplates besides each door, and at the end of the hall a bright vase held a large bouquet of sunflowers. Jaw open, Justin rubbed his eyes. It was impossible. The place had been ready to collapse. He began to walk down the hallway.
As he did this, dust began to circulate. The wallpaper dulled, ripped, peeled from the wall. In front of him, the flowers began to droop, to dry up, and, as he got close to them, to crumble into a fine dust. The floor had sagged perhaps a few inches, and the air was pungent and old once more. Justin stood where he'd entered the hallway, once again trembling, much more noticeably this time. Throwing caution to the wind, he descended the stairs in a mad rush to leave the building.
Inside apartment 746, bony hands held a small letter. She read it intently, though tears blurred her vision slightly.
Hello Irma. Enclosed, you will find today's newspaper. I trust you'll find the news to be of profound interest. You might not be happy, I'm afraid, but all dreams have to end, all songs have to stop. It was clever of you, to figure out the thing with the cats. Some people say cats can see time, with their slitted eyes. That they can see the future, or the past, and everything in-between. This, they say, is why they were worshiped. If only they knew, eh? Well, you've had a good run but you can't stay in the same year forever, dear. I really am sorry.
"I'm not ready yet," she said, crumpling the letter up and throwing it behind her. A gray cat with a slightly bent tail nuzzled its way into her lap, and she stroked it idly.
AEAJ - Chapter 4
Chapter 4 - In Which Justin Inevitably Changes His Mind (Or In Which He Doesn't And The Story Ends)
Justin returned to his apartment, making a point to avoid his mailbox. No good had come of that thing lately. He collapsed on the couch, and made a valiant but ultimately futile effort to clear his mind and think of nothing. Deciding the only way to keep Chadwick out of his head was to busy himself with other things, he went shopping.
Which would have worked, had he been able to afford any more than milk, bread, cheese and a bar of chocolate. Justin returned home and ate a cheese sandwich, accompanied by a cool glass of milk. He finished the meal with a bar of chocolate.
Who did he think he was, anyway? Justin's being broke was none of Chadwick's business. He may not have had a working phone line, or next week's rent, but he still had electricity. Chadwick had been wrong about that, at least, he thought, a small but meaningful victory. Of course, upon the completion of this thought, the lights all went out. Justin uttered some words that need not be printed.
In any case, there were more important things than electricity. It wasn't like he couldn't start paying the bills again when he got a normal, non-suspicious job working for someone who wasn't leaving the country for any reason, or...well, someone who wasn't Chadwick. A job like that would be perfect. Even Justin's normal sanity-preserving indifference couldn't help him from feeling a little let down by life. Law school had taught him that law wasn't about fairness but about competition, his parents had abandoned him at the first sign of failing, and his boss had probably killed the ambassador to a friendly country, or at least sold a book with instructions on how best to do so.
To be fair, Chadwick was technically trying to help. Deep down, he knew that. Chadwick's smile was many things, but it was not a lie. Even so, it was just too much. Justin didn't have much of a life, but he wasn't about to abandon everything for someone he didn't know. He went to bed as soon as it got dark, and had a deep, dreamless sleep.
He awoke to the smell of bacon. It wasn't a bad way to be introduced to the waking world, and his first thought was surprise at how hungry he was. His second thought was that his apartment smelled of bacon, which was not an altogether bad thing but that was at the very least unusual. Justin got out of bed and sleepily made his way to the kitchen, where Chadwick was cooking something in a pan over what appeared to be a fire in his sink. Justin struggled to find words to express the amount of confusion present in his head, but all he managed to say was "Is there toast?"
Chadwick had prepared huevos rancheros, two strips of bacon, a split slice of buttered toast and glasses of both milk and orange juice. He made nothing for himself. When Justin asked about this, Chadwick explained that he'd picked up a breakfast sandwich on the way to his apartment this morning. Justin found it odd that Chadwick had then decided to make breakfast without a working stove, but he explained that it was nice to wake up to the smell of cooking food. He had already been up for hours, so it wouldn't have done him any good.
Not one to refuse a good meal, Justin dutifully ate the breakfast Chadwick had prepared. Chadwick cleared away the newspaper and wood chips acting as the stove in the sink, and cleaned the pan.
"Justin, I've another question for you. Your faucet, currently, is working. But, on occasion, it does not. Sometimes, you don't get the correct temperature of water. Why is that?"
Justin wiped his mouth before answering.
"Well, I don't know the specifics of it, but it'd have to do with the water heater, or drain systems, things like that. Why?"
Chadwick turned around, leaning on the counter. He seemed to be collecting his thoughts.
"Could it not be that your faucet is simply deciding not to give you the correct temperature of water? That perhaps you might have done something to upset it?"
"Its not something that ever occurred to me, to be sure." A reserved response to what Justin assumed was another test, something more to support Chadwick's theory on convictions.
"Smart answer. No trick, this time. Its a serious question. We personify everyday items all the time, without really thinking about it. The washing machine is acting up. A repairman can tell you why, but that's only one way of looking at it."
Chadwick went over to the table and sat down, looking thoughtfully at Justin, whose expression didn't betray any particular feeling about what he was saying.
"What would you say a dog spends the day thinking about?"
"Eating, sleeping, maybe playing or chasing things."
"So," Chadwick said, swaying slightly, as if organizing his response through movement, "a dog does not, for the most part, care whether or not the stock market is doing well."
"Not unless he's planning on eating it." This provoked a chuckle.
"A dog does not care about the stock market because it has no value to him. Up or down, it doesn't essentially effect his day. He chooses not to care about it, or what's on TV, or what time he has to do anything. He exists on a level in which he acknowledges that such things are largely inconsequential to him. Everything has a different level on which it exists. A faucet's existence is its function; it dispenses water. Anything unrelated to that is of no interest to it. As humans, we have complicated our means of existence such that we are unable to see any means of existing besides our own as important. An ant spends its lifespan of mere days with no desire other than to do mindless, repetitive tasks for the colony. It has the choice to spend its time going out and seeing the world, but to it, the option has no color, no appeal. It exists on a level we could not understand, a simplicity we could not hope to match. What, then, is to prevent a faucet from existing on that level?"
Justin mulled over this for a minute, before he replied with the only thing he could, and as he said it he knew it was exactly what Chadwick was expecting him to say.
"Humans built the faucet."
"Is that so different than God building us? Just because we do not specifically imbue a faucet with life does not mean that it lacks life. There is an essential truth of humanity, and it is both our greatest strength and most debilitating weakness."
"The truth is that much of what we see is a lie. We build a world around us that is easy to comprehend, that we can shape and mold as we wish, with little to no influence of outside forces. Man has spent thousands of years operating under this essential principle. While humans have always wondered about, if not prescribed to, the influence of higher beings, it stops on a certain cosmic level. We collectively interpret the world as being much, much simpler than it is, as a survival mechanism. We essentially have created our own world within the world that operates by the principles we have set forth." Chadwick now took a sip of Justin's milk, and paused, letting Justin absorb some of what he'd said.
"The faucet was built by humans, and is, thus, considered an inanimate object. In fact, from the moment of its completion the faucet has been, in fact, living. Its existence is so simple and straightforward compared to ours that it is difficult to consider fully, but it exists nonetheless. It exists as much as it needs to in order to fulfill its function and get satisfaction. So, if you neglect to clean your faucet, it may decide it does not want to give you water, or at least put up a fight. It is the only way in which it can communicate with the outside world, because the outside world isn't listening."
Justin finally spoke up, surprising even himself by interjecting. "This is all very interesting, but then how do you know all this?"
Chadwick smiled, wider than Justin had seen so far. This entire conversation had been planned out beforehand, and Justin was feeling increasingly helpless, like thinking you're driving a car only to discover you're on a track and have no control.
"I said we built a fake world within the world. I am freed from that world, and can see things for what they really are. Its a skill, more than anything. I can teach you, if you wish."
"And how is that? Is there some sort of "break out of the Matrix' class?"
"A delivery. One delivery is all you'll need. I told you that you were the only one, Justin. You have the predispositions and situation, among other things, that are necessary to aid me. Not everyone can break down the walls we build around ourselves and..."
Chadwick rubbed his chin, attempting to find a more sensitive way to finish his sentence, but failed.
"Frankly, I need someone who wont go insane and run away."
Justin narrowed his eyes.
"That five hundred dollars. That's the kind of money I'd be making, on a regular basis?"
"More, most likely."
"And all the travel?"
"Everything paid for by me."
"And danger?"
"Everything's dangerous. The question is whether one is able to deal with it or not."
"So, good pay, travel, but obviously not very secure safety-wise."
Chadwick's smile morphed into a sidelong smirk.
"So there were actually hippos at that table?"
"Oh, I've no idea. I just needed an example, and that's what I came up with."
Justin looked around at his apartment, the early sunlight doing nothing to pierce the darkness that pervaded the place. He really didn't have much lower to go.
"One package. One bullet hole or stab wound, and its over."
"Oh, they wont be carrying guns. But I'd watch out for biting."
Justin returned to his apartment, making a point to avoid his mailbox. No good had come of that thing lately. He collapsed on the couch, and made a valiant but ultimately futile effort to clear his mind and think of nothing. Deciding the only way to keep Chadwick out of his head was to busy himself with other things, he went shopping.
Which would have worked, had he been able to afford any more than milk, bread, cheese and a bar of chocolate. Justin returned home and ate a cheese sandwich, accompanied by a cool glass of milk. He finished the meal with a bar of chocolate.
Who did he think he was, anyway? Justin's being broke was none of Chadwick's business. He may not have had a working phone line, or next week's rent, but he still had electricity. Chadwick had been wrong about that, at least, he thought, a small but meaningful victory. Of course, upon the completion of this thought, the lights all went out. Justin uttered some words that need not be printed.
In any case, there were more important things than electricity. It wasn't like he couldn't start paying the bills again when he got a normal, non-suspicious job working for someone who wasn't leaving the country for any reason, or...well, someone who wasn't Chadwick. A job like that would be perfect. Even Justin's normal sanity-preserving indifference couldn't help him from feeling a little let down by life. Law school had taught him that law wasn't about fairness but about competition, his parents had abandoned him at the first sign of failing, and his boss had probably killed the ambassador to a friendly country, or at least sold a book with instructions on how best to do so.
To be fair, Chadwick was technically trying to help. Deep down, he knew that. Chadwick's smile was many things, but it was not a lie. Even so, it was just too much. Justin didn't have much of a life, but he wasn't about to abandon everything for someone he didn't know. He went to bed as soon as it got dark, and had a deep, dreamless sleep.
He awoke to the smell of bacon. It wasn't a bad way to be introduced to the waking world, and his first thought was surprise at how hungry he was. His second thought was that his apartment smelled of bacon, which was not an altogether bad thing but that was at the very least unusual. Justin got out of bed and sleepily made his way to the kitchen, where Chadwick was cooking something in a pan over what appeared to be a fire in his sink. Justin struggled to find words to express the amount of confusion present in his head, but all he managed to say was "Is there toast?"
Chadwick had prepared huevos rancheros, two strips of bacon, a split slice of buttered toast and glasses of both milk and orange juice. He made nothing for himself. When Justin asked about this, Chadwick explained that he'd picked up a breakfast sandwich on the way to his apartment this morning. Justin found it odd that Chadwick had then decided to make breakfast without a working stove, but he explained that it was nice to wake up to the smell of cooking food. He had already been up for hours, so it wouldn't have done him any good.
Not one to refuse a good meal, Justin dutifully ate the breakfast Chadwick had prepared. Chadwick cleared away the newspaper and wood chips acting as the stove in the sink, and cleaned the pan.
"Justin, I've another question for you. Your faucet, currently, is working. But, on occasion, it does not. Sometimes, you don't get the correct temperature of water. Why is that?"
Justin wiped his mouth before answering.
"Well, I don't know the specifics of it, but it'd have to do with the water heater, or drain systems, things like that. Why?"
Chadwick turned around, leaning on the counter. He seemed to be collecting his thoughts.
"Could it not be that your faucet is simply deciding not to give you the correct temperature of water? That perhaps you might have done something to upset it?"
"Its not something that ever occurred to me, to be sure." A reserved response to what Justin assumed was another test, something more to support Chadwick's theory on convictions.
"Smart answer. No trick, this time. Its a serious question. We personify everyday items all the time, without really thinking about it. The washing machine is acting up. A repairman can tell you why, but that's only one way of looking at it."
Chadwick went over to the table and sat down, looking thoughtfully at Justin, whose expression didn't betray any particular feeling about what he was saying.
"What would you say a dog spends the day thinking about?"
"Eating, sleeping, maybe playing or chasing things."
"So," Chadwick said, swaying slightly, as if organizing his response through movement, "a dog does not, for the most part, care whether or not the stock market is doing well."
"Not unless he's planning on eating it." This provoked a chuckle.
"A dog does not care about the stock market because it has no value to him. Up or down, it doesn't essentially effect his day. He chooses not to care about it, or what's on TV, or what time he has to do anything. He exists on a level in which he acknowledges that such things are largely inconsequential to him. Everything has a different level on which it exists. A faucet's existence is its function; it dispenses water. Anything unrelated to that is of no interest to it. As humans, we have complicated our means of existence such that we are unable to see any means of existing besides our own as important. An ant spends its lifespan of mere days with no desire other than to do mindless, repetitive tasks for the colony. It has the choice to spend its time going out and seeing the world, but to it, the option has no color, no appeal. It exists on a level we could not understand, a simplicity we could not hope to match. What, then, is to prevent a faucet from existing on that level?"
Justin mulled over this for a minute, before he replied with the only thing he could, and as he said it he knew it was exactly what Chadwick was expecting him to say.
"Humans built the faucet."
"Is that so different than God building us? Just because we do not specifically imbue a faucet with life does not mean that it lacks life. There is an essential truth of humanity, and it is both our greatest strength and most debilitating weakness."
"The truth is that much of what we see is a lie. We build a world around us that is easy to comprehend, that we can shape and mold as we wish, with little to no influence of outside forces. Man has spent thousands of years operating under this essential principle. While humans have always wondered about, if not prescribed to, the influence of higher beings, it stops on a certain cosmic level. We collectively interpret the world as being much, much simpler than it is, as a survival mechanism. We essentially have created our own world within the world that operates by the principles we have set forth." Chadwick now took a sip of Justin's milk, and paused, letting Justin absorb some of what he'd said.
"The faucet was built by humans, and is, thus, considered an inanimate object. In fact, from the moment of its completion the faucet has been, in fact, living. Its existence is so simple and straightforward compared to ours that it is difficult to consider fully, but it exists nonetheless. It exists as much as it needs to in order to fulfill its function and get satisfaction. So, if you neglect to clean your faucet, it may decide it does not want to give you water, or at least put up a fight. It is the only way in which it can communicate with the outside world, because the outside world isn't listening."
Justin finally spoke up, surprising even himself by interjecting. "This is all very interesting, but then how do you know all this?"
Chadwick smiled, wider than Justin had seen so far. This entire conversation had been planned out beforehand, and Justin was feeling increasingly helpless, like thinking you're driving a car only to discover you're on a track and have no control.
"I said we built a fake world within the world. I am freed from that world, and can see things for what they really are. Its a skill, more than anything. I can teach you, if you wish."
"And how is that? Is there some sort of "break out of the Matrix' class?"
"A delivery. One delivery is all you'll need. I told you that you were the only one, Justin. You have the predispositions and situation, among other things, that are necessary to aid me. Not everyone can break down the walls we build around ourselves and..."
Chadwick rubbed his chin, attempting to find a more sensitive way to finish his sentence, but failed.
"Frankly, I need someone who wont go insane and run away."
Justin narrowed his eyes.
"That five hundred dollars. That's the kind of money I'd be making, on a regular basis?"
"More, most likely."
"And all the travel?"
"Everything paid for by me."
"And danger?"
"Everything's dangerous. The question is whether one is able to deal with it or not."
"So, good pay, travel, but obviously not very secure safety-wise."
Chadwick's smile morphed into a sidelong smirk.
"So there were actually hippos at that table?"
"Oh, I've no idea. I just needed an example, and that's what I came up with."
Justin looked around at his apartment, the early sunlight doing nothing to pierce the darkness that pervaded the place. He really didn't have much lower to go.
"One package. One bullet hole or stab wound, and its over."
"Oh, they wont be carrying guns. But I'd watch out for biting."
AEAJ - Chapter 3
Chapter 3 - In Which Coffee Is Had
Au Lait had an outside area with about ten tables. Seated at one of the tables was a young man matching, to the smallest detail, Justin's mental image of Chadwick. Justin simply stood there, for a moment, staring at him. He was ordering something from a waitress who seemed completely enthralled in his choice of drink, that took almost a minute and a half for him to articulate properly. The young brunette did not mind this, and if anything felt lucky to have been the one with the honor of serving him. He turned, and saw Justin, whose gaze was still fixed on him, and widened his smile.
"Hullo, Justin."
English accent. Justin hadn't thought of that.
He sat across from Chadwick for a while, neither speaking. Chadwick was looking directly into Justin's eyes, which was making him wildly uncomfortable. After a while, he leaned back in his chair.
"Well, are you going to have a drink then? Contrary to the name, or perhaps because of it, the cafe au lait here is not fantastic. However, I think it can be universally agreed that a name like Au Lait has the precise amount of foreign appeal while maintaining a sort of warm, homey feeling. Of course, what I ordered is, under normal circumstances, much too complex for the average barrista to make. It may come off as slightly gaudy, but I am willing to pay as much as they ask and once you have sampled it, I very seriously doubt you will be able to enjoy any other drink here or anywhere else."
Justin wasn't sure what to say. He asked for a regular cup of coffee, and shifted nervously in his chair. Chadwick stretched out, and shot their waitress an intoxicating grin as she gave him a cup of something with an unclear color, brown yet orange, like a tree basking in the light of a brilliant sunset. It smelled wonderful, like the air in an autumnal forest at the height of its beauty.
"You notice it, right?" Chadwick said taking in the fragrance. "This cup of coffee is exactly like a forest at sunset, in the fall. Took me years to get the thing just right. You have no idea just how bad coffee can actually taste."
Justin cocked his head slightly, and spoke his first words, besides ordering his beverage, since he'd sat down.
"Why don't you just make it yourself?"
Chadwick took a sip, eyes closed, so absorbed in his actions Justin began to repeat himself. However, Chadwick spoke first.
"I like to see how others will make it. No two sunsets are ever the same, nor should a recipe be set in stone. I order it based on my feelings, the sunset I want, the kind of forest I feel like standing in. The young lass serving us has made it exquisitely."
Once again, Justin was at a loss.
He felt awkward now, sipping coffee, cream, and sugar. His clothes, his drink, his demeanor, all seemed so plain in comparison to the brash yet stylish way in which Chadwick dressed, drank, and lived. He had said volumes, Justin barely a sentence. And none of it coming close to addressing why he was there. Breaking his unintentional vow of silence, he popped the question.
"So...what do you want me to do?"
Chadwick opened his eyes, his cup poised at his lips, the coffee millimeters away from his mouth. He gazed at Justin through the steam, and at length put the cup down.
"I perform a service. I don't know if you could really find a concrete name for it. I am a go-between. When two parties find it unfavorable or inconvenient to communicate directly with each other, I perform whatever action aids the process. You, Justin, would be doing deliveries."
"Deliveries?" was all Justin said, but Chadwick understood that he was actually asking how a delivery boy position could warrant five hundred dollars of encouragement.
"Of course, the things you'll be delivering will be very important. The parties I work with are willing to pay very well for my services, and I in return can pay you very well. I trust you are satisfied with what I included in the letter?"
"Are you kidding?" Justin said. "That was five hundred dollars. I don't think anyone's ever been paid five hundred dollars to read a letter."
Chadwick sipped his coffee, and smiled, bowing his head slightly. "I suppose not. I'm sure it seems over-the-top, but as I said""
"You're the only one who can do what I need," Justin interrupted, completing Chadwick's sentence. At this, Chadwick's smile widened. His smile was a living being, writhing and moving, completely independent from Chadwick's will. It had its own presence, its own personality.
"Justin, let me ask you a question. I'd like you to answer quickly and honestly. Don't think about it, just say what you feel. Ready? Let us say, hypothetically, that I were to tell you that the table closest to the window is occupied not by people, but by two hippopotami. What is your response?"
Chadwick could see Justin was inspecting the question for hidden meaning, so he wagged his finger.
"No no, no thinking. Just answer."
"Alright," Justin said, derailing his train of thought. "I suppose I'd look and see if there were really Hippotami there."
"You would actually look?"
"Well, assuming I don't have the time to think about whether there's some sort of metaphor or hidden meaning at work, I might as well just find out if they're actually sitting there."
Chadwick interlocked his fingers, and put his elbows on the table, hiding his mouth. He looked at Justin for a while once more, eventually lowering his hands onto the table.
"Justin, there are, if we're going to be simple about it, three types of people in the world. The first type has no convictions. They take the world in idealism, believing whatever comes there way because they don't see any reason why not to. The second type has incredibly strong convictions, judging the world and everything in it by a set of mostly unwavering standards."
"If I were to pose the question to someone in the first group, they would either believe me outright, or try immediately to think of the circumstances in which I could be right. Someone in the second group would point out everything that would make such a claim impossible based on their standards of logic and reason, or at the very least do everything in their power to disprove it. You, however, did neither. You are the type of person who simply investigates, neither completely trusting nor mistrusting my claims. This is essential for your job."
Justin listened intently. The logic, he thought, was somewhat flawed, and the use of such an extreme example seemed the sort of thing that would skew the results of the experiment, but he seemed to have answered the way Chadwick had wanted him to.
"That's enough for me. You are, most definitely, the one. If you'd like to take the job, we'll begin right away. I should mention, we will be moving quite a bit; my clients are rather spread out, and it does no good having to complicate things as far as traveling goes. In other words, you'd be abdicating your home and going on the road, after a fashion."
Now wait a second, Justin thought, I am just beginning to accept the fact that this man has a legitimate job he has selected me for, but he's only just met me and he's telling me to move? His face did not betray this, however. When he needed it, Justin had a fantastic poker face. Chadwick, likewise, had made it almost impossible to see that he was scanning Justin's face for an insight into his thoughts. The two studied each other, not moving, not blinking, eyes locked on each other. Justin trusted Chadwick less now than ever, and yet things were still too strange to outright ignore. Before he could come to a decision though, Chadwick broke their locked stares and the silence.
"Oh, come now. Like you have anywhere to go back to, anyway? Is your electricity even still working?"
That was it. Justin couldn't take any more of Chadwick and his living smile and auburn coffee and indelible charm.
|I'm sorry, but I don't think I'll be taking you up on your offer. Will you be wanting that money back?"
"To even think such a thing," Chadwick said, unphased, "is an insult to my character. The money is yours. I'll even buy the coffee. I rather wish you'd reconsider, though."
Justin thanked him again, still refusing, and left.
At the table by the window, the male hippopotamus ordered a second iced latte, his wife a cappuccino, light on the sugar (she was, the undertone suggested, watching her figure).
Au Lait had an outside area with about ten tables. Seated at one of the tables was a young man matching, to the smallest detail, Justin's mental image of Chadwick. Justin simply stood there, for a moment, staring at him. He was ordering something from a waitress who seemed completely enthralled in his choice of drink, that took almost a minute and a half for him to articulate properly. The young brunette did not mind this, and if anything felt lucky to have been the one with the honor of serving him. He turned, and saw Justin, whose gaze was still fixed on him, and widened his smile.
"Hullo, Justin."
English accent. Justin hadn't thought of that.
He sat across from Chadwick for a while, neither speaking. Chadwick was looking directly into Justin's eyes, which was making him wildly uncomfortable. After a while, he leaned back in his chair.
"Well, are you going to have a drink then? Contrary to the name, or perhaps because of it, the cafe au lait here is not fantastic. However, I think it can be universally agreed that a name like Au Lait has the precise amount of foreign appeal while maintaining a sort of warm, homey feeling. Of course, what I ordered is, under normal circumstances, much too complex for the average barrista to make. It may come off as slightly gaudy, but I am willing to pay as much as they ask and once you have sampled it, I very seriously doubt you will be able to enjoy any other drink here or anywhere else."
Justin wasn't sure what to say. He asked for a regular cup of coffee, and shifted nervously in his chair. Chadwick stretched out, and shot their waitress an intoxicating grin as she gave him a cup of something with an unclear color, brown yet orange, like a tree basking in the light of a brilliant sunset. It smelled wonderful, like the air in an autumnal forest at the height of its beauty.
"You notice it, right?" Chadwick said taking in the fragrance. "This cup of coffee is exactly like a forest at sunset, in the fall. Took me years to get the thing just right. You have no idea just how bad coffee can actually taste."
Justin cocked his head slightly, and spoke his first words, besides ordering his beverage, since he'd sat down.
"Why don't you just make it yourself?"
Chadwick took a sip, eyes closed, so absorbed in his actions Justin began to repeat himself. However, Chadwick spoke first.
"I like to see how others will make it. No two sunsets are ever the same, nor should a recipe be set in stone. I order it based on my feelings, the sunset I want, the kind of forest I feel like standing in. The young lass serving us has made it exquisitely."
Once again, Justin was at a loss.
He felt awkward now, sipping coffee, cream, and sugar. His clothes, his drink, his demeanor, all seemed so plain in comparison to the brash yet stylish way in which Chadwick dressed, drank, and lived. He had said volumes, Justin barely a sentence. And none of it coming close to addressing why he was there. Breaking his unintentional vow of silence, he popped the question.
"So...what do you want me to do?"
Chadwick opened his eyes, his cup poised at his lips, the coffee millimeters away from his mouth. He gazed at Justin through the steam, and at length put the cup down.
"I perform a service. I don't know if you could really find a concrete name for it. I am a go-between. When two parties find it unfavorable or inconvenient to communicate directly with each other, I perform whatever action aids the process. You, Justin, would be doing deliveries."
"Deliveries?" was all Justin said, but Chadwick understood that he was actually asking how a delivery boy position could warrant five hundred dollars of encouragement.
"Of course, the things you'll be delivering will be very important. The parties I work with are willing to pay very well for my services, and I in return can pay you very well. I trust you are satisfied with what I included in the letter?"
"Are you kidding?" Justin said. "That was five hundred dollars. I don't think anyone's ever been paid five hundred dollars to read a letter."
Chadwick sipped his coffee, and smiled, bowing his head slightly. "I suppose not. I'm sure it seems over-the-top, but as I said""
"You're the only one who can do what I need," Justin interrupted, completing Chadwick's sentence. At this, Chadwick's smile widened. His smile was a living being, writhing and moving, completely independent from Chadwick's will. It had its own presence, its own personality.
"Justin, let me ask you a question. I'd like you to answer quickly and honestly. Don't think about it, just say what you feel. Ready? Let us say, hypothetically, that I were to tell you that the table closest to the window is occupied not by people, but by two hippopotami. What is your response?"
Chadwick could see Justin was inspecting the question for hidden meaning, so he wagged his finger.
"No no, no thinking. Just answer."
"Alright," Justin said, derailing his train of thought. "I suppose I'd look and see if there were really Hippotami there."
"You would actually look?"
"Well, assuming I don't have the time to think about whether there's some sort of metaphor or hidden meaning at work, I might as well just find out if they're actually sitting there."
Chadwick interlocked his fingers, and put his elbows on the table, hiding his mouth. He looked at Justin for a while once more, eventually lowering his hands onto the table.
"Justin, there are, if we're going to be simple about it, three types of people in the world. The first type has no convictions. They take the world in idealism, believing whatever comes there way because they don't see any reason why not to. The second type has incredibly strong convictions, judging the world and everything in it by a set of mostly unwavering standards."
"If I were to pose the question to someone in the first group, they would either believe me outright, or try immediately to think of the circumstances in which I could be right. Someone in the second group would point out everything that would make such a claim impossible based on their standards of logic and reason, or at the very least do everything in their power to disprove it. You, however, did neither. You are the type of person who simply investigates, neither completely trusting nor mistrusting my claims. This is essential for your job."
Justin listened intently. The logic, he thought, was somewhat flawed, and the use of such an extreme example seemed the sort of thing that would skew the results of the experiment, but he seemed to have answered the way Chadwick had wanted him to.
"That's enough for me. You are, most definitely, the one. If you'd like to take the job, we'll begin right away. I should mention, we will be moving quite a bit; my clients are rather spread out, and it does no good having to complicate things as far as traveling goes. In other words, you'd be abdicating your home and going on the road, after a fashion."
Now wait a second, Justin thought, I am just beginning to accept the fact that this man has a legitimate job he has selected me for, but he's only just met me and he's telling me to move? His face did not betray this, however. When he needed it, Justin had a fantastic poker face. Chadwick, likewise, had made it almost impossible to see that he was scanning Justin's face for an insight into his thoughts. The two studied each other, not moving, not blinking, eyes locked on each other. Justin trusted Chadwick less now than ever, and yet things were still too strange to outright ignore. Before he could come to a decision though, Chadwick broke their locked stares and the silence.
"Oh, come now. Like you have anywhere to go back to, anyway? Is your electricity even still working?"
That was it. Justin couldn't take any more of Chadwick and his living smile and auburn coffee and indelible charm.
|I'm sorry, but I don't think I'll be taking you up on your offer. Will you be wanting that money back?"
"To even think such a thing," Chadwick said, unphased, "is an insult to my character. The money is yours. I'll even buy the coffee. I rather wish you'd reconsider, though."
Justin thanked him again, still refusing, and left.
At the table by the window, the male hippopotamus ordered a second iced latte, his wife a cappuccino, light on the sugar (she was, the undertone suggested, watching her figure).
AEAJ - Chapter 2
Chapter 2 - Dear Justin,
Hello. You don't know me. And, technically, I don't actually know you. I know of you, though, and this is enough for our purposes. My name is Chadwick, and I think it would be in the best interests of both of us if we were to meet. You see, I perform a service that I believe you would be incredibly inept at aiding. I realize it is a tad strange for me to ask you to believe that I'm not trying to scam you for all you're worth, but I think we both know that you're not worth much. While I don't know you, I do know a bit about your situation, and it is most definitely not a favorable one. All I'm asking is that you meet me for tea. There's a cafe two blocks from where I'm sending this letter, Au Lait. I'll be in town in two days, and I'll be there at 1 o'clock sharp. If you are to attend, we will discuss the aforementioned service and what, exactly, I'm offering. As a token of my seriousness, I have included a small payment. There is much more where that came from, and there is no one else who can do what I need. I await our meeting.
Sincerely yours,
Chadwick Emmerson the Forty Second and Three Quarters
Justin read the letter twice, in case he'd suffered some sort of massive head trauma while reading and had hallucinated its contents. When he was done, he folded the letter back up, and tossed it onto the counter, then went to lay down on his couch. On the T.V., a topless, three hundred pound woman was assaulting her husband who'd had sexual relations with a thin but plain secretary for some months. The host of the show looked on in horror, the security guards standing up very slowly and allowing some time to past before they quickly and efficiently broke up the fight, which ended in no legal injuries and was met with monstrous applause. The host, struck with awe that a scuffle had ensued from what was a perfectly normal situation, went into the audience to get the reactions of the crowd, where an elderly woman made a comment that did not survive the network censors. Justin, however, was staring at the five hundred-dollar bills in his hand that had been in the envelope.
That night, over a delivered box of pork lo mein, his apartment cast in the cool gray glow of an old movie from the forties, one phrase of the letter suddenly insinuated itself into his head. There is no one else who can do what I need. What did that mean? Chadwick had curiously forgotten to mention exactly what it was he did. The natural assumption was, as he himself had said, a scam, or at the very least something very illegal. It was, he figured, a natural technique of such people to make their targets think they are special, that they are being done a magnificent service by a stroke of amazing luck. But to say something so vague and mysterious seemed counterproductive. It made the letter all the more suspicious. This was to say nothing of the five hundred dollars he'd been given. Whoever Chadwick was, he didn't seem like the type to send someone that much money unless it was legit. This was the impression Justin got, anyway.
In fact, in spite of the short letter he felt as if he could see Chadwick perfectly in his mind. He has hair the color of looking directly into the sun, long and mercilessly styled, probably for at least an hour every day. Not one strand is out of place, not one modicum of frizz. He has a shirt of lilac satin, a classy yet sporty black jacket, and dull leather pants a rare sort of unobtrusive red. He carries himself almost like a tree, swaying in the wind, moving much more than the average person does in the course of any particular conversation. And he is always smiling. Sometimes its a smirk, sometimes an almost unnoticeable curve of his lips, but he always looks, to some degree, pleased.
It was not like Justin to form such concrete images of people, especially not from single-paragraph letters. He had less well-formed visuals of people he actually knew. Chadwick, he realized, was a genius. He sent a mysterious letter brimming with exceedingly personal yet headache-inducingly vague sentiments asking for something he of course would not discuss but that he felt needed five hundred dollars of encouragement for Justin to do. And all the while, Chadwick must have known that the reader would be able to form such a complete picture of him; he seemed like the type who selected every word, controlling absolutely the content and interpretation of what he wrote.
As he predicted, Justin found it difficult not to think about Chadwick, his letter, or his money for the next day. At first, he tried to force all of it out of his mind; just forget that he'd ever read it. However, he found it was easier to let the thoughts mull around in his head, and managed to work it down to a low nagging, thinking around it while always aware of its presence.
Monday came, and Justin woke up at 11. He didn't usually get twelve hours of sleep, but having a person he'd never met in his head all day must have taken quite a bit out of him. He drank a glass of orange juice extremely slowly, taking in the waking world gently. Still unable to shake off his sleepiness, he jumped in the shower. The warm water only made things worse, so he turned down the temperature, which is to say he actually fell asleep and hit the water control with his hand, and somewhere between hitting the floor and the shards of icy water assaulting him, he woke up substantially.
After his shower, Justin applied a pertinent but modest amount of gel to his hair, brushed his teeth, and went to his closet. Recalling his image of Chadwick and his wardrobe, he felt an overwhelming need to dress fancy himself. Unfortunately, Justin was not the type to wear anything fancy and thus put on a white buttoned-up shirt and a black pair of pants. That was about as complicated as his wardrobe got, if one was to speak generously. Once he was ready, he read Chadwick's letter once more. He still found it hard to believe any of what had been written.
Even so, at exactly 12:59 and 38 seconds, he arrived at Au Lait.
Hello. You don't know me. And, technically, I don't actually know you. I know of you, though, and this is enough for our purposes. My name is Chadwick, and I think it would be in the best interests of both of us if we were to meet. You see, I perform a service that I believe you would be incredibly inept at aiding. I realize it is a tad strange for me to ask you to believe that I'm not trying to scam you for all you're worth, but I think we both know that you're not worth much. While I don't know you, I do know a bit about your situation, and it is most definitely not a favorable one. All I'm asking is that you meet me for tea. There's a cafe two blocks from where I'm sending this letter, Au Lait. I'll be in town in two days, and I'll be there at 1 o'clock sharp. If you are to attend, we will discuss the aforementioned service and what, exactly, I'm offering. As a token of my seriousness, I have included a small payment. There is much more where that came from, and there is no one else who can do what I need. I await our meeting.
Sincerely yours,
Chadwick Emmerson the Forty Second and Three Quarters
Justin read the letter twice, in case he'd suffered some sort of massive head trauma while reading and had hallucinated its contents. When he was done, he folded the letter back up, and tossed it onto the counter, then went to lay down on his couch. On the T.V., a topless, three hundred pound woman was assaulting her husband who'd had sexual relations with a thin but plain secretary for some months. The host of the show looked on in horror, the security guards standing up very slowly and allowing some time to past before they quickly and efficiently broke up the fight, which ended in no legal injuries and was met with monstrous applause. The host, struck with awe that a scuffle had ensued from what was a perfectly normal situation, went into the audience to get the reactions of the crowd, where an elderly woman made a comment that did not survive the network censors. Justin, however, was staring at the five hundred-dollar bills in his hand that had been in the envelope.
That night, over a delivered box of pork lo mein, his apartment cast in the cool gray glow of an old movie from the forties, one phrase of the letter suddenly insinuated itself into his head. There is no one else who can do what I need. What did that mean? Chadwick had curiously forgotten to mention exactly what it was he did. The natural assumption was, as he himself had said, a scam, or at the very least something very illegal. It was, he figured, a natural technique of such people to make their targets think they are special, that they are being done a magnificent service by a stroke of amazing luck. But to say something so vague and mysterious seemed counterproductive. It made the letter all the more suspicious. This was to say nothing of the five hundred dollars he'd been given. Whoever Chadwick was, he didn't seem like the type to send someone that much money unless it was legit. This was the impression Justin got, anyway.
In fact, in spite of the short letter he felt as if he could see Chadwick perfectly in his mind. He has hair the color of looking directly into the sun, long and mercilessly styled, probably for at least an hour every day. Not one strand is out of place, not one modicum of frizz. He has a shirt of lilac satin, a classy yet sporty black jacket, and dull leather pants a rare sort of unobtrusive red. He carries himself almost like a tree, swaying in the wind, moving much more than the average person does in the course of any particular conversation. And he is always smiling. Sometimes its a smirk, sometimes an almost unnoticeable curve of his lips, but he always looks, to some degree, pleased.
It was not like Justin to form such concrete images of people, especially not from single-paragraph letters. He had less well-formed visuals of people he actually knew. Chadwick, he realized, was a genius. He sent a mysterious letter brimming with exceedingly personal yet headache-inducingly vague sentiments asking for something he of course would not discuss but that he felt needed five hundred dollars of encouragement for Justin to do. And all the while, Chadwick must have known that the reader would be able to form such a complete picture of him; he seemed like the type who selected every word, controlling absolutely the content and interpretation of what he wrote.
As he predicted, Justin found it difficult not to think about Chadwick, his letter, or his money for the next day. At first, he tried to force all of it out of his mind; just forget that he'd ever read it. However, he found it was easier to let the thoughts mull around in his head, and managed to work it down to a low nagging, thinking around it while always aware of its presence.
Monday came, and Justin woke up at 11. He didn't usually get twelve hours of sleep, but having a person he'd never met in his head all day must have taken quite a bit out of him. He drank a glass of orange juice extremely slowly, taking in the waking world gently. Still unable to shake off his sleepiness, he jumped in the shower. The warm water only made things worse, so he turned down the temperature, which is to say he actually fell asleep and hit the water control with his hand, and somewhere between hitting the floor and the shards of icy water assaulting him, he woke up substantially.
After his shower, Justin applied a pertinent but modest amount of gel to his hair, brushed his teeth, and went to his closet. Recalling his image of Chadwick and his wardrobe, he felt an overwhelming need to dress fancy himself. Unfortunately, Justin was not the type to wear anything fancy and thus put on a white buttoned-up shirt and a black pair of pants. That was about as complicated as his wardrobe got, if one was to speak generously. Once he was ready, he read Chadwick's letter once more. He still found it hard to believe any of what had been written.
Even so, at exactly 12:59 and 38 seconds, he arrived at Au Lait.
AEAJ - Chapter 1
Part 1 - Which Takes Place Principally on What Would Most Commonly Be Considered to Be The Planet Earth
Chapter 1 - A Series of Written Communications
The first letter came on Tuesday.
Justin already had an idea of what was written inside, so he didn't so much read it as crumple it up, throw it away, and grab a soda. The letter's contents were to the effect of thanking him for attending Law School but that it wasn't necessary, or more specifically wanted, or if one could be quite frank allowed for him to return next semester. Justin's grades had been somewhere between abysmal and so apocalyptically bad one teacher remarked that he didn't think an F properly expressed the amount of failing Justin had done.
In retrospect, Justin probably shouldn't have gone into law. The problem wasn't that he was bad at school; he had simply chosen a profession that worked completely differently than it should have. Firstly, Justin imagined law as a way to discern whether or not a crime had been committed, and to punish the guilty party appropriately. Law turned out to be rather more about two people trying to outdo each other to accomplish a goal that was, more often than not, geared towards their own interests rather than that of justice. Justin's second problem was his dislike for physical evidence's necessity. It wasn't that he thought physical evidence was entirely unreliable, but that the fact that it was absolutely required wasn't conducive to cases getting solved. Justin found things like testimony and logical connections perfectly satisfactory where there was a lack of actual evidence, and this proved to be a problem.
As Justin sipped at his soda, he wondered idly when the last time he'd had chinese food was.
The second letter came two days later, on Thursday. It was from his phone company, noting that the amount of money they'd received in exchange for his phone service was in the general realm of none, and that he would not be getting or making any calls anymore, at least not from his apartment. Justin had long since lost his cell phone, and this effectively cut off any non-written contact with the outside world. There was a sort of peace that pervaded the apartment in the following days; something about the ringing of a telephone always made Justin nervous, for reasons he could not articulate.
The sun had decided that it would like the city grilled to an almost inedible crisp that week, and so it was that Justin didn't go out much. He simply lay around his apartment, silent but for the television that filled his days with shows that weren't interesting enough to be shown when people were actually there to see them. Most of the time, though, he turned the thing off by noon, and read old magazines, or did nothing at all. It was amazing how slowly the day could pass when you made no use of it. The heat seemed to paralyze everything. There was little that moved in such unrelenting weather, and three days crawled at a snail's pace, feeling like an entire week.
The third letter was from Justin's parents. They had tried calling him, his phone of course no longer working, but they felt they really had to get in touch with him. It seemed that he was no longer in school, which was alarming conceptually, although the monetary savings would, if his parents had to be completely honest, be fantastic. There then came a paragraph or two about how disappointed they were in him (he didn't read this; he did not have to be told what failing out of college meant), followed by the small matter of the apartment they were mostly paying for. Justin took care of things like the phone, water, and electricity, but the base rent was provided by his parents, as long as he was in school. Which he no longer was. This was a problem.
The fourth letter informed him that he was pre-approved for a brand new credit card with an unparalleled credit limit and interest so low it wasn't even worth really giving a number. Justin, of course, knew that if they had any idea what sort of catastrophes had followed the last time he was given a credit card they would have actually done everything in their power to keep him from receiving one of their cards for fear that he might use it. This letter joined the other three in the trash.
Letter number five was from the book store he worked for, informing him that there had been an %u201Cincident,%u201D the details of which were of a delicate nature. The owner would be, he claimed, by the time Justin would receive the letter, at least three states away, which was impressive considering he'd hand-delivered it. Within the week he would be well beyond the reach of the government and would most likely be growing a beard and changing his name. He apologized that he had to abdicate his store and render his three employees jobless, but that Oh dear that's a siren outside and I should probably get out of here as soon as I finish the bonfire. Included in the envelope was a crumpled $100 that smelled like dust and had several questionable red stains on it. There was also a package containing several old books. Justin put the box aside and promised to look through them once he was done not looking through them.
By Wednesday, he was beginning to consider no longer accepting mail. He could normally go months without mail and not even notice, but in the span of about one week his entire life had seemed to unravel itself quite efficiently in the course of four letters. Who wrote letters anymore, anyway? Luckily, Justin wasn't the type of person to let having no school, job, phone, and soon enough a place to live and things like that bother him. Justin didn't understand the point of getting worked up over anything. It wasn't like panicking would accomplish anything. All it'd do is make him feel like crap and ruin anything remotely fun he tried to do. Worrying was a completely useless activity and he would have no part of it.
A few more inconsequential days passed, and Saturday came without any more letters of life-altering magnitude arriving. Except for the one letter that did arrive on Saturday, whose magnitude could only be described as life-altering.
Chapter 1 - A Series of Written Communications
The first letter came on Tuesday.
Justin already had an idea of what was written inside, so he didn't so much read it as crumple it up, throw it away, and grab a soda. The letter's contents were to the effect of thanking him for attending Law School but that it wasn't necessary, or more specifically wanted, or if one could be quite frank allowed for him to return next semester. Justin's grades had been somewhere between abysmal and so apocalyptically bad one teacher remarked that he didn't think an F properly expressed the amount of failing Justin had done.
In retrospect, Justin probably shouldn't have gone into law. The problem wasn't that he was bad at school; he had simply chosen a profession that worked completely differently than it should have. Firstly, Justin imagined law as a way to discern whether or not a crime had been committed, and to punish the guilty party appropriately. Law turned out to be rather more about two people trying to outdo each other to accomplish a goal that was, more often than not, geared towards their own interests rather than that of justice. Justin's second problem was his dislike for physical evidence's necessity. It wasn't that he thought physical evidence was entirely unreliable, but that the fact that it was absolutely required wasn't conducive to cases getting solved. Justin found things like testimony and logical connections perfectly satisfactory where there was a lack of actual evidence, and this proved to be a problem.
As Justin sipped at his soda, he wondered idly when the last time he'd had chinese food was.
The second letter came two days later, on Thursday. It was from his phone company, noting that the amount of money they'd received in exchange for his phone service was in the general realm of none, and that he would not be getting or making any calls anymore, at least not from his apartment. Justin had long since lost his cell phone, and this effectively cut off any non-written contact with the outside world. There was a sort of peace that pervaded the apartment in the following days; something about the ringing of a telephone always made Justin nervous, for reasons he could not articulate.
The sun had decided that it would like the city grilled to an almost inedible crisp that week, and so it was that Justin didn't go out much. He simply lay around his apartment, silent but for the television that filled his days with shows that weren't interesting enough to be shown when people were actually there to see them. Most of the time, though, he turned the thing off by noon, and read old magazines, or did nothing at all. It was amazing how slowly the day could pass when you made no use of it. The heat seemed to paralyze everything. There was little that moved in such unrelenting weather, and three days crawled at a snail's pace, feeling like an entire week.
The third letter was from Justin's parents. They had tried calling him, his phone of course no longer working, but they felt they really had to get in touch with him. It seemed that he was no longer in school, which was alarming conceptually, although the monetary savings would, if his parents had to be completely honest, be fantastic. There then came a paragraph or two about how disappointed they were in him (he didn't read this; he did not have to be told what failing out of college meant), followed by the small matter of the apartment they were mostly paying for. Justin took care of things like the phone, water, and electricity, but the base rent was provided by his parents, as long as he was in school. Which he no longer was. This was a problem.
The fourth letter informed him that he was pre-approved for a brand new credit card with an unparalleled credit limit and interest so low it wasn't even worth really giving a number. Justin, of course, knew that if they had any idea what sort of catastrophes had followed the last time he was given a credit card they would have actually done everything in their power to keep him from receiving one of their cards for fear that he might use it. This letter joined the other three in the trash.
Letter number five was from the book store he worked for, informing him that there had been an %u201Cincident,%u201D the details of which were of a delicate nature. The owner would be, he claimed, by the time Justin would receive the letter, at least three states away, which was impressive considering he'd hand-delivered it. Within the week he would be well beyond the reach of the government and would most likely be growing a beard and changing his name. He apologized that he had to abdicate his store and render his three employees jobless, but that Oh dear that's a siren outside and I should probably get out of here as soon as I finish the bonfire. Included in the envelope was a crumpled $100 that smelled like dust and had several questionable red stains on it. There was also a package containing several old books. Justin put the box aside and promised to look through them once he was done not looking through them.
By Wednesday, he was beginning to consider no longer accepting mail. He could normally go months without mail and not even notice, but in the span of about one week his entire life had seemed to unravel itself quite efficiently in the course of four letters. Who wrote letters anymore, anyway? Luckily, Justin wasn't the type of person to let having no school, job, phone, and soon enough a place to live and things like that bother him. Justin didn't understand the point of getting worked up over anything. It wasn't like panicking would accomplish anything. All it'd do is make him feel like crap and ruin anything remotely fun he tried to do. Worrying was a completely useless activity and he would have no part of it.
A few more inconsequential days passed, and Saturday came without any more letters of life-altering magnitude arriving. Except for the one letter that did arrive on Saturday, whose magnitude could only be described as life-altering.
The Amazingly Eventful Adventures of Justin
Posts tagged with Justin are chapters of a novel that I have just now in the title of this post named. It's about a very, very normal young man who becomes a delivery boy of sorts for various supernatural and fantasy people and places. The first chapter of it still stands as my favorite thing I've ever written.
I started writing this about three years ago, very spread out, which makes the tone in the last couple of chapters I wrote a little different. I have a whole chapter written out in a notebook somewhere I have not committed to type yet, written probably two years ago. I tend to get creative ADD so I just moved on I suppose, but this is the story closest to my heart, and the one with the most of me in it.
I'll post all the chapters I have, keep in mind that these are almost completely unrevised and that I wrote them a few years ago. Also my prose style when I'm being whimsical is perhaps a little impenetrable, with excessive commas and deliriously long sentences. Enjoy!
I started writing this about three years ago, very spread out, which makes the tone in the last couple of chapters I wrote a little different. I have a whole chapter written out in a notebook somewhere I have not committed to type yet, written probably two years ago. I tend to get creative ADD so I just moved on I suppose, but this is the story closest to my heart, and the one with the most of me in it.
I'll post all the chapters I have, keep in mind that these are almost completely unrevised and that I wrote them a few years ago. Also my prose style when I'm being whimsical is perhaps a little impenetrable, with excessive commas and deliriously long sentences. Enjoy!
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