Post by Deleted on Nov 14, 2010 18:08:54 GMT -5
One
The Pretzel
The Pretzel
He awoke with a groggy yawn, stretching his lithe, slightly-muscled arms as his lungs pulled in air down through his throat. Pandiculation, it was called, the act of simultaneously yawning and stretching. The English language was full of odd words like “pandiculation.” Words one would never use. Saprostomous. Fagottist. Sodalitious. Abligurition. No one needed them, but they were still there. Floating aimlessly in the ether, waiting for some verbose wordsmith or poet to call upon them. Kind of like him.
Frank Jackson never had to call on such foolish words, though. As he finished his pandiculation, the journalist crawled out of bed. He had worked for the past five years as a sports writer for the local paper, the Trumpeter. Sports writers didn't need words like that, the lingo was pretty straightforward.
It wasn't that Frank didn't like his work. On the contrary, he was a big fan of sports. But covering them for the local newspaper wasn't all that fulfilling. One day, I'll publish a novel, he'd thought, time and time again. It'd be a literary tour-de-force, sweeping even the harshest critics off their feet. Feature films would be made of it, and children would study it in the English classes of 2410 AD. Of that he was sure.
That novel, however, would not get written today. Today, Frank was to cover a local charity baseball game, wherein the police and firefighters would compete to raise money for dolphins... Or something. Frank made a note to get the name of the charity before deadline.
He paced across the small, dingy hotel room. Pizza boxes littered the floor and desk. Though, on the way, he paused to survey himself in the full-length mirror that hung crookedly from the out of date wallpapered wall.
His formerly slender frame was beginning to balloon; not excessively, but a bit of a gut was present beneath his sweat-stained undershirt. Dark-brown hair, almost black but not quite, was shaggy and beginning to get in his eyes. “Heavens, you look like shit,” he murmured to himself, disgusted with what he'd become, what losing her had done to him. “This room looks like shit.”
She was always on his mind. Even now, as he climbed into his banged-up, albeit trusty, sedan, Meg was all over his brain. Meg, that goddess among women. Long, chestnut brown hair that cascaded down her back and over her rather full breasts. Grey-blue eyes, like the ocean during a particularly ferocious storm. Her nose that she thought was a bit too big, but that he loved, doting over her and planting kisses on it as they snuggled by the fireplace and watched old horror flicks.
Yes, Frank's inner voice was waxing verbose on the subject of Meg, but he didn't care. Thinking of her made the traffic bearable. Made life bearable. She was a special gal, that much was true.
“If she was so special, why the hell did you do what you did?” his conscience hissed scathingly, a self-righteous inquisitor, an accusatory dissident slapping him with the cold hard truth. It was a fair question, and one that Frank could not answer.
Why had he done it; pulled Lily down closer to him as he lay on the dental chair? Why did his lips have to find hers so effortlessly? Why had her long, slender body slid so easily out of those teal scrubs?
Lily. The sultry dental hygienist. He would have hated her, if it wasn't his fault that they had made love, right there on the dental chair. All the while happy families and kids read out of date magazines in the dentist's waiting room. Her scent was intoxicating, and her raven-black hair had fell down over her shoulders as she climbed on top of him, tickling his face and ears before she tossed it aside with a quick jerk of her long, majestic neck. It all happened so fast; even the love making was quick. The whole time, Frank's conscience screamed bloody murder. “MEG!” roared the proverbial angel on Frank's right shoulder. “Just this once!” retorted the cackling, ungulate demon on the other.
But once was one too many, and Frank couldn't lie to Meg. That very evening, he had returned home. Told her everything. He sobbed and apologized and told her he loved her more than life itself. The latter was a bit cheesy in terms of declarations, but he meant it.
Poor, darling Meg, however, was horrified. Betrayed. She cried and cursed him and threw her engagement ring at his face.
Somehow, Frank's body had continued to drive while his mind wandered, for he was now at the local baseball diamond. A gentle, early summer breeze danced between the emerald blades of freshly trimmed grass as Frank made his way to the stands. Off in one of the dug-outs, he saw some off-duty cops in their baseball uniforms, drinking some bottled juice and joking with one another.
Lucky bastards, sighed Frank to himself, I bet they haven't utterly destroyed their lives. Their wives and husbands are in the stands, with the kids. Smiling. That was the worst of it, for Frank. The fact that his life was in such a mess because of his own stupid actions. It was terrible when a family had to deal with illness or some sort of disaster, but at least then they have each other... What happens when a family is destroyed due to the folly of a member of that family? Damn it...
A few folks nodded at Frank politely as he made his way to find a seat. These nods were empty nods, though. The less polite baseball fans were whispering to each other, pointing at him, tsking and scowling. In a small city, word spreads, and apparently these suburban, family values-types weren't thrilled to see a cheater sitting on the same bleachers as their children.
There was a fairly sizable crowd present at the game. Most were the aforementioned suburban families, complete with sticky little bundles of joy and sulking teens, (texting their friends about how dull this Saturday afternoon would be, no doubt.) Frank smiled wistfully. He and Meg had often joked about how they'd soon have to grow up and be a nuclear, all-American family, like these families. While they had both joked about it and feigned dread, both of them couldn't wait for it.
It wasn't long before the game began (a few words from the mayor and a representative of the charity that the game was raising money for notwithstanding), and Frank idly took notes on the game. Neither team was playing particularly fiercely – such was the nature of these sorts of games.
The first few plays were uninteresting, and as he scribbled in his notepad, Frank wondered if he could get a decent story out of such a dull game for Ed Kilcannon, his editor. He was momentarily distracted when a rather peculiarly-dressed man approached him. Frank looked up at the stranger, taking him in. He was tall and lithe, and wore black, pinstripe slacks with a matching vest. The white shirt beneath was buttoned to the top, complete with a pinstripe bow tie to go with the slacks and vest, though the sleeves were rolled back to about the elbow. The man was dapper, to be sure, and very handsome to boot with thick, black brows, a strong, square jaw, and coffee coloured skin. His eyes were big and brown, and apart from his chiseled jaw, his face was a tiny bit effeminate. Thin lips pulled back to reveal thirty-two perfectly straight, white teeth.
“Afternoon, old boy. I don't suppose it'd be asking too much to pester you for this free seat?” He smiled congenially as Frank gestured with an open hand, as if to say, “Be my guest.” The handsome fellow sat down, and it was only then Frank noticed the cola in his hand and the bag of small, hard pretzels in the other. “How goes the game so far?” inquired the man. His voice was calm and sophisticated, the non-rhotic accent of “BBC British.”
Frank shrugged, “Typical charity game, I suppose. Not much in the way of grand displays of skill, but a lot of good sportsmanship going on...” He continued to scribble in his notebook, not really giving the man his full attention.
“I like you,” replied the man, chuckling heartily. When Frank looked up at him, brow raised, he continued. “I'm sorry, it's just... I think that's the most polite way I've ever heard someone call something 'boring' before.” Once more, that chuckle. Warm and welcoming. Even Frank couldn't help but return the man's smile (though Frank was positive he didn't look as good doing it.)
“Ah, well... When you're a writer, I suppose you have to know how to say one thing, multiple ways. It's in the job description. Frank Jackson, by the way. I'm a Sports writer for the Trumpeter.”
“Ah, yes, I hadn't introduced myself. My apologies. My name is Dr. Kingsley Payman... Pretzel, Mr. Jackson?” Payman held the bag out before him, and Frank took one, crunching down on it appreciatively.
“So, uh, couldn't help but notice your accent, Dr. Payman. You're British, then?”
“Yes, I actually just moved here from London. I purchased the Easton Estate, I don't know if you are familiar with it?”
Frank was. The Easton Estate was a large mansion on the outskirts of the city. A beautiful, baroque leviathan of a building, the Eaton Estate had fallen out of use for decades after its previous owner, Randolph Paine, went mad. Apparently, Paine had kidnapped thirteen children and slaughtered them all at once. He'd fled the scene of the crime, and somehow avoided the authorities. Indeed, even today Paine still hadn't been officially found, though he would be in his mid-70s were he still around. Frank's reaction must have been clearly painted on his face, for Payman chuckled.
“Ah, yes. You, too, are familiar with the old Paine story? Yes, a nasty bit of business, that. Twelve children...”
“Thirteen kids, actually,” Frank interjected.
“Thirteen innocent children meeting such a grisly end. Yes, quite tragic. I, however, am not a superstitious man, Mr. Jackson. Those children are nothing but memories... And there is no reason for the Eaton Estate to continue to go uninhabited.” Payman smiled once more, that cordial and ingratiating grin. “Are you a superstitious man, Mr. Jackson?”
Frank shuffled uncomfortably in his seat. “Y'know, I'm not so sure... I used to believe that everything happens for a reason; and I've heard stories of phenomena that couldn't be explained. But these days... well, shit, these days its hard to believe in much of anything.”
Payman nodded, “Of course. Like Solzhenitsyn said, the divide between good and evil cuts through the hearts of every man. There are no such things as monsters, save for men like Paine. But even they are still men.”
“You like Solzhenitsyn, too?” asked Frank, generally surprised. He hadn't had a riveting discussion with someone since he lost Meg. It was all deadlines and major league scores, nowadays.
“I would not call him a favourite, but yes, I am familiar with his works. Anyway, you are missing the game, Mr. Jackson. I would hate for you to miss your deadline because of my incessant yammering. Shall we return our attention back to baseball?”
Frank said that he thought that would be a good idea. He continued to take notes, but he soon found himself bored once again, and unable to focus. Meg. It was always her in his head, smiling and laughing. He imagined that she was beside him, talking about what kinds of ghosts were in the Eaton Estate, chuckling as they spooked themselves.
Certainly, the Eaton Estate was certainly piquing Frank's interest more than the game. Frank wished he was writing a column on that, and, much more, wished he could pace its haunted halls, and look upon the great hall where the thirteen children were found, throats slit and arranged with their feet forming a circle and their tiny bodies spreading out like so many petals on a flower.
He was awoken from his reverie by a wheezing, hacking sound. Frank spun around to see Payman lying on the bleacher, his face quickly turning violet. The Englishman's eyes were wide, the whites looking exceptionally vivid against his darkening face. He reached one hand toward Frank feebly.
In a flurry, Frank was down on his knees, lifting Payman up. The Englishman heaved, and drool began to drip down his chin and onto his immaculate suit. “Help!” he wheezed.
“I am, I am! Shh, don't talk Dr. Payman!” admonished Frank as he wrapped his arms around the man from behind. Frank, trained in the Heimlich Maneuver, performed it. The first attempt was to no avail, and Frank wondered if the man would die here. Others just looked on at the game, some were watching Frank but didn't lift a hand to help. Once more, he pulled in hard against Payman.
Payman coughed and the offending object exploded from his mouth, gently falling to the ground. A piece of pretzel. Frank gently helped the man back to his seat, and Payman nodded appreciatively. “By Jove... I was sure I was to expire...” He wheezed and coughed some more, but otherwise seemed to be fine. “Imagine that... dying at a bloody baseball game, sitting next to a bloody stranger – erm, no offence, Mr. Jackson. Though I suppose I should begin calling you Frank or Francis now. Seems awkward not being on a first-name basis with one's saviour.” He offered a hand to Frank, which Frank shook, blushing.
“Really, it was nothing, Dr. Payman. You would have done the same for me.”
Payman nodded. “Look, Frank. I am extremely appreciative of what you've done for me today. You're a fine chap, of that I'm sure. But I don't think my heart is in watching this game anymore.” He grinned awkwardly. It was almost disconcerting, to see such a suave gentleman seem so insecure.
“Understandably so,” was all Frank answered.
“Ghost stories notwithstanding, I would love to entertain you at Eaton sometime in the near future. How does tomorrow evening sound? Around 8 o'clock?” Payman handed him a business card with his name, address, phone number, and email on it. K. I. Payman, Ph.D, Esq. Art Collector.
“Tomorrow sounds fine, Dr. Payman,” replied Frank as he scanned the man's business card.
Payman was already on his feet, collecting his things. “Most excellent. And bring that Meg of yours.”
Frank furrowed his brow. He didn't remember mentioning Meg to Dr. Payman. When the other man noticed the confusion on his face, he smiled impishly and pointed at Frank's notepad. Like some lovesick schoolboy, he had absentmindedly scribbled her name multiple times in the margins. Payman chuckled and walked away, leaving Frank sitting there, feeling like some sort of idiot.
Now you make me wanna keep writing.