“You know lately I’ve been thinking that I wish John Lennon hadn’t died. I mean, why did this Marc David Chapman want to shoot him? What was the point? How did shooting John Lennon accomplish anything?”

“ Don’t know, Jamie.”

“Now Chapman has some sort of immortality because he’s a crazy sonovabitch.

That’s not right.”

“No, Jamie. It’s not.”

“Lennon kind of lives on through his music and all, but you know, it’s really not the same as if he were here. What do you think he’d say about everything that’s goin’ on now? Do you think he’d like the internet and cable television? What about the Monica Lewinsky scandal or Iran Contra? There’s really no way to tell. We all guess and say things like, ‘John Lennon would have done this or John Lennon would have said that,’ but no one really knows.”

“I gotta go now, Jamie. Gotta get back to work.”

“OK Paul. Have a nice afternoon.”

Paul got up of the green wooden bench he was sitting on and walked along the park’s asphalt paved walk. The walk wound it’s way through green trees giving the illusion that its inhabitants were somehow closer to nature. It was a sunny day in summer. The temperature was in the eighties and white clouds floated intermittently against the blue sky. Paul walked to the edge of the park and faced the traffic on the street. He looked back at Jamie who was still sitting on the bench contemplating the grass field that stretched out in front of him. Paul crossed the street at the light and walked back to his steel and glass air-conditioned building for an afternoon of boredom.

“Do you have the Joyce file, Paul? Zagasky wants it,” Paul’s co-worker Amy Leftorn was standing at the entrance of his cubicle.

“I’m not finished with it,” Paul replied.

“He said he wants it now.”

Amy was wearing a red blouse that buttoned down the front. The blouse was a little tight and gapped between the buttons when she bent down to get the file Paul handed her. He could see between the gaps and surreptitiously glanced at her breast encased in a white bra. He could see them rise and fall as she breathed.

“I need to get this back as soon as possible. All the updates aren’t finished,” Paul said pleadingly.

“I’ll tell Zagasky.”

“That’ll help,” Paul snorted.

Amy walked away down the long array of cubicles with plastic nametags above their openings. The plastic plates with the names were a standard size and slid along a metal track that was just long enough to hold a plastic nameplate. When someone moved cubicles, was transferred or even worse, fired their last official act was to slide the plastic nameplate out of its holder to make way for the new person.

Now Paul had to find something else to do. He remembered a bumper sticker he’d seen. “Jesus is coming. Look Busy!” it said. He chuckled inwardly at this thought and opened the lower right hand drawer of his desk looking for another unfinished marketing report.

Twenty-five years Paul worked for Zagask, Kulp, and Smith Advertising as a market analyst. He produced data on all sorts of products. If you want to know how many quarts of Orange Juice males eighteen to twenty-five had drunk in Idaho, Paul was the man to ask. In the old days Paul used to subscribe to countless publications and services. He collected information relevant to the company’s client and put them in files under the client’s name. In fact he’d started the system of files still used at Zagasky, Kulp, and Smith.

Now though, everything was being done more and more by computer. All the market statistics were on the internet. This was the year two thousand. Paul could find the information he needed and update any file sitting at his desk in his cubicle. During the past twenty-five years ZKS grew from ten employees to two hundred. Paul stayed all that time partly because he liked the work but also out of a sort of inertia the kept him from really doing anything else.

Paul put a CD into the walkman he listened to and John Lennon’s voice started singing, ‘Imagine there’s no heaven…’. Paul rarely listened to John Lennon but his lunchtime conversation with Jamie brought Lennon to mind. In the summers, when the weather was nice, Paul went to the park near his office and ate. This year he met Jamie while sitting on a park bench. Jamie was a mental patient mainstreamed from the state hospital. He collected disability from the government because he was truly unable to work. But he liked the outdoors and took walks during the nice days.

On the day after Memorial Day in the summer of two-thousand, Jamie sat down next to Paul on the bench and started talking. Although his conversations were a little one-sided and disjointed, he seemed harmless enough to Paul and he kind of enjoyed the company as well as the unique perspective Jamie brought with him. After that Paul would see him there on nice days. The “Glory Days” Jamie called them, when you looked at the sky, the sun and the clouds and you knew all things were possible.

While Jamie didn’t always make sense he often said things that seemed profound to Paul. When a group of college students collected in the park, Jamie went over to them and said, “Far be it from me to throw pearls before students…” then he trailed off into something unintelligible. The students looked at him and smiled. Paul wondered if they understood the reference.

One summer day, a Glory Day, Paul was sitting on the bench by himself. He reflected on his life and wondered why he wasn’t happier and why he hadn’t become a musician like he wanted when he was young. Paul still played but the notes on his piano somehow didn’t sound true to him. He’d had the piano tuned several times but still the notes seemed off. Paul didn’t play as much as he used to. In fact since last year he’d stopped playing altogether and considered selling his instrument.

As these thoughts coursed through his mind Paul turned his head to the left and saw Jamie walking toward him. He was carrying a long brown bag that looked like it held a submarine sandwich. Jamie sat down and opened the bag. It was a sub. He tore into it like he hadn’t eaten for a week.

“Slow down Jamie,” Paul admonished. “Haven’t you been eating?”

“Oh sure I’ve been eating fine. Just love these subs is all. I save up my money and buy the super deluxe once a week. If it’s a day like today I come here to eat it.”

Paul watched as he saw the delight and passion that Jamie had for the sandwich.

“You know, I used to feel like that about music,” Paul said not really to Jamie. “I could just devour melodies and chords and have a sense of satisfaction when I was done.”

“You still play?” asked Jamie.

“Haven’t played in a year. In fact I was thinking of getting rid of my piano.”

“Why ya wanna do that? You should keep it and play.”

“Well, I’m not as good as I used to be, Jamie.”

“No one’s as good as they used to be. Look at me. I was a math prodigy. Got into college at sixteen. On a full academic scholarship too.”

“What happened?”

“Well it doesn’t really matter does it? I got sick and dropped out. Was an inpatient for ten years ‘til they started this mainstreaming thing. Social worker fixed me up with SSI and a place to live and no I’m doin’ better. At least I’m happier. But you know somedays inside I couldn’t add two and two together. Sure wasn’t no prodigy then.”

“That’s too bad.”

“Yeah, it was. But now I’m out and I read and write. I’m working on a mathematical proof for the existence of God.”

“Really? How’s that going.”

“It’s a little slow. I told you, I’m not as good as I used to be. But I know I’m right. There is a God. Look at this day! How could this day exist and there not be a God?”

“Some people think it’s just a series of biological accidents.”

“Well their wrong. I might never finish my proof but at least I’m trying.

I like workin’ on it almost as much as eatin’ this sub.” Then after a pause he added, “You should start playing again.”

“What?”

“You know, the piano. You said you were a musician.”

“I was, sort of.”

“Well start playing. Get into it. Love it. Caress the keys. Start playin’”

“I’m not …”

“Don’t give me that shit about not being as good as you used to be. I told you. No one is. God didn’t mean for everyone to be great, but he did give us the chance to experience passion and love for life. That’s part of my theory.”

“Very interesting.”

“Yeah and that’s not all …” then Jamie trailed off into another series of unintelligible ramblings.

“I have to go back to work now,” said Paul softly. Jamie waved good-bye and kept rambling.

That afternoon Paul couldn’t concentrate on the research. He starred glassy eyed into his computer screen. He had fifty thousand dollars in his retirement account due to the company’s matching program and the health of the stock market. Fifty thousand. Paul considered this amount. At five o’ clock he turned his computer off, cleaned up his desk, and silently slid his plastic name plate out of its holder outside the cubicle. He put the name plate in his breast pocket and went home. That night he played the piano until the sun came up. For the first time in twenty-five years he could feel the notes in his soul as he played. The sky was blue that morning and the white clouds floated wistfully in the sky. It was a Glory Day.

---

EMail - Ed Krizek

---

If you haven't used the 'Vox Populi', get started! Send in your comments and critique on
Inditer.com writers. Inditer.com is a community of like minded writers.
Each wants and deserves the help of the other. Do it! It won't cost a dime! You'll be glad you helped!

- - -