Simon Fink

By Jeffery David Paradis

Simon Fink was a man beaten down by a lifetime of bad choices. Always seeking the easy path, he spent his life chasing adventure and excitement but invariably found disappointment and failure.

Now broken and alone, Simon spends his time deep in drink or plotting childish pranks on his neighbor. When an unexpected guest turns up on his doorstep, Simon finds himself revealing every dark secret he has kept hidden away for years.

Simon’s road to redemption begins with a small act of kindness and a story of loss, betrayal, and murder.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jeffery David Paradis
• Release date: Jun 10, 2014
• ISBN: 9780991846511

Jeffery David Paradis

There seems to be two schools of thought when one contemplates writing an author's bio. The more traditional wisdom suggests that one be concise, direct, and brief. Include relevant details and something interesting about yourself. (Yes, I am writing this myself so perhaps auto-bio would be more precise.) On the other side of the coin are those who say stop being dry and boring. Write something that your reader may actually find interesting. I will go the unconventional route. If there is one overriding theme in my life, I think my grade 4 teacher, Mrs. Lemenchick best summed it up in my report card. Jeff lacks focus. He always seems to be daydreaming. I cannot fault her on the assessment she had me pegged. My mind was forever wandering to what was happening at the neighboring desk or outside, or much further beyond. This character flaw followed me through my life. I went to music school (turns out I have absolutely no aptitude for music at all), I studied physics in university, worked in a recording studio and found a job as a high rise window cleaner in downtown Toronto for several years. None of those things satisfied me. Secretly I wanted to create stories; I wanted to be a writer. However, what kind of man pursues such a risky notion when he is expected to find a stable and responsible career? So I found a regular job and earned a paycheck...and daydreamed. About two years ago, I was getting ready to turn in for the night. It was late and I had to be up early for work the next morning. After I clicked the television off, I found myself just staring at the blank screen. Dreaming about writing is safe and easy, one never has to take a chance. Once you begin to put the words down, the spell is broken and you set yourself on the road to criticism. But at that moment, on that night I could feel the need so strong I had to do something. To my mind, what is the difference between thinking of writing and doing so and never sharing your story? There is none. Once you release your work into the world, the door opens for everyone to say, ‘this is not good’. I could either spend years thinking about creating a story of my own and never knowing if I could, or I could sit down, begin to type, and see if I had it in me to create something. I made a decision. I sat down, that very night, and began to write. For five months, I typed as often as I could, using up every spare moment I could find. I'm just as susceptible to vanity as any man. Every page deeper I wrote, images of fame, fortune, and acclaim grew in my mind. I pictured topping charts, breaking sales records, movies, and Broadway plays spawning from my art. Who wouldn't love my work? Then I finished and sat back to admire my 485 page masterpiece. It was awful. The grammar was a mess, the spelling atrocious. The language was loose and inconstant. My story spun from one idea to another with only loose connections. And, for all of that, I felt that the entire exercise had been a complete success. Not the book itself though. I still think there's a good story buried there but it will require a total re-write to flesh it out. Maybe one day I’ll take the time to find out but for now I have so many other ideas to explore. My goal had been to see if I had a story in me, something unique and interesting to say and see it through to the end. By that measure, I met my goal. It was a wonderful learning experience. During the writing, I researched style, flow, grammar, and a host of tools I would need. Much of what I learned was enormously helpful and some was not but I learned. Then I began my second book, then my third. I think my technique improved to the point where my stories are interesting and readable, but I will leave that to the reader to decide. Eventually I stumbled on Henry Pride. I say stumbled on him because he popped into my mind one day while driving home. His face appeared in my mind and I knew I had to write Henry Pride. I put aside what I was working on at the time and spent all of my energy developing Henry. What he looked like, how he sounded, thought, felt, and how he would behave. When I understood him, I turned him loose, followed behind him, and wrote down what he did. I felt like nothing more than Henry's biographer. I had no idea where the story would take me and often would be surprised at what happened. It was during Henry Pride that a friend gave me a copy of Stephen King's book, On Writing: A memoir of the craft, a very good book by the way. The one thing that stuck with me was his second commandment of writing. Write every day. It doesn't matter what you write about, as long as you work at it regularly. Explore different ways of expressing yourself, characters, and description. I took his advice and now I write every day. Sometimes only a few hundred words, others I have several thousand in me. Not because I think of success but because I can't imagine not doing so daily anymore. Writing has brought back that little grade four student who was always staring out the window but now, I have focus. I write because I need to, it's who I am. If my stories become popular that would be welcomed but I will continue regardless, even if only a few read them. Henry Pride is actually my third completed book but my first to be offered for you to read. I do hope you enjoy it and thank you in advance if you take the time to read about Henry. My second book, Simon Fink will be published later in 2013. One other quote has always stuck with me over the years... “I write one page of masterpiece to ninety-one pages of shit. I try to put the shit in the wastebasket.” ― Ernest Hemingway If an author such as Hemingway struggled to find the words, I can live with my own difficulties. I will continue searching for my single pages, even though my wastebasket overflows.

Book preview

I WONDER IF anyone reads this section. I’m sure there must be a few who actually will stop and give this page a glance. Those who have generously donated their time and energy to help conclude this project but does anyone else read the acknowledgements page? Is this just a black hole where the eye wanders past because it drains every ounce of enthusiasm from you, much like Academy Awards thank you speeches? I will admit that I cannot recall the last acknowledgement page I have actually read. Perhaps I'll crack open a book and read one...maybe later.

In a way, that offers me a great deal of freedom to write what I please. There is one other fact that offers me the luxury many writers do not have. I am self-published. Okay, I know to most authors and publishers it is like strolling into a busy shopping mall and crying out in a loud clear voice, I have leprosy! Perhaps I do have a form of literary leprosy and maybe one day I’ll be sitting on the edge of a bridge wondering what I was thinking of in my early career. You know I mean a metaphorical bridge, don’t you? However, I have a freedom classically published authors never had. I can say any damn thing I please. I have no editors to answer to. No publishing contract to bind me. No agent to call me, asking just what I thought I was doing.

So I have freedom and a strong belief no one, but a select few, will ever bother to read these words, isn’t that wonderful. Perhaps I’ll take several paragraphs extolling my strongly held political and religious beliefs. If I ever get any, I’ll be sure to let you know. Or maybe I can just use this as a note pad. I’ll scratch out some new ideas and see how they look. I can do anything I like.

At some point I really should mention a few names. That is what this is for traditionally anyways, so why not get to it now. Hey Roxane, that’s Roxane Swirsky to those of you who don't know her. Roxane, one ‘n’ if you please, spent a tremendous amount of time pointing out my mistakes. Believe me there were plenty of them. Thanks for your effort.

Then there was Stew, Stewart Symmons if we’re being formal. He’s been doing my cover art for the last two books and for the others I have on the back burner. His attention to detail, accuracy, and preventing me from any copyright violations are most appreciated. Your covers are fantastic. I can’t thank you enough.

Yvonne and Jack, my children. I thank you for putting up with my distractions over the last few months. I know you’ve probably heard, ‘Sorry, I forgot. I’ll do it tomorrow, I promise,’ about a whole bunch of things you’ve asked of me. All I can say is….what was that last thing you asked?

For this book I had a great group of people who offered to review Simon Fink. They found spelling mistakes, grammatical mistakes, and pointed out consistency and continuity errors. Thank you all:

Carolyn Doyle, Bill Swirsky, Anita Swirsky, Kirsten Dressler, Michelle LeBlanc, John and Lise Veenstra, Bill Symmons, and Emilia Szulc.

Finally and always, Caroline. You are my inspiration. Thanks for being there through it all.

Oh yeah, for those of you who caught it, yes I did end two sentences with a preposition. I know but I thought, bugger it, it’s the acknowledgments page.

Prologue

Thursday, June 12, 2014

HEAVY FOOTFALLS RATTLED through the house as Simon Fink stomped down the stairs. From below, glasses clinked on the living room table. He was in a rage and, for the moment, the creaky old steps took the brunt of his wrath.

Who would come into a man’s house and steal his favorite shirt?

He threw the challenge to the house but no response came, not that he was expecting one. Simon lived alone, as he had for most of his seventy-four years. The idea that he may have misplaced the shirt was inconceivable. He knew he had been wearing it only the night before and so it seemed perfectly reasonable that his missing item of clothing must be in the house...somewhere.

As he stepped onto the worn brown carpet covering the main floor, which had been a somewhat beige color when he’d first moved in thirty years earlier. He scowled at the room as if a visual display of his displeasure might force the shirt from its hiding place. When the blue and white Hawaiian print shirt did not immediately reveal itself, fearing a stern talking to from its owner, Simon’s frown deepened and he resigned himself to continue the inconvenient search.

Wearing only his favorite pair of heavily- stained, loose-fitting tan Bermuda shorts, he stormed through the main level for half an hour.

Somebody should count his bloody lucky stars he has not taken my shorts as well or there would be hell to pay, he thought.

Of course, for anyone to abscond with the filthy shorts, being so desperate or nearsighted to see any value in them, he would have had to peel them from Simon’s thick legs as he slept. There were few nights in the Fink home when he did not pass out fully clothed or at the very least partially so.

The house was not very large, two bedrooms and a bathroom on the upper floor, kitchen, living room and laundry on the main. There was a basement but Simon never went down there. Just the thought of opening the door to the basement filled him with dread, so he did the only thing a reasonable man might do. He ignored the door around the side of the staircase and pretended it did not exist.

His neighborhood in Wheeling, Illinois, an old suburb of Chicago, had been established in the late 1930s. Of the homes on his street, only two remained of the original construction–Simon’s and another across the street. Neither held any historical value and both were at best squat and functional. A woman in her late eighties–he had never bothered to learn her name–owned the one across the street. She was the daughter of the very first owner.

Hers had a certain quaint charm and had been well-maintained. Gardens filled with flowers scattered the lawn, adding to the turn-of-the-century nostalgia, which evoked memories of a simpler time. Simon’s home held neither charm nor any pleasing lines. The window frames on the main floor, and the two facing the road on the upper floor, had not seen a dab of paint in living memory. Even the old woman across the road could not recall the last time painters had visited 712 Oak Row. More than a dozen tiles were missing from the roof, lending the tired house the illusion of a gapped-tooth grin. Sprouts of grass poked through the driveway and since Simon had never owned a car, paving seemed a wasted expense.

In sharp contrast to Simon’s neglected house and the charmer across the street, every other residence was a modern new home. Since the late nineties, one by one, every old frail structure had been demolished. The peculiar urban virus that had infected most older North American suburbs had infected Wheeling. Young upwardly mobile families, with disposable income, were buying up older homes in worn out neighborhoods with low property taxes and tearing them down to erect modern spacious houses in their place. Only Simon’s and the old woman’s across the road remained unchanged.

Simon would never bother with maintenance, because not only could he not afford such an expenditure, but he also did not want or need more space. Never having married or having children or even any friends to speak of, the space his house afforded him was ample. Besides, he knew his small rundown old house was a bit of an eyesore to the other residents of the block and annoying them with so little effort pleased him.

In many ways, Simon was as strong at seventy-four years old, as he had been at forty. His thick arms still held much of his youthful power, but as it happened with all men, the muscles sagged slightly as time marched on. Standing over six feet tall, his back only stooped slightly, another sign of advancing years. His ponderous belly did not suggest softness in any way but in fact added to his appearance of strength.

When Simon stood tall, he looked imposing, but if he hunched his shoulders and walked with a stuttering gait, he appeared to be a feeble old man and would gladly play the role if that worked to his advantage. In those instances, he would tone down his normal baritone voice to a weak, quivering whimper. However, a life lived out of the bottle had taken its toll. He tired easily and often found himself gasping for breath at the simplest of tasks. Simon’s head was almost bald, except for a few strands of silver desperately hanging on, and his face had taken on a permanent look of displeasure, the outer reflection of the anger held within for so long. And Simon had spent his life in anger.

He felt resentment towards government and big corporations alike. He laughed at liberals and scoffed at republicans. The rich earned his scorn and the poor his disdain. He found the young, old, and middle aged all equally annoying. Simon hated cooking shows and weathermen, technology and modern music. He mocked the weak and despised the strong. But deep in his heart, away from everything else, Simon disliked himself most of all, not that he was aware or capable of such deep insight.

His constant complaining, harassment of public employees, and a seemingly endless string of pranks perpetrated on his next-door neighbor, were nothing more than unconscious efforts to deflect the deep dissatisfaction he felt with his own life. There were times–though infrequent and short-lived–often in the hazy spinning moments before he succumbed to drunkenness, when he would feel guilt and shame at his childish antics. By the time he woke, those feelings would be once again buried deep, under a mountain of self-pity, adding fuel to his misdirected anger towards the world.

In short, Simon was a bully.

Standing in the doorway between kitchen and living room, he tried to remember the previous night, in hopes of recalling where he may have left his shirt. Scratching his belly, he remembered having a few beers while watching television, which was more or less how he spent every night. He had a vague recollection of peeling off the precious Hawaiian shirt at some point, after the heat had gotten the better of him. His search had not uncovered the missing garment on or under the chair he sat in every night for the last thirty years.

What’s this? he mumbled as he looked behind the chair.

In the small space between chair and wall, was a banker’s box. The cardboard lid sat askew and he caught sight of his name written across the top in black marker. Coming around the chair, he flipped the lid off with one foot and peered inside.

Oh yeah, that stuff.

Several days earlier, a knock had come at his door. Simon almost never received deliveries nor had visitors of any kind. So he assumed that for some strange reason, the mailman wanted to speak with him. It was the correct time of day for the carrier to make his delivery and no other explanation occurred to him. With excitement, he yanked the door open, an insult forming on his lips. However, the man standing at his door was definitely not the mailman.

This man was younger by at least twenty years. There was a gleam of sweat on the man’s bald head and he appeared to carry himself as if burdened by the world’s woes. There were deep, dark circles under his eyes and his skin had a pale, unhealthy color. The navy blue suit he wore was not a particularly fancy one and was quite wrinkled, as if the man had spent a great deal of time in it.

The verbal abuse and insults Simon was ready to unleash died before the first syllable formed on his lips. Not due in any part to a sense of compassion welling within Simon, but there was a hard determination in the man’s eyes that did not seem to match his weakened appearance and fatigue. This piqued Simon’s curiosity.

What do you want?

Simon uttered those four words with an equal measure of disdain, challenge, careful contempt, ridicule, and assertion. It was not easy to mix so much in so few words but Simon had spent many years practicing.

Are you Simon Fink? the man asked wearily.

Who wants to know? Simon shot back.

The man took a moment and studied Simon. Then the visitor’s shoulders slumped. He seemed to deflate and become even more pathetic than Simon first assumed him to be. My name is Derek Philips; I am looking for Simon Fink. Are you him? The tone in Derek’s voice suggested that he was tired and wanted to conclude his business quickly.

Maybe, Simon answered slowly. Derek hardly seemed threatening but that did not mean Simon would need to cooperate.

Derek sighed. My mother was Sarah Phillips. The name did not immediately mean anything to Simon, and he did not miss the fact that Derek had referred to his mother in the past tense.

I don’t know any Sarah, Simon said curtly.

It’s probably been a long time, you might not remember her. Maybe you remember her grandmother, Sally Anne Lemmon?

That name did stir some memories loose. The Lemmons had lived next door to his childhood home. Now that he had some context, he did remember Sarah. A face floated up through memory, a dark haired young girl in pigtails. Sarah Phillips was Mrs. Lemmon’s granddaughter. After Sarah’s parents had died, she came to live with Mrs. Lemmon. Many of his memories were lost to the span of years, and he could not remember how her parents had died. Mr. Lemmon, Sarah’s grandfather, had gone to fight in Europe during WWII and never returned.

There had been warm summer afternoons playing in the street, games of tag and hide and seek with the other children of the neighborhood. He could almost recall the sounds and smells of those days; shouts of laughter and fresh cut grass on hot afternoons. Sarah had not been his closest friend or any kind of sweetheart but she had been a good friend. After a particularly difficult stretch in Simon’s life, he had spent a great deal of time in their home. In fact, for a while, Simon had lived with them. Simon grunted not knowing what else to say.

You’re her son? he finally said after an awkward pause. In his mind, Sarah was still that little girl in pigtails. The thought that she had grown up, married, and had a family seemed strange.

Yes, Derek replied sadly. My mother passed away last month. Cancer, he said by way of explanation.

Again, Simon did not know how to respond, so he said nothing. Derek seemed to be waiting for Simon to say something but when he did not, he pressed on.

Before she died, my mother asked me to do something for her. She wanted me to see if I could find one of her friends from her childhood, a Simon Fink. She wasn’t even sure if he was still alive but she wanted me to try and find out what had happened to him.

Why did she want to find me? Despite his outward appearance of annoyance, Simon was intrigued.

She wanted to return some things to him. Actually, she said she tried to find him years ago after her grandmother died.

Mrs. Lemmon is dead too? Simon asked.

Um...yeah, about thirty-five years ago.

As soon as Simon asked the question, he knew it was foolish to ask. If Mrs. Lemmon were still alive, she would be well over a hundred years old.

My mother told me the whole story before she passed away. After her grandmother died, there was a bequest in her will about Simon Fink. Apparently, he had lived with them for a while and then disappeared one day. Just up and left without a trace, but he had left a few things at their house. She wanted my mother to return them to him. Mother tried but she couldn’t find him. My father was a serviceman in the Air Force and he spent a lot of time overseas. He couldn’t help her with the search. Mother was a determined woman. We didn’t have much money when I was little, so she couldn’t afford to hire an investigator to find him. But she did try, on her own. She searched for any record through newspaper articles and managed to get her hands on all kinds of phone books from all over the country. She made calls to anyone listed as Simon Fink or S. Fink but she never found the right person. After a few years, she gave up and the box ended up in the attic. That’s where it has remained for all of these years. I think she always felt guilty that she couldn’t find him. She asked me before she passed to try one last time and see what had happened to Simon Fink; see if he was still alive and return the box to him.

The pain of his mother’s passing was still fresh on Derek’s face and telling the story was clearly difficult.

I live in Detroit and I took a leave of absence from work to be there at the end and then take care of the arrangements. I still have a month before I have to return so I thought I’d see if I could do what mother had asked. Private investigators are expensive, so I thought I’d give it a go myself.

"Why do you keep saying him? ‘She tried to find him,’ ‘see if he was still alive,’ ‘return his things.’ I’m right here, boy. Stop saying him. You found me."

Derek gave him a hard stare. Did you know there are seven Simon Fink’s listed in the phone book in the continental United States and seventy-eight listings for S. Fink?

Simon had never thought of it and if he had, he would selfishly have assumed that he was the only one. He had never met or heard of another Simon Fink before.

You’re the third Simon Fink I’ve spoken with this week and the ninth S. Fink. Derek said. Simon could guess why Derek looked so worn out now. He had been traveling from town to town looking up Finks. Not that it stirred one ounce of sympathy within him.

Well now you’ve found me. Where’s my stuff? he said gruffly. Simon had no idea what things he could have left behind.

A nervous look came over Derek.

Like I said, I’ve been to eleven houses so far and none of them were the right person. I have to be sure, you see.

Simon understood. He had to prove who he was.

Can I ask you a few questions first? Derek asked.

The polite thing to do would have been to invite the man in, offer him a seat, perhaps a drink. Simon grunted and Derek took that as permission to ask his questions.

Where did you grow up?

Sacramento, Simon responded right away.

Can you be more specific?

Richardson Village.

Derek nodded.

What was the name of the street?

Simon opened his mouth to respond and then paused. It was right there on the tip of his tongue but he could not quite recall the name. It was something odd, something with a tree. Oak Crescent, Simon said hesitantly. That was not quite right. Then it came to him. Winding Oak Crescent.

Derek nodded again. That’s correct. If I could ask one last thing of you.

Yeah, Simon replied hesitantly.

Do you have I.D.?

Um...yeah, just a minute.

Simon let the screen door close and went to retrieve his wallet from his bedroom nightstand. He withdrew a tattered old birth certificate and brought it to the waiting man. Derek took a few minutes to study the information and handed the paper back to Simon.

Looks like I’ve found you. Funny though, I thought it would be harder.

Why do you say that? Simon asked.

Because my mother said that when she tried to find you years ago, she couldn’t find a trace of you anywhere. I know she wasn’t a professional but it only took me a week to find you. Where were you for all those years?

A flash of many memories flooded through Simon’s mind. Places he had been, things he had done, he was not surprised Sarah had not been able to find him. However, he felt no desire to explain himself to Derek. You got my stuff? he asked rather than reply to Derek’s question.

For a moment, Derek studied the old man in the door. Clearly, his question made Simon uncomfortable. Derek may have pressed the issue, but he was tired and now that his search was over, the thought of returning home was foremost on his mind.

Yeah, it’s in my trunk. I’ll go get it.

Simon waited in the doorway as Derek hurried down the steps and to his car parked at the curb. The box was smaller than Simon had been hoping for, but he was eager to see what it held.

Here you go, Derek said as he handed the box over. Mother would be happy to know I found you.

At that, Simon realized he should say something, some comforting words, and condolences of some kind. Mrs. Lemmon and Sarah popped into his mind. They had been kind when he desperately needed kindness, had taken him in, fed him, gave him a place to hide from his troubles for a short time. Then he had left without a word. He never even thanked them for their generosity, kindness, or hospitality. When he finally spoke, his words did not convey what he had been thinking.

That house always smelled of cabbage.

The comment hung in the air between them. Derek had no idea what to make of it. Simon had always liked the smell of cooked cabbage. It smelled of home and comfort but his words had come out all wrong. His gruff tone had made the compliment sound like a complaint.

Uhhh...yeah, Derek replied. If I could just get your signature please. Derek withdrew a sheet of paper from an inside pocket.

What’s that? Simon was eyeing the paper as if it might bite him.

Just a release saying that I confirmed who you are, that you’ve accepted the box and that you have no other claim.

Simon thought for a moment of holding out and not signing the release. Maybe he could get something more out of this deal. Then it occurred to him that it would probably involve lawyers, meetings…and effort.

Fine, give it here, Simon said impatiently.

Once Simon scrawled his name along the bottom, Derek folded the paper and took a step forward, extending his hand. I better get going. I’ve got a long drive ahead of me.

Simon looked down at the hand, put on his very best scowl, grunted, hefted the box higher in his arms, stepped back into his house, and swung the door shut with one foot. After so much emotion over the past month and the effort Derek had expended in tracking down Simon, this ending seemed anti-climactic. As the door closed in his face with no word of thanks or gratitude from Simon, Derek stood there for a moment. However, he was too tired to sort out his feelings, so he shrugged and left.

Inside, Simon retreated to the living room, excited to see what treasures lay in the box. Setting it down on the coffee table, he pulled the cardboard lid free. Gazing down at the contents, he felt disappointed.

It’s just junk! he complained.

Then he took a moment, taking in what he saw. A red toy train sat atop a stack of letters. The tiniest trace of a smile curled his lips. He had forgotten about the letters. The letters had been a little game his mother liked to play. She would write him long notes and then mail them to him. When the mailman delivered the notes, she would announce, Look Simon, you got a letter. I wonder who it’s from? and she would give him a sly wink and a smile.

He knew his mother had mailed the letters from the box down the street but that did not reduce his excitement in any way. They contained nothing of great importance–places they might visit, activities to look forward to, little secrets they shared, how proud she was of her little man. To a young Simon they were the most marvelous messages.

There were a few bundles of tissue beneath the letters. When he opened them, he found several rings and a necklace. The jewelry was not of a particularly high quality and might only be worth a few hundred dollars at best, but each piece was rich with sentimental value. They had belonged to his mother. Then he uttered a gasp. At the bottom, filling half of the box, he saw a tattered brown pillow, with flecks of orange in the pattern. The tassels were frayed and there were a few spots where the fabric had almost worn to holes. That pillow had been his mother’s favorite. She would place it on her lap when she read. He smiled at the memory. Then a cloud passed over his face.

Until that moment, he had forgotten about the pillow, but upon seeing it and reminiscing, a floodgate of other long suppressed memories poured forth. His eyes welled with tears. Quickly he piled everything back in, flipped the lid on and picked up the box. It was all too much. He did not want to deal with those memories–could not deal with those memories–there was just too much pain there. He set the box down out of sight behind a chair, near a wall. He could open the box later, when he was ready.

Simon sighed at the disturbing memories stirred by his mother’s mementos. His missing shirt was not in the box so he continued with the search. The missing item of clothing did not turn up under the couch or under the table between the two nor anywhere else in the small room. Next, he checked the laundry room and the front hall closet with no success. For good measure, he even peeked through the faded curtains to the front yard–still no sign of the missing shirt.

Sometimes at night, he enjoyed standing on the lawn barefoot feeling the cool grass between his toes. Never when there was any sign of activity from the other houses and only after all the nosy neighbors had gone in for the night. The dark night was quiet and peaceful and he could stand there drinking a beer, imagining that all of the stupid people, who normally ruined his day with pointless chitchat, were gone forever. Invariably, a dog would bark from the darkness or a door would close and the illusion of solitude would be shattered.

Stupid people, he would mumble and return inside for a fresh drink.

By the count of empty cans on the living room table, it looked to him as if he had tied one on the night before. Simon had woken late in the morning, as usual, on top of the covers of his bed. He guessed at some point he had gone from the living room up to bed, but only had a foggy recollection of a stumbling climb up the stairs and then nothing more. The next place he should look for his shirt would have to be his bedroom.

At the entrance to his small bedroom, he sighed. The clutter was disheartening and there were so many places to look. Not because his was a big room but because of the sheer quantity of piles and volume of stuff scattered around such a small space. He stood staring at the stacks of dirty laundry mixed with the long forgotten clean, unfolded piles, which made distinguishing one from another difficult. Pizza boxes and empty beer cans poked out from under scattered sections of newspapers. It was a mess. The sensible thing to do would be to clean up, but that would require effort. Simon scrupulously avoided anything that smacked of effort or work. Besides, he knew the mess would only return and then where would he be?

Back with the piles of garbage and my time wasted, that’s where.

He walked around the room pushing stacks around with one foot in the hopes his shirt might suddenly appear. To his annoyance, it did not, so he turned to the closet. Simon could not remember the last time he had opened the closet door. Must be months, I think.

Simon opened the door and gazed at the jumble of junk. An impressive pile by any standards, but a blue and white shirt was not amid the things he saw. After a few minutes of staring, he swung the door shut. Even in his most inebriated state, he never would have put the shirt in there.

Returning downstairs in frustration, he decided to sit and try to piece together the previous night. Detouring past his favorite chair–the obvious place for serious thinking–Simon headed for the fridge. If he was forced to exert himself with deep thought, he could at least make the chore easier with a beer.

Opening the fridge Simon exclaimed, Oh yeah, that’s right! The lost shirt had been discovered at last.

A blurry stumbling memory came back to him, stuffing the shirt in the fridge late in the humid night, hoping to cool himself down. Slipping his arms in the sleeves, he shivered in delight at the feeling of cool rayon against his bare skin. Popping the tab on a can of beer and heading back to the living room to finally sit and relax, he heard footsteps coming up to his front porch; the mailman, he realized with glee. Simon had a few choice words for the lazy man.

For years, they had been continuing an argument regarding junk mail. Simon did not want any flyers or advertisements and the stubborn mail carrier kept jamming them into his mailbox. Only the day before Simon discovered enough garbage mail to accommodate the entire neighborhood.

Outrageous! he had exclaimed.

The unwanted flyers always featured full-color glossy pictures of people so absurdly happy that Simon often spent many minutes staring at them. For some reason he could not seem to grasp the images he saw. They were clearly models hired to portray regular people, but their smiles and casual far-away glances off to the sides of the frame seemed so unnatural. He could almost imagine they were aliens infiltrating the world but they had no actual concept of what real people should look like.

The pretty faces and toothy smiles confused Simon. He knew from experience that life did not offer anything so wonderful, so delightful to make anyone–him especially–demonstrate that level of happiness. After the confusion they stirred within him, anger always came. An indefinable animosity towards the models, the company that had insisted he learn about fast food or insurance premiums, and the lazy mailman who would not stop delivering the unwanted material.

With an evil grin on his old face, he decided a few choice words would be a far better cure for his hangover. In fact, he felt a little better already as he strained out of his chair. He thought of hurrying to the fridge for a second beer but did not want to miss his opportunity.

What’s all this ruckus out here! he yelled yanking the front door open.

Friday, June 13, 2014

1

AS SIMON FINK lay in bed, the throbbing pulse of a headache at his temples, there was only one desire, one overriding need that sprang to mind. He wished with all of his heart that he could for once not wake up to the clamorous noise beyond his bedroom window. Every morning during the week, overly chatty mothers led their noisy offspring to buses. On the weekends, men of the neighborhood were forever rising at ungodly hours, doing their tinkering and endless chores, accompanied by their children, whose annoying screams filled his room.

Even now, the neighborhood children were beyond his street-facing bedroom window, frolicking and yelling as if being young were some wonderful blessing. He wished desperately that they could see how pointless their lives were, so they would walk to school in a more suitably somber state. For a moment, he debated throwing open his bedroom window and educating them on this very subject. Of course, that would require the effort of standing which didn’t seem possible without throwing up, so he remained where he was. They would be gone soon enough.

On top of everything else, the sun was not helping the situation, shining intensely, encouraging the children’s unruly behavior, and poking bright cheerful rays through the curtains directly into his eyes. June had been unusually hot, feeling more like the humid dog days of August. Mornings had been difficult for Simon, with no air conditioning. This made lying in bed, nursing a hangover uncomfortably sticky.

When the last bus rumbled away and quiet returned, Simon was free to drift off once again but his old bladder was now demanding attention. There was no age Simon could remember as being a golden time but seventy-four years old was just plain lousy. If it was not the constant trips to the bathroom night and day, then the arthritic feeling in his knees would strike, or playing the television louder and louder each year, as his hearing diminished. Then there was always the pleasure of dealing with these young smartass doctors.

I got socks older than you, he would grumble at them.

Simon would become indignant and would fume in his mind that these young doctors were always telling him what he had to do to take care of himself, him, Simon Fink! They thought they could tell him what he should do. He had been taking care of himself for over seven decades and almost every day of those years on his own. He did, however, occasionally need medical care and on those occasions he tried very hard to keep his opinions to himself, never very successfully though.

Once, years earlier, Simon had gone to see a doctor for a physical, not of his own volition but as a requirement for health insurance. He had endured the poking and prodding with a minimum of complaining. At least Simon had felt he had kept his tongue in check as well as possible.

"The