Short Novel

10/14 - 10/21 | A chapter for a novel

My first stab at fiction ;).
Disclaimer: story about nobody I know, based on nothing I experienced...

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T H E - R E T U R N

Chapter -1

George sat there meekly looking the gray cold tiles and matching gray carpet meeting exactly where the beige front desk rose from the floor like a mushroom on a moldy day. Palms wet and clammy holding on to the plastic 'leather' folio, he just sat there. The quick sharp looking young woman, who could easily be less than half his age, answering the phones in a musical sing song voice, "Barry, Boyd & Partners, may I help you?".

He tried to make himself cheerful, trying to tap to the rhythm of her voice. Hanging his head low, he tried to move his feet, noticing how bulgy his shoes looked. That's his best pair still. His eyes focusing and noticing all the tiny cracks, the bruised gray matte areas of peeled off leather even a thick coat of waxy polish couldn't rescue. Suddenly he felt such affinity for those old, used shoes. He felt an immediate camaraderie with them. He felt like a good old shoe that worked tirelessly, worked with such loyalty... Loyalty. The word he carried all his life like a mantra now filled him with intense disgust akin to self-hatred. The nervousness about the interview left him, instead his mind filled with unspoken rage and steam.

That was what he was. LOYAL. Even in his last job, worked like a dog for years. And what did he get for that? A slap of a check, a mere 6 weeks of severance pay and a typed note on corporate letterhead. 8 lines long. Not even signed by the man he worked for. Wishing the very best in his next endeavor. Next Endeavor? Who fucking says next endeavor while you might as well drive a knife through...Fuckin'assholes...

Mr. Wilson? Mr. Wilson?

George quickly pulled himself, to standing up, dropping his case on the floor, making it's contents fly out and spread out on the floor. His resume, letters of recommendation and samples of his work. 8 x 10 Kodachromes from the late 80's and more recent digital print-outs on bond Letter paper. No matter how carefully he kept them, some of them got dog eared from being handled in so many 'good opportunity' meetings. Before he scrambled to pick his papers, he looked up, to meet the eyes of the woman, holding the door, half open while blocking the open half with her skirt suit black hose figure. Her eyes were not friendly or unfriendly, just the typical HR manager eyes. Impatient, yet a bit vulture like, scanning, quick moving up ad down, data being processed at lightening speed.

George knew his interview was over even before it began. There was no point picking up the papers in a hurry or make a funny remark about his klutziness to 'connect' with his interviewer. Somewhere he read, the decision to hire pretty much happens within the first few moments of a meeting. He couldn't bother anymore. He knew it was a 'No'. The woman probably made that decision even before she called his name, while he sat there contemplating his shoes. His mind automatically calculated the money and time he put into this meeting. Dry-cleaning $16. Kinkos prints $37.50. Subway +NJ Transit $13.75. Haircut $4, Shoe polish, $5. He didn't even bother to total it. After that moment it didn't matter. What or how he did the interview. He didn't even feel the earlier anger. It was just gray, an even, non descript gray, the same shade of the carpet under his feet.

At 52, George Wilson looked of retirement age. His eyes were misted glass of faded blue, staring out of the NJ transit windows. He has the kind of face that one can't quite remember. He could probably rob a bank without bothering to wear mask and get away with it.

Sometimes one would wonder looking at certain people, how did they, let alone find someone, manage to get them to marry them!..George was one of those. He was married. Once. A long time back. He had a wife and 3 children. Two, his own, he likes to believe that they were, and one, his wife brought into the marriage from a prom night. In fact that's how he snared Angela. She was way beyond his league but her unwanted pregnancy and her catholic upbringing made her a negotiable deal. He shadowed her much of the time anyway even before she got knocked up, so it wasn't too much of a shock when they announced their engagement and within-a-3-month wedding date. Of course there were people in the know and a few tongues that wagged.

He remembered the first few years of his marriage. Now it seems like it all happened to someone else. He was one of the few people in Fort Smith who landed a real 'professional' job right after college, working at an Industrial Engineering firm and brought home more than most in that town. That must have sweetened the deal for Angela. But he didn't care. He was just silly happy having Angela walk next him while he pushed the super market cart, and swelled with pride, when people stopped to touch and and inquire Angela about her equally swelling belly, when's the baby coming? He made himself believe Angela was his, and the paternity of the baby is a very small price to pay. In fact he couldn't believe his luck. To able to touch her, too see her naked body in the shower. He never could see her under the covers. She insisted on turning the lights off whenever he wanted to claim his rights as her husband. His WIFE. Angela W I L S O N. It was as if he accidentally found someone else's very fat wallet and decided to keep it for himself, knowing it's wrong. That fear of losing this stolen stash kept him quiet even when he shouldn't have. All 13 years. Until that night in April.

When he left Arkansas in a hurry, George didn't bother with the baby pictures or any prized possessions. He slipped into the night as if he was going out to take a leak. Except he cleaned up his savings, all of 3,833 dollars and 54 cents the day before. Well, in the 60's it's a tidy sum, tucked away between his overalls and his tidy-whities, a tight roll in a cotton hand kerchief, it nestled next to his limp penis, as he huddled in the back seat of a Grey Hound. He didn't think or plan too much. The panic of and the fear of evidence leading up to him terrified him. That was it. That was the last time he saw his family.

In two decades that went past, he didn't try to know what happened to them. He tried not to think about them. Try to shut it with a sharp snap of a book every time his mind opens a page in it. But it's a like a car accident one has witnessed, that terrible image with all it's slow motion monstrous detail gets burned on your retina, not leaving you even when are asleep. Strangely more than Angela, it was the kids. They were just babies. He still remembers the way their soft heads smelled of Johnson's baby oil and sweet corn in spring. The hair softer than silk, wispy, peach-fuzzy, and on a bright day more golden than Belle Point at Sunset.

For weeks after his run, he expectantly scanned the papers for the news. Waited on the dreaded knock on his door. But strangely nothing ever showed up or nobody came looking for him in his basement apartment in the Bronx. By the time the panic wore off and he found a way of supporting himself, got all legal and up and up, his self as it existed before has been obliterated. He could have been dead for all he knew. That fact made him laugh wryly. It was ironic, he fled to save his own life and in the end he is dead anyway.

He tried hard to remember the good times, if he had any since his run. It was 9 years ago, when he first got a break in his work and then Giana happened. Giana... George repeated her name saying it aloud but softly, rolling it around in his mouth, like a sweet licorice candy, caressing the syllables with his tongue 'Gee-Aah-Naah'. He liked the fact that she has the same initials as he did. He didn't bother to change his name, despite being on the run. One, that's the only thing of himself left. Two, it was too common a name for it stand out. Three, he figured if they did come looking for him, that will be the end, he didn't have a fight left in him.

"Excuse me, Can I sit here?" a young voice pulled him out of his reverie. He looked up to a young man, probably in his late 20's, half leaning, balancing the weight of a briefcase and an overnighter. "could I take this seat?" young man asked again. It's may I, George said to himself, suddenly noticing the bus was full and only the seat next to him was left unoccupied. There were a 4 others who chose to stand in the isle rather than take that seat next to him. "Oh, of course!". George pulled himself close towards the window, making more than enough room for the young man to sit. The young man sat down heavily for a slender built, relieved to put his bags down and give his back some rest. He leaned back adjusting his seat, turned around and smiled. Clearly a preamble. This rather shocked George. He was not used to commuters 'conversing'. No, not around here, in New York area. In that narrow confined space between the seats, the young man managed to stretch his hand out and said "I am Dan". He smelled of aftershave. Mint and citrus. But not the usual, cheap kind. His smile open. George shook his hand still mildly shocked, "George Wilson".


- To be continued.