Deep

(Note: This was for my first short story workshop.)

MONDAY

My name is Edward Avery, and I am the Port-A-Potty for all of your problems.
I sit here, seemingly more important than you, with my volumes of leather-bound books behind me, and I listen to you. I write. Sometimes I care. I’ve been doing this for 12 years. My hair is starting to grey, but I still love coming to work. It pays well, especially with this economic depression. More and more people are freaking out, so they tell their sob stories and fears to me at a nice hourly rate. Most of these people are boring, honestly, but every now and then, I get a good one.
I kind of get a kick out of how they can’t see what I’m writing. They see me jotting notes down, adding a thoughtful “Mhmm,” every now and then, and they think I’m doing some deep psychological shit, like I’m pointing out syndromes or drawing diagrams to help figure out why they’re so messed up. I’d say about half the time, I’m making a grocery list. Don’t get me wrong, I’m still listening, but if you have something run-of-the-mill like simply depression or a worry that your husband is cheating on you, I’ve heard it a million times.
“But how does that make you feel?”
Skim milk, eggs, Cheez-Its.
“Were you close with your father before he passed away?”
Toilet paper, bread, white wine.
“Has your uncle ever touched you inappropriately?”
Oatmeal, bleach, tomatoes.
It’s the really messed-up ones that keep me coming into work. Like today, I talked with a woman who was having some marital problems. Some women can only orgasm on top, some can only orgasm on bottom; we found out that she can only orgasm while listening to the Star-Spangled Banner. It’s a rather rare affliction, as you can imagine.

TUESDAY

Today wasn’t too bad. I talked with a woman, who, after eight months of marriage, was already bored and wanting to sleep with her husband’s best friend. She lives down the street for me. See, that’s another great thing about being a psychiatrist in a small town like this. I know your innermost fears. I know what you’re thinking. Eventually, it defines you.
I don’t see Brad McVeigh filling up his car at the gas station. I see the guy, who at 55 years old, is still deathly afraid of clowns.
I don’t see Amy Kern walking her dog. I see the woman with an Electra complex.
I don’t see Josh Hendrickson at the movie theater with a buddy or two. I see the poor kid who’s scared to tell his parents that he’s gay.
Today, I was lucky, though. With no appointments after three, I was able to sneak home early, get into my comfy clothes and watch TV. Carolyn was sweet enough to cook dinner, another worry gone from my mind. At around 10, we crawled into bed, as we’ve done for 14 years, and went to sleep.

WEDNESDAY?

I jolted up, my face iced with sweat.
Holy shit.
Where are my glasses?
I squint, looking at my alarm clock. It says, maybe, 3:30. Could be 8:30. Who knows?
I had a disturbing feeling of déjà vu. I sat, half naked, trying to figure out what just happened. I remember running, being chased. By who or what, I don’t know. I don’t remember looking back to see. I remember jumping a fence. I remember being scared for my life. I just knew I had to get away from this person. I remember it being dark. I remember looking, no, feeling like shit.
I remember running across a street.
Then I woke up.
That’s what I remember. But it all seemed so familiar.
I had to lie back down. I tried to go to sleep, and eventually did, only to have to wake up a couple hours later.

WEDNESDAY

As soon as she walked into my office, I knew.
Last night rushed back to me, knocking me into reality.
Angela Friedman is 24 years old, a junior college student and really a sweet girl. She’s got blonde hair and blue eyes. One of them has a black ring around it, poorly masked by makeup.
“So, Miss Friedman, how have things gone since we talked last week?”
She sat in the leather chair next to me, crouched over, arms around her stomach, looking at the floor.
“Well… I don’t know. I moved back in with him the other day. He said he was sorry. He told me he really loved me.”
I’m holding her file, flipping through the pages. Shortly after I read the reminder to pick up some more salsa at the grocery store, I saw the notes from last week’s meeting. She told me how the previous night, her boyfriend tried to beat her again. She had to run away. She went to her mom’s house, which was a little less than a mile away. She jumped a fence, going through someone’s backyard to get away from him.
Then I knew. Had to just be a coincidence. I knew that Angela was scheduled for today, and she was one of the few people I did truly care about. That was why I had the dream, of course.
We talked more. She said that she was scared of leaving, that he’d find her. I told her to find a friend outside of town for a while, to clear her head for a week and see if she still feels the same way. This wasn’t a good situation for her. She deserved better.
Angela left after a while, thanking me, tears in her eyes.
I got ready for my 1 o’clock appointment, a new patient.
Grant Weimer is 17 years old, thin but not malnourished. The kind of kid you could see volunteering at a soup kitchen in his spare time. He wasn’t anything outstanding, but he had a trusting smile.
His eyes, though, gave me reason to think otherwise.

THURSDAY

It took me a little while to realize where I was. I was sitting at a desk. I remember looking up at a teacher, whose words slurred like his (or her) Peanuts pedagogical counterpart.
It stopped talking.
I looked down at a blank sheet of paper. It looked back at me, growling.
I took another look at the teacher. It looked like… no… it couldn’t be. Mrs. Jean, my Psychology 101 professor, freshman year. Maybe. I recognized it as her, but it didn’t look like her.
I remember not knowing what was on the test. It was blank for me, but I looked to my right, and his paper had questions.
I looked at the clock.
It inched closer to 12. What that meant — the end of the exam, the end of the day, the end of time — I didn’t know. I just knew that I had to finish this before the hands of that black-and-white clock pointed north.
I looked at that other paper again. It was wrong, but it felt so right.
Mrs. Jean shot me a glare. A Medusa look.
The clock struck 12. I woke up. Sweating again.
Shit.
I sat up, scared. I reached over to my nightstand, picking up my glasses, putting them on. It was 2:37 in the morning. I was careful not to disturb Carolyn, who was snoring quite loudly. When we first started dating, she sounded like a kitten while sleeping. Now it sounds like she’s swallowed one.
That sense of déjà vu rejoined me. I pushed the covers aside, lifting myself out of bed, and reached for my briefcase. I took it to the living room, going over yesterday’s notes.

Grant Weimer:
- 17 years old, student at Kennedy High
- Says he really wants to get into Duke
- Call Carolyn, ask if she can take “Snakes on a Plane” back to Blockbuster
- “I feel so pressured to do well”
- “I can’t tell my parents… I’m so ashamed. Everyone else was doing it, too. The teacher wasn’t looking.”
- He’s going to be valedictorian, too stressed to write speech

I stopped there. I’d read enough. I realized what was happening. For the first time in a while, I didn’t want to go to work today. Maybe these dreams were a warning, telling me I need to listen more. I had that sinking feeling in my stomach, but I knew I had to continue. This isn’t some office job where if you call in sick, you just miss out on paperwork. I work with people. You can’t just e-mail them in.
I put the file away, closed my briefcase and went back to bed. I cuddled Carolyn tight. She’s always been a heavy sleeper, thank God, so she couldn’t feel my fear.
I went in to work that morning, saw the first name on my schedule and felt my heart stop. I had a bad feeling.
Gerald White (he hated being called “Jerry”). 53 years old. Former stockbroker. Lost his job two weeks ago. Wife left him for a 25-year-old last month. Improving, but still a long way from recovery.
Gerald walked into my office. Normally dressed in a suit and tie, he flopped into the leather chair wearing an old workout shirt and sweatpants. He was sweating heavily, mainly around the armpits. He said he tried going for a run this morning to take his mind off things.
“Are you ok?”
“No… I don’t know. Last night… I…”
“It’s okay. You can tell me.”
I wanted to hear what he was saying, but ignore him completely.
“Last night…”
He wiped his eyes. Could’ve been sweat. Could’ve been tears.
“Last night… I tried to commit suicide. I took every pill I could find — antidepressants, aspirins, vitamins. I couldn’t take it. I don’t see the point anymore. I fucked that up too! I threw everything back up. What do I do now?”
I told him to be thankful he’s alive now, there is a reason for it. I told him to find a friend or family member and go see a movie or something tonight. I gave him my cell phone number, telling him to call me if he feels these emotions come back tonight.
He left, feeling relieved. I stumbled through the rest of my appointments. Trying to focus, hoping I’d be dreaming their nightmare, not Gerald’s.
I went home at about 5, which was normal. I went through the door and saw that Carolyn was already home from work. Beat me by a few minutes. I gave her the biggest hug ever and told her everything. I couldn’t go to sleep tonight.
Suicide brought back such painful memories. I could remember when I was 18, a senior in high school and still full of hope. I walked home from school and found my older brother Jason, lifeless on his bed with an empty bottle of painkillers in one hand and a love note to some slut in the other. I was the one that had to tell my parents. Since then, I’ve wanted to help people so they wouldn’t have to go through the same thing.
Carolyn understood. She stuck with me, watching TV until the wee hours of the night. After a while, though, her hand went limp. I could feel her heavy head on my shoulder. She was out.

FRIDAY

I rationalized this. It’s a dream. It can’t hurt. I need to sleep. I looked at the clock — 2:17. I can do this. I took my glasses off, setting them by the nightstand. I looked up at the roof, at the oatmeal-like nook and crannies. I started counting them.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five.
And so on.
I lost count after 100. I did not want to go to sleep. I tossed and turned.
I looked at the clock. It was blurry.
I was slipping. I felt the walls closing in. I had to get out. I wrangled with my covers like they were trapping me in. I wasn’t about to go to sleep. Goddamnit, no. This was too much. Everything started coming back to me. Jason’s pale blue face on his pale blue pillow. Picturing Gerald popping pills like M&Ms. Remembering the truly crazy people I’ve talked to in all of my years as a psychiatrist. The guy who thinks the Prime Minister of Canada is going to take over the world. The woman who couldn’t trust anything related to the number four. The man who thought Buddha has a ghost penis living in his cereal. Okay, maybe I made that last one up.

???

This room was suffocating me.
I had to get out. Now.
I was in my boxers and a t-shirt. I grabbed my keys, leaving the house and walking to my car. Did I lock the door? Did I close the door? I don’t know. I don’t care, either.
I drove. There was no one on the roads. I didn’t care about stop signs or even stop lights. I drove out to the booneys, watching the dotted yellow lines blur. Darkness swallowed me.
I lost control at some point, steering haphazardly. I could see a hint of dawn, so I knew I was getting closer to day. But it was still dark.
I went through a fence.
I think.
I saw water.
I felt water.
I took a breath.
I didn’t wake up.

Circle kicker

I killed the President of the United States of America today.

I also coordinated today’s staff meeting and convinced our intern, Sean, to get Chinese food for lunch. Quite a productive day, really. What else are you going to do on a Wednesday?

Oh, right, the President. My friends helped me with that one. Don’t worry, there wasn’t any blood. You see, we’re staff writers for the Worldwide Press, a wire news company. Newspapers from around the world buy stories from us because we’re cheaper than the hometown writers that they’d have to pay a liveable wage.

I’m Wes Northcutt. I’ve been working here for a few years and it’s nice because, well, I have a job. That’s about the only thing journalists have to cling to now. The Op-Ed Editor — my boss —Jameson Wilkins, also pledged at Kappa Delta Psi 20 years before me. I knew those dues would come in handy.

Whenever there’s a high-profile celebrity who’s at risk of kicking the bucket, we pre-write the obituaries so we can be the first with the story. Jameson got the idea when teen singing sensation Sheba went on that coke binge in March. Throughout newsrooms, there was a death pool, predicting when she’d overdose. When she’d drink a fifth of high-end vodka, get behind the wheel and have her head impaled by the window wiper of a Honda Civic. When she’d contract HIV. When she’d just off herself. Journalists have a sick sense of humor. Most of us have looked into the eyes of enough prisoners of war, enough kids from broken homes, enough widows to regard any sort of tragedy with comedy. A coked up singer hell-bent on self-destruction is just a joke, really.

I had April 20, and I would’ve won a couple hundred bucks, but she went to rehab the week before.

Wilkins, after drinking from the fifth of vodka in his desk, got the idea that we should just have these things ready so we can beat the competition. And, in this country, who is more high-profile than the President? With the job market tanking even further and the middle class getting fucked, President Cooper just kept going along like nothing happened. It was his last year in office, anyway. Senioritis took over. He sent more aid to war-torn Saudi Arabia, to the United Arab Emirates. Who needs to take care of the country you were elected to appoint when you can just give them more oil? Of course, when you’ve got more money than God, you tend to not care about the guy working 40 hours a week.

My offering was relatively tame:
“Drake Cooper, the former President of the United States of America, was shot and fatally wounded this morning in Chicago. Secret Service immediately apprehended XXXXXXX, a XX-year old man from XXXXXX. Cooper is survived by his wife, Florence, his three children, Marla, Eric and Drake Jr., and his father, Flynn.”

Lauren, in the cubicle next to me, had Cooper being struck in the head by an advisor. Javier, five desks down, choked him with a piece of chicken. Fred, that perverted old fuck, killed off the President through autoerotic asphyxiation. He also thought Sheba would die while screwing her drummer after doing extacy.

No one else is supposed to know about it. Well, not the general public. We’re supposed to be the gatekeepers and watchdogs of this country. Not the angels of death for pop singers.

So I submitted that graph about the President an hour before deadline, plus wrapped up the page design earlier than I expected. It was already five to midnight, and I figured I should head home. I’m probably wanted for murder, ya know? I was able to fight off sleep long enough to make it to my apartment.

The next day was awfully routine. Movie star Brady Radinsky got a DUI last night, driving 115 on the freeway. I figured one of his girlfriends would “accidentally” poison him, give him one too many Valiums. Percocets. Vicodins. Xanaxes. Whatever’s in style in Hollywood this week.

Lauren, in the cubicle next to me, had him being Tazered and beaten to death by the LAPD after an hour and a half-long car chase. Javier, five desks down, gave him Hepatitis. Fred, that perverted old fuck, killed him off while he was suffocating under a grossly overweight hooker. He also thought the President would die by autoerotic asphyxiation.

Apparently, I wasn’t the only one who got tired of Fred. Around 12:30, Wilkins called him into the office and shut the door. We all knew that couldn’t mean anything good. Not that it was a shock or anything. In this business, the bottom line rules. Just having a job is an accomplishment in itself. Make too much, become too valuable, and you’ll probably become the first to go when the publisher sees revenue taking another dive. Fred was easily replaceable with Sean, or some college kid they could pay $9 an hour. He’d really gotten kind of angry at us younger people. Just bitter at the world, you know? He had to work his ass off to become a journalist, selling papers as a kid, then becoming a minimum-wage copy editor and working his way up. We basically walked in from college because we were cheap labor and could put together a sentence. He hated that, and the fact that we didn’t have to walk five miles to work in the snow, uphill both ways, of course. God, he was irritating.

So Fred comes out of the office and closes the door behind him. He has the look of devastation, of vulnerability for once. I almost feel sorry for the guy. Then he walks by my desk, the insufferable smell of Pall Malls following him. Correction — I don’t feel sorry for him. Fred checks his e-mail, packs up his desk, and gets ready to leave.

“Finally,” I whispered to Lauren. She smiled, stifling a giggle.

Fred heard that, somehow, and turned around to me. He shot me a look that immediately jarred me. He had to have known this day was coming. Maybe he had a plan. He’d blow up the building. He’d pull out a gun and hold us hostage. He’d tell us to go fuck off. I was scared for a moment, but he just turned back, shook his head and muttered something.

After that, it was back to work, because, well, it had to be. I finished up my column on Governor Wright’s latest plan to solve this economic crisis, checked MySpace for a bit, then clocked out around 4. It was Wilkins’ night to layout the section, so maybe I could go to bed at a decent hour this time. I got home, watched a sitcom or two, had some leftovers and a Corona and went to bed.

The phone rang at 5:11 a.m., about two hours before I wanted to get up.

“Hello?” I was able to say. If I’m getting called at 5:11 in the morning, it better be good.

“Wes?” It was Lauren. Yeah, this could be good. “Wes, are you up?”

“No.”

“Turn on the TV. Channel 8. Now.” Not what I was hoping to hear.

There was Fred. That bushy snow-white hair on his wrinkled face, smiling for once. I wasn’t really awake enough to process what he was saying, but I was thrown into consciousness after reading the headline on the screen.

WORLDWIDE PRESS WRITER PLANS TO KILL PRESIDENT?

Good morning to you, too, Fred. He told the Botox-faced news anchor everything. That I wrote this obituary for the President. That I had done it for other people. Of course, he left out Lauren and Javier. He told them that I was serious. They trusted him, because, well, he was a journalist and it was sensational. They showed the blurb I wrote.

“Drake Cooper, the former President of the United States of America, was shot and fatally wounded this morning in Chicago. Secret Service immediately apprehended Wes Northcutt, a 30-year old man from Decatur. Cooper is survived by his wife, Florence, his three children, Marla, Eric and Drake Jr., and his father, Flynn.”

That’s plagiarism, Fred.

The story was all over the place. Every channel had it. It was all over the internet, with my mug shot, the same one I’ve got on my media badge.

I became paranoid. I had to leave town. Leave the country.

But first, I had to go by the office and clear off any more evidence. I picked a collared shirt off the floor, found a pair of jeans and some flip-flops. I grabbed my Ray Bans and headed for the door. Hopefully they haven’t found my address yet. I’m unlisted, of course.

I drove for what seemed like three hours. It could’ve been three minutes. There were police cars parked outside the building. This can’t be good. I walked inside. My key card to get to the editorial offices wasn’t working, so I jumped the turnstile. The security guard was watching The Today Show, so he didn’t notice. I speedwalked to my desk, moving right by Lauren and Javier, who were scared to make eye contact with me. They knew I was gone, they didn’t want to get caught up in the mess, too.

Wilkins stopped me as I was about to sit down.

“You know we can’t have you here anymore. The secret’s out,” he said. “We’ve put your belongings in a banker’s box.”

“Did you delete—”

“Yeah. It’s all gone. Don’t worry. Just go.”

As I turned around, headed for the door, the full gravity of the situation still hadn’t hit me until I glanced at Lauren’s computer.

Wes Northcutt, the former Worldwide Press staff writer, died in a shootout this morning with the Chicago Police Department in front of the Worldwide Press headquarters. Northcutt is survived by…

Secrets as bedfellows

This is my first assignment for my writing of fiction class. I had to write a dialogue between two characters who share each other's secrets. Let me know what you think.

This is the time when Sarah usually gets out of bed. She rolls over and squints, not really wanting to reach for her glasses quite yet. It’s seven in the morning, give or take a few minutes. The light faintly shines through the blinds onto the bed, with clothes strewn about and sheets askew. She turns around to Damian, who’s laying with his back to her.
“Damian?”
This is the time when Damian usually says,
“You should probably get going.”
This is the time when Sarah usually gets ready and goes to work. It would make things awkward if she was there when Damian’s wife was, you know?
“I don’t want to keep doing this,” Sarah said.
“What?”
“This. It doesn’t feel right.”
Sarah’s head was swimming. The doctors said her husband was showing signs of waking up from his coma, but these were still small steps. It had been two years since the accident. She got lonely one night, went to a bar with some of her friends and woke up with a hangover and Damian. She told her friends that she turned him down and took a cab home. That was six months ago.
“He might wake up soon,” Sarah said. “We’ll have to stop.”
This is the time when Damian usually puts his face into his pillow, hoping to just drown out the noise.
“I can’t just stop,” Damian said, wishing she’d just leave so he wouldn’t have to tell her the truth. “I think I lo—”
“No,” Sarah said. “I told you, we can’t use that word. I know what we have. It’s not that. It’s just… we need to stop this. I can’t live like this. I still love him.”
“I thought we weren’t using that word. Why are you here then if you still love him?”
“Oh, shut up. Besides, don’t you get tired of cleaning up the room every time so your wife doesn’t find out?”
“It’s worth it. Not like Mary and I actually use this bed anyway. C’mon. Her flight landed 20 minutes ago. You should go.”
“No. We’ve got to talk about this.”
“What’s there to say? We’re both miserable. I can’t stand being with her anymore. You need someone. And well, this is just how we distract ourselves.”
It’s 7:15. This is the time Sarah is usually walking out the door, leaving Damian alone with his conscience.
“There has to be something more to it,” Sarah said.
“There isn’t. We come here. We stay the night. We go our separate ways,” Damian said, just trying not to say something she already knows. “You have to make everything so damn complicated.”
Really, he can’t stand being away from Sarah, the bubbly blonde, so full of life. He saw so much in her. Ten hears his junior, she still had that spark that he once saw in Mary. You see, Damian married Mary when they were 18. High school sweethearts and all that. After 20 years, though, they both got bored. Well, at least he did. Who knows about her? She got a job with Global Airlines as a flight attendant last year, hoping to regain some adventure in her life.
“Fine,” Sarah said, giving up. She finally reached for her glasses.
It’s 7:30. This is the time Mary usually calls to say she’s on her way. That her trip from Philadelphia, from Phoenix, from Denver, from Chicago, from Salt Lake City, from wherever, went fine.
Sarah gets up, gets dressed, takes one last look at Damian, lying prostrate on the bed, and leaves.
It’s 7:35. This is the time Damian, with just his thoughts as his bedfellow, usually starts crying.