Short Story

My disappointing spine has still not recovered from driveway rescue attempts from the spring thaw. On the plus side, I have newly refilled prescriptions of vicodin and carisoprodol. Just don't talk to me about my liver.

So I want to cheat and rather than write a new blog entry I'll post a short story I wrote a little while ago. I'll split it up into a few pieces so it's more readable in the blog. And I'll get more mileage out of it.

I had wanted to write a story with a crime brought on by thoughts going on entirely inside someone's head. His perception of reality is far enough off the objective that he deals with things in a very abnormal way. At the time I wrote it, I thought I got down the essence of what I was going for but based on some reader feedback, I'm not sure. In any case, I'm not a short story writer but I think this at least works at least on a very basic level: I think it is a complete story. It just may not be any good but hey, ya get what ya pay for.

SOCK MONSTER

It made sense to him, then, back when it started. He thought it was when she had taken a pair of his boxers from the wet pile he’d left on top of one of the dryers. He never saw her take them, he wasn’t even in the room when they’d disappeared, but when he saw her looking at him in that peculiar knowing way, she had made herself stand out. That was her mistake and that was when he knew his life was about to change.

For the life of him he couldn’t figure out what to do about it. Although they lived in the same four story building, they weren’t friends, they weren’t family, and he didn’t even know her name let alone which apartment she lived in. But he’d find out now. He’d have to if he were going to figure out what she was really up to.

His name was Frederick Tobey and he worked as a CPA for Freedom General Insurance Company. They were a massive company with many holdings, all of whose taxes were filed by the staff on the sixteenth floor of their eponymous building in lower Manhattan. Frederick Tobey rode a bus and then two subway trains to work each day, from Brooklyn to Manhattan, there and back, each and every week day. Tobey rarely took sick days and hadn’t gone on an actual vacation since Elizabeth left him nearly fifteen years ago.

During this morning’s commute, Tobey kept turning the matter of his missing boxers over and over in his mind. It didn’t make sense at first blush but that’s what made it so damned clever. The woman hadn’t done anything obvious when he passed her in the hallway, she’d just given him that look, almost as though she couldn’t help herself. But that was all he needed, he thought.

His work day was difficult; clearly he couldn’t be expected to concentrate on his job with some kind of plot going on against him. Fortunately it was late in the autumn and the mayhem of tax season had passed. This meant that he could more or less cruise through the motions of his daily routine while part of his brain worked constantly on his new problem.

Was he in any danger? How could he know, he wondered. He decided he didn’t have enough facts and he asked his supervisor if he could go home an hour or so early. Given the light work load of the time of year this was not an uncommon request for the rest of the staff but coming from Fred Tobey, who never took time off, it was almost remarkable. But it wasn’t a problem and Tobey left the office at three o’clock. No one noticed his passage.

* * *

During the long subway commute Tobey knew he had to take a few risks in order to safeguard his own future. He’d begin by staking out the mail boxes in the front vestibule of the apartment building. If he could pinpoint his aggressor’s apartment number, he’d at least know where she was some of the time. Perhaps he could even find out her name.

Surely she wouldn’t try anything in the front vestibule, not at that time of the day. If he was as careful with his facial expressions and body language as he thought he could be, she shouldn’t tumble to the fact that he knew something was going on.

Last night’s laundry was done on Tuesday. The next laundry time was on Friday at eight o’clock. Two days. Just two days for him to figure out just what was happening around him.

* * *

While he waited just inside the glass paneled security door, Tobey thought about Elizabeth. He hadn’t been so paranoid since the divorce. The way she had constantly gone through his clothes, had read all of his mail, even told him how he should drink his coffee; it all felt so wrong until he finally realized she was up to something. He wondered if the divorce had literally saved his life. And now there was this.

Perhaps, though, he was exaggerating. Surely there were logical, pedestrian reasons for himself and this woman to have come together the way they have. There were over three hundred units in this building alone; surely pure statistical chance could have taken a hand and touched the two of them together.

He wondered what Elizabeth was up to now. There hadn’t been any contact since she left, which was a relief. No requests for alimony, either, which Tobey still found suspicious.

It was in this slightly more relaxed state that he found himself when the woman finally walked through the door that faced the street. Unsuspecting, she walked directly to her mailbox, in plain sight through the security door, and opened the small bronze door with her key. Tobey couldn’t make out the number from where he was but now he knew how to find the right mailbox. In a marvelous coincidence it was just two up from his own.

This meant he wouldn’t have to risk another personal encounter and he quickly darted up the stairway behind him. He listened from the landing and could hear her as she called and was then swallowed up by the creaky old elevator.

Nearly grinning, he stole back down the stairway, making sure she had gone. Some of these people could be sneaky. He had married one, after all, so he knew.

Standing up straight, feeling calmer now after his reflections from the stakeout, he strode into the vestibule and found the right box.

His knees went weak as he read the number. How could this be? How long has all this been going on? He walked as fast as he could away from the mail boxes and back up the stairs. He knew it wasn’t rational but he wasn’t going to feel safe until he made it inside his own apartment, 214.

Tobey dead bolted the door after himself and couldn’t help but look upwards as he forced himself to calm down. This was no time to lose control.

She was up there now, he knew, in apartment 414. Two floors above him, directly overhead. This was getting sinister. He staggered over to the sofa and tried to sit, but he missed and crumpled onto the floor. He lay there for hours, his head cradled in his arms, fingers enmeshed in his hair. Later, when he realized he had wet himself, he crawled across the floor to his bathroom shower.

* * *

Thursday. One more day. Tobey wanted to call in sick but he didn’t dare do anything so remarkable. The last thing he could afford to do was tip his hand, to let them know that he was on to them. As long as they didn’t have a clue he could act with some control.

In the office he set about filling his day with meaningless meetings. He scheduled them via e-mail and the network calendar programs. No matter what else happened, he wanted to leave a trail and document his day as much as possible. If something were to happen to Frederick Tobey by god he’d have left his mark. Strength in the face of adversity. There would be a trace of him left behind.

By the time he got home, he was exhausted. His mind kept turning back to the missing boxing shorts. Why had the woman in 414 taken that particular pair? What made them different in any way?

The next thought hit him with an icy wave as he fumbled with the boiling water and his tea. Elizabeth? Could 414 be working with his ex-wife? Again, though, for what? But Elizabeth did know his clothes, and she’d know he wouldn’t change all that much in twelve years.

Too much, too much, too much, he told himself as he began to slip to the floor. NO! Keep it together, god damn it! He wasn’t sure if he’d shouted out loud or not but he was nearly past caring.

Tobey took several deep breaths and tried to visualize calming things. He tried ocean waves but the sounds of the crashing surf were too distracting. He tried brilliant white cumulus clouds slowly floating through a bluer than blue sky as he laid on his back in an open field of rich green grass. But the blades made his back itch and he couldn’t be still. He pictured himself floating on his back in a wide, shallow pool, his body barely breaking the water’s surface and not wanting to sink, bobbing gently at the surface. Slowly, though, tiny streams of water trickled into his ears and made him twitch uncomfortably.

Although he was still hugging his knees to his chest on the floor of his kitchen, things were better, more settled. Just to be sure, he checked himself and his pants were dry. Not wanting to upset things again, he crawled his way across the floor and into his bathroom.

Fighting hard to retain his fragile equilibrium (but Elizabeth!), he swallowed a small white pill from a glassine bag with a zippered top. It was supposed to be a generic Ambien that he purchased over the internet. The web site was from Canada but the shipping label said the package had come from Texas. Tobey thought this meant the pills themselves may have come across the Mexican border.

Regardless of what it was, it helped him get to sleep if he took the pill and didn’t try to stay awake. And he never had to submit to a doctor or get stuck with a needle or hit with a hammer or prodded with a finger.

He fell asleep in his bath tub, curled into a ball and dreaming of conspiracies. But thanks to the pill, whatever it was, all that would be beyond his memory when he awoke.

* * *

Now it was Friday and Tobey was refreshed and alert. He almost felt good, he thought, until he realized where he was. Picking himself out of the tub, he walked into his bedroom and peeled off the clothes he had slept in, throwing them into the wicker laundry basket Elizabeth had bought for them when they’d originally taken the apartment.

Laundry. Elizabeth. Tonight…

Laundry night.

Tobey felt much more calm in the morning. It was as if he had an internal reset that could be pushed overnight, allowing him to pick up his life at the beginning of every day and move on.

He shaved, showered and breakfasted, absolutely determined to carry on a normal day. Just as he did yesterday, he’d remain normal and predictable to a fault. Whatever was going on with 414, with or without his ex-wife, would unravel in its own good time. At least that’s what he told himself over his commute.

At work before lunch it was much the same as the day before. Scheduled meeting after scheduled meeting, Tobey imprinted his mark upon the work lives of those around him. If something were to happen, these people would remember Frederick Tobey.

Things grew darker around lunch time, however. Being the off season, his co-workers began to leave on a kind of semi-sanctioned early weekend. Tobey nearly panicked. What if he were left alone at work, exposed, with no one able to vouch for his movements?

He himself left at noon for a cup of coffee at the deli across the street. He didn’t feel up to solid food and he was right. After two sips of coffee he ran to the rest room and vomited repeatedly into the stinking toilet. When he was through he nearly ran out the door.

According to his watch it wasn’t even twelve thirty. Too early to go back to the office. Maybe a walk.

Tobey headed east into the afternoon sunlight, visible in patches high above the Manhattan skyline. After half a block he began to shiver.

Turning abruptly, Tobey careened off the shoulders of half a dozen pedestrians before being able to right himself and plot a course back the way he had come.

His fingernails and lips nearly blue, and with a full on case of teeth chattering chills, he fought his way back to the lobby of his building. Pacing back and forth along the bank of windows, he gradually began to feel warm again. It was seventy six degrees outside.

He returned to the sixteenth floor and found it nearly deserted. What the hell would he do now, he wondered. It wasn’t unheard of for the staff to be granted an unofficial half day during an especially pleasant off season fall day, but would it really be likely to happen this week? The same week a particular pair of his boxer shorts were stolen by a strange woman who just happened to live in the apartment TWO FLOORS DIRECTLY OVERHEAD? It strained credulity. He decided he wasn’t going anywhere.

Tobey found the department’s clerk; he was an older man, semi-retired, and management simply never thought to extend the same privileges to him as the rest of the staff. A perfect alibi, Tobey thought.

Throughout the tax season, pile after pile of manila folders, report binders, and other miscellaneous paperwork would accumulate until some point late in the year when “volunteer” pizza parties were held over a weekend. The staff would come dressed in jeans and t-shirts, munch pizza, tell stories and mindlessly file.

This was what Tobey needed and he set about the task with a maniacal efficiency. At one point it occurred to him that the work was like lifting weights. Requiring no intellectual thought, the exertion nevertheless induced a focus so sharp all other thoughts were obliterated. Running or walking didn’t work this way, he knew; he had been on his cross country running team in high school. When running, the last thing you can do is get away from your own thoughts, no matter how much you may want to.

The clerk had to remind him when it was time to go. Five o’clock and he had his own mass transit timetable to keep.

Fine, Tobey thought. At least he’d made it this far in the day on his own terms.

But that still left tonight.

********END PART 1*****************