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Nemo
12-09-2019, 07:03 PM
Caveat
This story, like most works of fiction, is based on some fact or experience that the author has recast as a reflection on reality. The perceptive reader may see some resemblance in the characters portrayed in this story to real persons, only to mistake the writer’s distortions for the truth. But if this story mirrors real life at all, one need not look so far to find the true image.

* * *

Donald Bennett gazed out the window of his office overlooking the park. It had been a frustrating day. It started with him tearing his office apart to find a lost document (an original deed that was missing from its file); and in the process, he managed to lose his notes for the Sinclair trust. His office looked like the aftermath of a battle with an army of files, which lay strewn across the floor like fallen soldiers. Then there was the nagging call from his ex-wife - his support payment was late. "It’s in the mail," he told her as he wrote out the check. And finally, there was the threatening call from the heir of the Peterson estate demanding the final accounting, which he had not done. (The file was on his desk; but now he couldn’t find that either.) It was one of those "messy" estates, for which he wished he’d hired an accountant; and he wondered if he would ever get it finished. His thoughts were interrupted by the telephone ringing in the outer office. "I’m not in," he shouted to his secretary; but then he remembered that he had let Julie leave early to take her mother to the airport. The phone continued ringing. (She must have forgotten to turn on the answering machine.) "Shit!" He let the phone ring. Whoever it was, and whatever it was, he did not want to deal with it. He had run out of excuses. He turned back to the window, thinking: the Sinclair trust would have to be redone from scratch - a week’s work down the toilet! And now, to cap it all off, it was beginning to rain.

Donald scribbled a post-it: "Please straighten-up my office," and then added: "Find my notes on the Sinclair trust. VERY IMPORTANT!" Julie would be thrilled, for sure - he thought as he stuck the note to her computer screen. Donald’s relationship with her had not been on the best of terms of late. He had committed the cardinal sin of sleeping with his secretary. He didn’t mean for it to happen - it wasn’t an office romance or anything like that - it just happened. It was when he was in the middle of his divorce another "messy affair" he wished he could forget - and people getting divorced don’t always act rationally.) Anyway, he had taken her out to dinner at Toppers for Professional Secretaries Day. He drank too much, and Julie drove him home. The next morning he woke up with her in bed beside him. It was just another one of those things he regretted. Familiarity breeds contempt; intimacy worse.

It was raining hard. And from the window, Donald could see the traffic backed-up on Fifth Avenue all the way to the city center. He checked his wristwatch: he would not beat the rush-hour home in time to change for the reception. But he had brought a fresh uniform with him as a plan for such contingency; and he debated whether to change now or at the officer’s club. The rain pelted the window leadenly. He opted for the latter. (Col. Johnson was a stickler for appearances, and he didn’t want to risk making his appearance in a rain-soaked uniform.) Besides, that would leave time for a stiff drink (or two) to "brace himself" for the occasion.

Donald took the express elevator up to Toppers, which necessitated changing elevators to go down to the parkade of the Fifth Avenue Financial Centre Building (his office was on the seventh floor); but he thought it a necessary detour for appearances sake. It was too late for lunch - and, obviously, too early for dinner - and he didn’t want to be seen by other tenants in the building going up to the thirtieth floor at that time of the day. It had happened before: "Knocking off early, eh Don?" said Tom Blake, a lawyer with Stevenson & Carey on the tenth floor. Still, it was his favorite watering hole; a quick escape from the horrors of his office. Garcia met him in the lobby, and led him to his usual window table. The restaurant was empty except for a surreptitious couple left over from the lunch crowd, who were huddled over a small table in the corner of the bar lounge.

His drink appeared, magically, without him noticing. And he drank it, seemingly, without noticing.

Donald was not looking forward to going to the reception. In fact, he was dreading it. He did not get on well with Col. Johnson, or his wife, who was not shy about pulling her husband’s rank on him. He hated all of the command social functions; but as the adjutant for the reserve unit he was in charge of organizing all of them, and he had no choice but to attend every single one. He could just see himself fumbling through the formalities of the reception line, and making clever conversation over cocktails while trying to avoid dripping tartar sauce all over himself. He just dreaded it.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of laughter from the couple in the corner, who were apparently still feeling the effects of their three-martini lunch. The sight of them caused Donald to think that perhaps he should have arranged a date for the reception; being accompanied might make him less conspicuous, and at least quell some of the criticisms that had been levied against him. Of all the officers in Donald’s reserve unit, he was the only one who was not married; and Col. Johnson did not approve of his divorced status. In his view, a man aspiring to positions of leadership and responsibility ought to be married - to "set an example," as the Colonel put it - and he looked upon Donald’s failure to preserve his marriage as indicative of a deficiency of character unbefitting a senior officer. And, while not expressly stated, one did not have to read between the lines of Maj. Bennett’s efficiency reports to know that "this officer" did not measure up to standard.

In defense, it should be noted that the failure of Donald’s marriage was not entirely his fault. He had met Michelle while she was still in college (he was finishing up law school); and they were married after he passed the bar. Things went well enough at first; he had a job, and she seemed to like being the wife of a young lawyer. But soon the drudgery of being a new associate began to wear on him - he felt stifled at the bottom of the ladder and chafed at being at everyone’s beck and call - and Donald became increasingly dissatisfied with working for "the firm." It had been the same during Donald’s military service, which was why he didn’t make a career of it. He just wasn’t an "organization man." So, he decided to strike out on his own. It was a bold step to be sure, and caused Michelle more than a little anxiety over how they would support themselves. Donald had no money of his own, and had to go into debt just for the expense of setting up his office. There was the dowry money from Michelle’s parents; but that wouldn’t last long. Still, the young assume risks lightly. (They don’t know better!) Michelle dropped out of school to help him in the practice; and when he didn’t make any money, she got a job in a department store. It was a struggle; but they were struggling along together cheerfully - at least at first.

Success, however, was slow coming; which soon became a sore point between them. Donald was frustrated. And Michelle, while trying to help, rubbed salt into the sore by reminding him of who the "bread-winner" was. This made him mad; but he couldn’t do anything about it, which made him madder still. Michelle lashed him with the "great sacrifice"she was making - she had given up "everything" for him. But Donald knew better: the truth was that Michelle really didn’t have any ambition for herself, and she didn’t like working. Her response was, simply, to quit. "It’s all your fault!" she accused. After all, why should she work to support him?

Whatever anger and frustration Donald felt, however, disintegrated immediately with news that Michelle was pregnant. Of course she shouldn’t work - how stupid! - he chastised himself. What was he thinking? It was his responsibility to support his family; and he set out in earnest to make a success of his law practice. (And how hard he worked, too!)

The birth of the twins (Jason and Jennifer) marked a change in their marital relationship. Michelle became at once possessed of an almost smothering domesticity, assuming her new role of mother with a capital "M"; while Donald’s place in the family hierarchy - rather than being at its head - was relegated to the position of "provider."

The sober reality, to put it simply, was that there were more mouths to feed. And Donald, fulfilling his new role, provided - working long hours and on weekends returning, doggedly, each day to a den of grasping hands and yellow eyes.

The children turned out to be less of a blessing for their marriage. Jennifer was sickly. And Jason, annoyingly, was diagnosed with attention deficit hyperactivity disorder - a clinical euphemism for the embarrassing truth that their darling boy was a "little brat!" Then there was Jennifer’s orthodontia. (It seemed, unhappily, that her cute, dimpled jaw was too small for her teeth.) Curiously, despite all the fuss over them, neither of Donald’s children seemed to get any better. Michelle blamed him for this - if only they could afford the latest treatment, and that specialist what’s-his-name. And somewhere - between all the doctors and the dentists and the counseling sessions parental joy turned into a bitter pill.

Donald ordered another scotch; a double. The phone call earlier from Michelle had been upsetting (dealing with his ex-wife was never pleasant); and he felt he needed it.

When, precisely, Donald began drinking excessively - whether before or after his divorce - was hard to say. Admittedly, Donald tended to drink more when he was depressed; and, certainly, he had more occasion to be depressed after his divorce than before. Not that he admitted to having a "drinking problem." He had always considered himself a "social drinker" - albeit he had little time to socialize (Michelle made sure of that!) - He never thought he couldn’t control his drinking; but, then, few alcoholics ever do. Both of his parents drank. (Theirs’ was not a happy marriage either.) His mother, in particular, used alcohol to ease the disappointments in her life; and if Donald had any predisposition to alcoholism, he inherited it from her.

His drink came; and he drank it eagerly.

Whatever the cause of Donald’s drinking, his drinking was not the cause of his divorce. Indeed, it would be difficult to ascribe any cause for the dissolution of his marriage. Why, for that matter, does any marriage fail? How do two people, who loved each other so desperately, end up hating each other so intensely? Did he ever love her really - or she him? Did it matter? What had gone wrong? For Donald, there were no answers to these questions. His wife, certainly, gave no explanation.

Donald moved into a small, shabby apartment that smelled of grease; while Michelle was consoled by her "friends".

There is nothing like divorce to make a man take stock of his marriage. There was the house in the Heights with a second mortgage to remodel the kitchen, and all of the household bills every month. And then there was Michelle’s "personal expenses": the couture clothes, professional coiffure and cosmetic surgery. (It was a "woman thing" - she needed it to feel good about herself.) Not to mention the painting and piano lessons and cooking school that was part of her "self-fulfillment" - whatever that meant. (It would have been cheaper to send her to Harvard for Chrissake!) Finally, there was the country club membership to keep up (Michelle was a board member as well as chair of the bridge club). Oh, and don’t forget the time-share condo: "It’s a good investment" she told him when they bought it. They never once used it, and he (fool) was still paying for it.

The trial of Donald’s divorce had all of the trappings of a public execution. He should have made a proper settlement - if only Michelle had not been so unreasonable but it was too late to counsel then or pray. There wasn’t even any professional courtesy extended to him as a member of the bar, and he came out of court with the expressionless look of a hanged man.

Donald went over to the pay phone in the foyer to the restaurant lavatory and placed a call to Sharon Scott, whom he knew from his professional practice. They had gone out together a couple of times since his divorce. They weren’t dating per se; but they were both on the local bar association committee for probate and estate planning, which sort of threw them together. The first time they went out, he had asked her to lunch on the pretext of "picking her brain" on some technical point of law (she had been a probate examiner before going to work for Hazlitt & Jones, and knew all the in’s and out’s of the labyrinthine rules of probate court); but she at once saw through this ruse, and chided him for the clumsiness of his approach. Still he liked her; and he hoped, at least, that she liked him too.

Her line was ringing. Donald looked at his watch: it was after five o’clock, but then Sharon usually worked late racking up the billable hours. He could pick her up at her office and they could go straight from there to the officer’s club - he thought. "Come on, please pick up the phone!" he pleaded. The recorded voice-mail message clicked on. "Shit!" he cursed, hanging up. Donald thought of calling Julie - he had her home number written on one of his business cards, and he fumbled through his wallet looking for it; but then, on second thought, decided against the idea. (Asking her to go out with him would be awkward, and everyone would think he was dating his secretary; which he wasn’t really, but it would give that impression.) No, he would have to go by himself, he decided.

The bar lounge was still empty except for the odd couple, whose conversation he picked-up on his way back to his table. They were discussing some deal - real estate? the loan had funded, but now there was some legal snag. He could see them reflected in the darkened window: the woman was talking animatedly, hands waiving, orchestrating the conversation; while the man sat attentively like a musician waiting to play his part.

Donald ordered one more drink "for the road." He would have to leave soon to get to the club in time to change and check on the preparations for the reception. What bore - he thought.

Donald wondered why he even bothered staying in the reserves at all - he had already been passed over for promotion once, and his future prospects weren’t looking any brighter. He had only signed up on an impulse. (He had been rifted after the war given his severance pay and walking papers - and, being uncertain about his future, he accepted a commission in the active reserves just to "keep his hand in.") At first, he enjoyed it, and he had use for the extra money, which, along with his GI Bill, got him through law school. He even got promoted to major. But afterward, it became increasingly a burden to him. He really didn’t have the time - with all his personal and professional responsibilities - to go off and "play soldier." (Michelle was not one to play the officer’s wife; she was unwilling to "cow-tow" to anyone.) He knew, instinctively, that he couldn’t last. It came at last with a change of command. Col. Walker retired; and Col. Johnson, unlike his predecessor, was determined to make the reserve unit over in his own image; and Donald did not fit within his scheme of reorganization.

Donald still held on; but as time went on, however, it became increasingly difficult to justify his remaining in the reserves. It didn’t even produce any referral business for his law practice, which had long been his stated reason for staying in. The one opportunity to capitalize on his service contacts had proved unrewarding. It was when Donald’s unit was put on alert for deployment in support of NATO forces’ operations overseas; and Col. Johnson (with almost comic overreaction) declared, dramatically, that he was putting his affairs in order, and actually consulted Donald for legal advice. Donald seized upon this opportunity - suggesting a overall estate plan, including testamentary trusts to avoid inheritance taxes - and he arranged a consultation for the Colonel and Mrs. Johnson. To his surprise, however, the Johnsons had little property to speak of: a residence, a few stocks and bonds, some insurance, and a small annuity to supplement his military retirement benefits. And Donald, not knowing quite what to say, made the mistake of saying that their estate was "too modest" to warrant any elaborate trust device, suggesting only a brief codicil to their "simple will". The Colonel was nonplusscd as at commanders’ call when a junior officer pointed out an error in the operations order that suggested a lack of planning, and he looked at Donald narrowly as though he suspected him of being a slacker. Mrs. Johnson was positively livid. (She didn’t like being told that she wasn’t wealthy enough to have to worry about inheritance taxes.)

Donald’s standing with the Johnsons declined further when their daughter, at the Colonel’s recommendation, contacted him regarding her divorce. Donald didn’t do divorces, and, thoughtlessly, he referred her to another lawyer, which Col. Johnson and his wife viewed as a deliberate snub. After that, Donald’s stock in the reserves went rapidly downhill. "This officer’s performance does not equal his potential," Col. Johnson commented in Donald’s efficiency report - which, in the reserves, was as much as saying that he was dead. His reviewing officer at Personnel Branch put it to him bluntly: eitherhe "shaped-up" or he would be "put out."

Donald’s fresh drink arrived. And, being in a hurry to be off, he burned it - his hand shaking to hold the glass.

Donald’s alcohol dependence (for that’s what it was), although not admitted, was nevertheless a fact; for the truth was that, for him, every day began and ended with a drink. Every day he would get up and pour himself a shot of scotch. (He could never stomach breakfast, and so he rationalized taking a "quick snort" in the morning to get himself "jump-started.") Then he would have a couple of drinks with lunch at a sports bar he frequented, and where he often lingered if there wasn’t anything pressing at the office. And in the evening, particularly if he’d had a bad day, he would "anesthetize" himself, drinking until he passed out in a drunken stupor. But then the effect of the alcohol on him would wear off, and he would be up in the middle of the night, lying awake and restless in his bed, unable to sleep. (Lately, he’d taken to listening to the all-night news service on the radio just to avoid having to think about his problems in those dark hours.) And then he would get up again, and go look at himself in the mirror in an alcoholic haze.

Donald took the elevator to the parking garage. He blanked, momentarily, before remembering where he had parked; and not waiting for the return lift, jogged down the stairwell to the lower level. He felt a little woozy from his last drink, but managed to walk steadily to his car. Everyone in the whole building was leaving, and he nearly hit someone backing out of his space to get into the long line of cars for the exit onto Fifth Avenue. Donald looked at his watch impatiently: it was already past six o’clock, and he would have to really rush to get there in time. (Hopefully, there wouldn’t be a problem with the preparations for everything; that would be just his luck.) Finally, he edged into the traffic, which was creeping along at a snail’s pace. It was still raining buckets, and the street was a raging torrent overflowing the storm drains. The traffic stopped. He strained to see through the rain - a car had stalled.

"Come on!" Donald shouted, laying on his horn in frustration.

Donald ramped-up onto the freeway, merging into the rush-hour stream. The rain poured down in sheets making it all but impossible to see as he weaved in and out of the slow-moving traffic. Donald knew that he had had too much to drink - that his senses were impaired - but he continued on recklessly. (Col. Johnson was also a stickler for punctuality, and would not be pleased if he showed up late.) Ahead, the Interstate was a sea of red lights, and Donald began to despair of ever getting there. Damn it! If only he’d left earlier.

Then, inexplicably, the traffic began moving again; and Donald redoubled his efforts to get ahead of the flow. In his haste, he did not see the road hazzard sign as he sped up the bridge connecting to the military base; when, suddenly, the figure of a person appeared immediately in front of his car. Donald slammed on his brakes and swerved to the right. This evasive maneuver set his car skidding on the slippery road surface, spinning out of control, and crashing into the retaining wall.

As Donald regained consciousness, he saw that his car had swung around completely before hitting the wall, and was facing the on-coming traffic. He knew also that he was injured for he could see from the corner of his eye that the window was shattered, and that a large amount of blood had gushed from the side of his head and flowed down onto the door panel. Still, he realized that he would have to act quickly, for although there had luckily not been any other vehicles around when his car spun out of control, he was certain not to avoid a collision in his present precarious position.

Donald tried to raise his right hand to turn the key in the ignition to start the car, which had apparently stalled on impact; but he felt paralyzed. "Good God," he thought, "what have I done?" He tried to move his left arm, but his hand was wedged between the seat and the door, and even the slightest effort to move it produced immediate and excruciating pain. Donald watched helplessly as two cars past in rapid succession; and a third car, traveling in the right-hand lane, went blaring by and just barely missed hitting him head on.

Donald thought that one of the passing motorists would surely stop at the toll station at the end of the bridge to report the accident, and that someone would be sent to help him. He would need an ambulance to take him to hospital, and in his present condition, he would not escape being charged with drunk driving. Another car passed and pulled to a stop just beyond Donald’s car. A man exited the car, his jacket hiked-up to hood his head from the rain. The man tried to open the passenger door, but all the doors were locked by the car's pneumatic system, and he pressed his face against the window in an effort to see inside the passenger compartment. Donald tried to cry out for help, but he was unable to speak; and, to his further distress, his would-be rescuer left, abandoning him.

Donald stared vacantly from the car between the monotonous sweeps of the windshield wipers. From the height of the bridge, he could see the city lights haloed against the darkened sky. It seemed as though he were looking at a model of the city in miniature rather than the real thing, and that he could just reach out and touch the buildings. It reminded him of when, as a boy, he had a recurring dream that he could fly by simply extending his arms, and soar through the air. Donald's breathing became labored, and, in the confined space of the passenger compartment of the car, the windows began to fog, and his view of the city faded away. Donald began to feel drowsy. He thought that he could sleep now, and perhaps dream of flying as he did in his youth.


* * *


Julie was late for work the following morning. After taking her mother to the airport, she had spent the previous evening with her best girlfriend from high school, and had revealed to her the particulars of her unromantic affair with Donald. Julie’s girlfriend was shocked, but not enough as not to be interested hearing how Donald got "stinking drunk," and had "taken advantage of her."

"What a pig!" she declared, emphatically. She advised Julie to give her notice immediately, and to go see a lawyer-friend of hers who specialized in sexual harassment cases; which Julie determined to do the very next day. But staying up late with her girlfriend had caused Julie to oversleep; and, rushing to the office that morning, she wondered if she shouldn’t wait for a more opportune moment before telling Donald that she was quitting.

At Donald's law office, the telephone was ringing. It was just past nine o'clock, and Mr. Sinclair was calling to make yet another change to his complicated trust. The telephone rang, and rang; but there was no answer.

Cotton1
12-09-2019, 08:52 PM
I rarely read fiction but I loved the excerpt. I wanted to see whete it took me reading where his fictionilized account and factualization from his past met and shook hands. The lyrics " two lost souls swimming in a fish bowl" from Floyds " wish you were here" began to reasonate. I thought about for a while. I concluded that deep in his minds eye he missed the miserable life he once had.