What Seemed To Be Back Then
He had overslept again.
The device on his bedside table, punctuated by a shrill whistle, announced ominously, “7 hours, and 32 minutes until your departure, Mr. Carl.”
His wife, Mrs. Carl, had already laid out his suit and was now downstairs preparing the final arrangements. Anyhow, he had envisioned today being more melancholy than it seemed to be. Transitions, even the most minor, customarily elicit some form of subconscious hesitation, but not this one. Whether due to fatigue or misguided assent, Mr. Carl’s indifference was apparent.
The suit, a standard black one issued by his employer, was an essential part of today’s activities. He changed into it hastily, finding that the slacks fit more tightly than he was comfortable with, a fact that might have caused him more grief had he been more interested in pursuing the matter. At most, he would only be in it for a few hours. Discomfort seemed to be the point, he mused.
As he made his way downstairs, he heard the familiar trappings of a monotonous Sunday morning. The table was set, and his chair was even pulled back in anticipation of his late arrival. Bacon grease, scrambled eggs, and lightly-burned toast were practically forms of worship. After gobbling down the hearty breakfast, he kissed Mrs. Carl (albeit a little more passionately than usual), and hurried out the door.
The device chirped in his pants pocket, indicating that his thirty-minute head start had evaporated. He sighed, not out of frustration, but more in solemn acknowledgment of the infinitesimal nature of today’s proceedings. Mr. Carl arrived at his office at approximately 9:48 AM, owing to the lack of traffic. His neighbors, it seemed, were all on holiday or quietly excusing themselves from this dreaded routine. He was rather predictably avoided by his co-workers. He sat in relative silence for the majority of the day, that is, until lunch when one courageous gentleman ventured into his cubicle to ask for his parking space, following today’s transition. “How comical,” Mr. Carl wondered aloud, “I shouldn’t think there would be that many interested in it.” The man hovered near Mr. Carl’s desk before returning to the break room, somewhat disappointed that he had not secured the aforementioned parking space.
The clock, which stood like a guardian above his desk, had ceased its distinctive song. On this day, Mr. Carl, a man bound by a rigid program and airtight agenda, would be caught unaware. And so he was. For at 4:48 PM, his appointment came and went, just as his device foretold. Alas, Mr. Carl’s death was, somehow, less notable than his life, each section planned, projected, and performed for an audience he never knew. Critics applauded the terminal move, while some fans were left feeling a bit cheated by such an abrupt ending. Predictably, Mr. Carl’s timid co-worker never mourned the writers’ uncouth judgment. The audience was more lenient once the central focus shifted towards the widowed Mrs. Carl, who now enjoyed a lavish upgrade and a much more visually appealing husband. This was viewed as a sophisticated choice by the writing staff, or at least it seemed to be back then. Nevertheless, you know all of this, I assume. But really, what are they teaching you in school nowadays?
Fin.
