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Podcast EDF015: “Waiting” by Simon Smithson, as read by Adam Kerby
“Waiting” was originally published in EDF on December 9, 2008, and is included in The Best of Every Day Fiction Two.
Simon Smithson is an Australian writer who is moving to San Francisco. He has never seen a moose, has eaten crocodile (it was delicious), and has more ideas than he has time to bring to fruition.
Adam Kerby is a voice actor in Vancouver, Canada.
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The classroom was clean, Mike gave it that much. The walls were a dull yellow, empty, unadorned by colorful animals holding up letters of the alphabet or animated posters encouraging children to read. The bright fluorescent lighting gleamed off exacting rows of spotless, child-sized desks lined up before a larger, albeit just as uninteresting, desk at the front of the classroom.
A gaunt woman sat at the larger desk with her hands folded in front of her. “I’m not sure why you’ve come, Mr. Lee.” Mike didn’t miss the scarcely concealed annoyance in her tone. “The matter has already been turned over to Officer Beech, the school security advisor.”
“I know that, Ms. Berger.” He shifted a little in his undersized seat. The air was dry, sterile, with an underlying chemical smell. Bleach? Some other disinfectant? “I’ve spoken with Mr. Beech. He informed me it was you who brought the drawing to his attention.”
Ms. Berger raised a pencil-thin eyebrow. “Did he? I’ll have to file a complaint with the district office. The reporting party is supposed to remain anonymous.”
“He said your complaint described John as a threat to the entire class. Don’t you think that’s a little… exaggerated?”
Ms. Berger’s lips tightened. “Since you’ve spoken with Officer Beech, I assume you’ve seen your son’s drawing.”
“Yes.”
“Then I fail to understand your confusion. The Federal Student Safety Outreach Program has a zero tolerance policy when it involves threats of violence or injury. John is a murderous sociopath in the making. Frankly, we’re fortunate I caught his tendencies this early. Who knows what bloodshed we’ve averted?”
“Threats of violence or injury?” Reaching into his coat pocket, Mike pulled a folded piece of construction paper from his pocket and spread it out on the desk. “This is a drawing of a stickman shooting a ray gun at a Tyrannosaurus. How can you think this is a threat to anyone, except maybe time travelling dinosaurs?”
Ms. Berger shook her head. “Officer Beech gave you a copy of the picture as well? My, my, I will indeed have to file a complaint.” She leaned back in her chair. “Do you know how many conversations like this I’ve had, Mr. Lee? Do you know how many crying or shouting parents I’ve had escorted from this very room?”
“No.”
“Dozens, scores even. It’s never easy, but it is my job.” Ms. Berger’s tapped John’s picture with a boney finger. “You see this as nothing more than a cartoon, a fictitious vision in your son’s young mind drawn out in crayon.”
“It’s not?”
“No. It is the first outward manifestation of rebellious antisocial behavior. On a mental level, there is absolutely no difference between this picture and the act itself. Who knows what this drawing truly represents? Your son is obviously the stickman with the weapon, but who is the dinosaur? Is it a fellow student, a teacher, the president? Trust me, Mr. Lee. John needs to be locked away before he can do any real harm.”
“Real harm?” Mike picked up the drawing, stared at the anemic hero vanquishing a poorly drawn lizard. A frigid sort of unreality gripped him. “He’s six years old.”
“As I said, we’re lucky to have caught this behavior so early on.” Ms. Berger stood. “Now, I’m very busy, Mr. Lee. If you’ll hand me that copy, I’ll have it filed and you can be on your way.”
“I was going to burn it.”
“That is school property, and evidence, Mr. Lee.” Ms. Berger held out her hand. “Please, don’t make this any harder than it has to be. The Office of Student Safety won’t have my report until morning. You and your wife should be spending what time you have left with John as a family.”
“I agree. And I will cherish every second I have left with them.” Mike stood. It was hard. The cloak of his misery, of the dark future of emptiness to come was a crushing weight on his back. “Before I go, let me ask you something. Do you honestly believe what you’re telling me?” He held up John’s drawing. “You truly see no difference between this and actual violence?”
Ms. Berger scowled impatiently. “There is no difference. What you’re holding is nothing less than a murder in the making. It is a root of violence waiting to grow. Accept it.”
“I do.” Producing a lighter from his shirt pocket, Mike lit the edge of the picture.
“What do you think you are you doing?” Ms. Berger jabbed the intercom key on her desk. “Officer Beech! We have another code twelve in room 214. Officer Beech!”
“He won’t be answering. And this isn’t a copy by the way.” The flame grew, quickly consuming the stickman and his reptile nemesis. When the flames licked the tips of Mike’s fingers, he dropped it to the floor. “The report you filed has been destroyed as well.”
Ms. Berger backed away, pressing her boney back to the blank chalkboard. “You’re insane.”
Mike shrugged. “I’m a father.” A knife appeared in his hand, parts of the long blade still stained red with Officer Beech’s blood. “Now, would you like to know the difference between my son’s picture and what I’m about to do? Do you want to understand the real root of every act of violence?”
“Please,” Ms. Berger begged. Her lips were trembled, and bright tears filled her eyes. “Please… I was only… they trained us to…”
Mike lifted the knife. “Motivation.”
Born in May of 1974, Timothy Miller has worked at a farm, a meatpacking plant, a pickle factory, a casino, and a rowdy nightclub as a bouncer. Currently employed as a repair technician for a large telephone company, he writes in his spare time. His biggest fans, his family, spend many frigid Wisconsin nights in their home, listening to his stories and encouraging him, despite the nightmares.
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What was I supposed to think? He just sat there on the bed. Dumb as a rock, mascara tracing a ragged line down his cheeks, like a bad joke, his bust lopsided, the stuffing coming out and wriggling down the inside of his dress. He held the red curly wig between loose fingers. What could I do? I unclenched the handle and let the door shut behind me. The latch clicked back in to place as it closed. The telephone started ringing. I ignored it and walked down the hallway to the kitchen.
I heard him crying. I poured a drink. I felt like vodka but we only had some green stuff, Verdin I think it was called; Liora dropped it off last time she came back from Mexico. I poured a large glass and left the bottle open on the kitchen table.
I guess I felt calm. But I felt like I was just playing a role. I tried to work myself up to get all indignant – but I couldn’t. The truth? I suppose I felt relieved. The marriage had been ceremony and circumstance for years. At least now, we could both get on with things. Poor old Eli. And the dress kind of suited him really, though the wig was like a badly fitted sheitel. Well, the dress looked better on him than it did on me anyway. He had the ankles for it. Mine always seemed to be swollen and I have a nasty red blotch just below the back of my knee. I have big feet.
It was actually Liora who had first showed me the pictures. She’d found them on some special website. Though what she was doing on the internet, I’ll never know. The woman can barely make instant coffee by herself. Now, I was a little surprised when she first showed me. I didn’t let on though. I played stoic. She said she felt sorry for me and she hugged me. I think she was enjoying herself. Still, who can blame her?
I knew I’d have to wait for Eli. If I shouted at him, things would just get worse. I poured the rest of the green stuff in the glass and took some matzah ball soup out of the fridge. I lit a cigarette and turned the radio on. The crackling sound of the Irving Aaronson orchestra spat out. I admit I danced a little that evening as I heated the soup up on the stove.
I waited but he was still crying at midnight. I left the house and took a cab to my sister’s. The police found him the next morning. They said he’d hanged himself.
I decided in the end to keep the pictures that Liora had found. They were the only ones I had where Eli was actually smiling.
David Rees-Thomas is originally from Wales and currently resides in Japan. As well as his own writing which has appeared in various publications, he also does audio narration of other people’s stories for podcasts such as StarShipSofa and Transmissions From Beyond.
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“Thief! Entertainment pirate!”
Emma blinked, bewildered not only by the accusation, but by its maker. She had come out to the roof of the law firm’s tall office building for a breath of fresh-ish city air since she intended to work late. She hadn’t intended to run into a six foot two inches purple humanoid wearing an aqua blue bathing suit.
It, or he, waved a silver-tipped finger dramatically. “There are laws against this sort of thing.”
“I’m sure there are,” said Emma. There were laws against most things, except exploitation of junior lawyers. A purple alien was the least of her troubles. “Still, it would be helpful if you gave me a hint what it is you think I’ve stolen.”
The alien hitched his baggy aqua bathing suit. “As if you didn’t know.” He sneered.
The sneer gave him away. Hadn’t she been practising one in the mirror for weeks?
“You’re a lawyer,” cried Emma. She recognised the species.
“A copyright lawyer,” said the purple pursuer.
“Copyright.” Emma’s brain moved at warp speed. “Do you mean your clients are responsible for the voices I’ve been hearing? Do you mean that drivel is actually copyrighted?”
“If by ‘drivel’ you refer to ‘Centauri Calling’ — ”
Emma interrupted, quoting melodramatically. “But you can’t love me, Xyle. You are my own brother’s pod-sibling. It is forbidden.”
The alien blushed blue. “Well, it may be drivel, but you listened to it, and without paying.”
“Only because I had no choice. Ever since I bumped my head on a filing cabinet moving into my new office, ‘Centauri Calling’ has made my life miserable. I can’t even mention it to anyone, or they’ll think me crazy. If anything,” continued Emma, carried away by memory of her suffering. “I should sue your clients for mental cruelty. ‘Centauri Calling’ every 4 pm.” She shuddered.
“Don’t even think about it,” snarled the alien. “I, Parlo Novan, would make Bental Burgers of you at the Alpha Court.”
“Big talk from an alien wearing a bathing suit,” taunted Emma.
Parlo glanced down. “My briefing on Earth norms indicated a suit was appropriate dress for a lawyer.”
“A suit suit,” said Emma, and plucked at her jacket in explanation. “Not a bathing suit. Bathers are only for the beach and pool.”
“Ah.” Parlo pushed buttons on a device that shimmered into view. A silver grey suit soon covered him.
“As I was saying.” Appropriately covered, Parlo recovered his aplomb. “You are in breach of galaxical copyright laws.”
“Never heard of them,” muttered Emma.
Parlo raised his voice. “For receiving ‘Centauri Calling’ without a licence, you owe — ”
“How come I could receive it, intelligibly, I mean? Shouldn’t it have been in some alien language?”
“Automatic galaxic translator. The same way we’re talking now. They recently installed one on Jupiter.”
“Oh. Continue.”
“Where was I?”
“That bit about me owing you, or rather, your clients. Once we’ve dealt with that, I want to talk about compensation for mental cruelty.”
“I told you.” Parlo loosened the unfamiliar green silk tie that was slowly strangling him. “You don’t have a hope in Andromeda of beating me at Court. You don’t even know the Galaxia Code.”
“I could learn.”
“Seven hundred and seventy four battercubes?” Parlo raised a blonde eyebrow. “Good luck.”
“You’re making that up,” charged Emma.
“I’m not. In fact, I wrote the 773,748,559,121 battercubette.”
“All right, all right. What do I owe?”
“Two dabt.”
“And what’s two dabt when it’s at home?”
“About five dollars in your currency.”
Emma’s blue eyes narrowed. “Do you mean you travelled umpteen light years to call in a debt of five dollars? Do your clients know what you’re doing?”
“My clients trust me. I’m the best travelling lawyer in the galaxy.”
“More like a bailiff.” Emma dug in her pocket and came up with the coins she had been going to use to buy a chocolate bar and soda from the vending machine. “Here.”
Quick as a flash, Parlo’s briefcase appeared. All lawyers, whatever their species, have briefcases. He cracked it open. “I’ll write you a receipt, and while I write, if you just sign here.”
He unrolled a sheet of paper five metres long.
“Whoa,” said Emma.
“It’s nothing to worry about,” said the alien lawyer, radiating trustworthiness, and sweating. “It simply says you agree to never disclose the existence and ongoing plot of ‘Centauri Calling’.”
“What plot?” interjected Emma. “The program is rubbish.”
“See, no problems. You sign, and the producers of ‘Centauri Calling’ will sort out why it is you’re receiving the broadcasts.”
“Sort out?”
“Yes, the producers will have the right to arrange examination your body for… abnormalities.”
“While I’m living or dead?” she asked snarkily.
“Ah.”
Emma jabbed a finger at the lengthy contract. “Add a clause. Examination can only occur after my natural death, and said death can be in no way contributed to by the producers or any other interested parties.”
“Very well.” Parlo licked his finger and started writing.
While he wrote, Emma thought. “I’m not signing.”
“What? You can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“I’ve already spent your signing bonus.”
Damn, thought Emma. When a lawyer tells the truth, we’re all in trouble.
“I’ll sign if you give me a spaceship.” She’d be the fastest lawyer on Earth, and when bored, she could taunt the military.
“Done!”
Too easy. Emma signed.
Contract and Parlo vanished, but a toy space ship sat at her feet.
Jenny Schwartz is an armchair socialist, an idealist when it’s not too much trouble. Her hobbies include worrying about the world and swearing at political idiocy.
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“You made some very good pre-birth decisions. Your stocks are way up.”
Nordrum Hafringer sat flipping through papers in a manila envelope. Across the broad wooden desk sat his clients, Mr. and Mrs. Gulnck. They exhibited nothing but middle aged plainness. He with neat gray hair and thin glasses, her with a small beehive hairdo and a round, drawn in face, clutching a hand bag in her lap. They watched as Hafringer’s finger stopped on a page.
“Ah. You chose India. Your Squalor and Disease portfolios went through the roof!”
Mr. Gulnck nodded. “Cynthia and I wanted to make sure we got the full range of life experience. As long as we were going to be living, you know? Right, dear?”
“Yes,” Cynthia said. “It’s just, all that time thinking you were a real person, thinking you matter. It seems such a waste. But it is important.”
Harold took Cynthia’s hand. “But we’re back, now, honey. We can get back to our real lives.”
Hafringer said, “Yes, that’s why we’re all here. Now, I see you invested heavily in Pain and Suffering. Good thing. You scored a 98 percent P&S rating. One of the highest I’ve ever seen.”
“Oh, yes. Though it was iffy there for a while. That whole ethnic cleansing thing, that was terrible,” said Cynthia.
“Well worth it though,” said Mr. Gulnck.
“Absolutely. Mr. Gulnck, let’s see… Ah. You were a rice farmer for sixty two years. That is just awesome. And you had fourteen children. No wonder your P&S was so high, Cynthia.”
Mr. Gulnck cleared his throat. “How did our Spirituality Index do?”
“Let me see… Ah. Well, it did suffer a bit, but still a good square number. 47. But, under the circumstances, quite good. We usually see that. A P&S as high as yours usually lowers the SI a bit.”
Harold raised an eyebrow. “Wait. I thought high pain and suffering would lead to higher spirituality?”
Hafringer nodded. “Yes, it does, up to a point. SI is like a bell curve. Too much — or too little — suffering, and your SI takes a hit. See, if you don’t suffer enough, you have no reason to believe. But if you suffer too much, you stop believing. But don’t worry, your SI was still very good, and the high P&S more than makes up for it.”
Cynthia said, “Our friends the Wackermans lived as Americans. I don’t even see why they bothered. P&S of like 4%, Spirituality Index of 2. They hardly doubled their investments.”
“Yes, well, some people don’t like the idea of sitting in an Indian rice field, in starvation and squalor for sixty years. Not that there aren’t some nice places in India… you actually died of starvation, right, Mrs. Gulnck?”
“Oh, yes. It was dreadful.”
“Well, it’s all over now. As I compute it, you should have a fourteen hundred percent return on your original investment. Congratulations. Well worth the trouble, I would say. I’ll get the paperwork through and get you the check. Welcome back to Heaven, Mr. and Mrs. Gulnck. And, if you ever choose to live again, please come back to Hafringer and Associates.”
They rose and shook hands. The Gulncks walked out of the red brick building towards their car. They walked side by side down the cold, barren sidewalk. The breeze blew a hot dog wrapper past them. They got in the car and buckled their belts. Mr. Gulnck checked his mirrors then pulled out into traffic.
Cynthia wrung her hands in her handbag. She turned to her husband. “Harold, why do you suppose God encourages people to live? You can make such an awful lot of money. What does he get out of having so many people suffer so?”
Harold stared straight ahead. “I don’t know, Cynthia. He’s just a sadistic… um, he likes to watch people suffer, I guess. But he’s the one in charge. It’s not up to us to question his motives.”
“I suppose. Can’t help but feel a little sad. If you could just go through it knowing it wasn’t real, being able to remember your real life, here, the whole time.” She wiped at her eyes with a tissue.
“I know. But it is worth it.” He turned to her despite the heavy traffic. “Isn’t it?”
She put the tissue back in her purse and smiled. “I suppose. Now we have to pick up a cake for the Wackermans’ party tonight.”
Harold smiled and turned back to the traffic.
Matthew Wimmer grew up in Indiana, got his Masters degree in astrophysics in Alabama, and now teaches astronomy and physics at a community college in Kentucky.
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