Frank couldn’t resist taking a few extra minutes in front of the mirror to admire himself. His father had endowed him with a strong jaw, and thick dark hair, which he kept short and slicked back. His eyes were an icy blue that showed very little emotion, which helped when arguing a case in front of a jury, but also had its uses with the opposite sex.
He adjusted the knot of his tie one last time, and finally satisfied with the fit, exited the bathroom. Turning to a small console on the adjoining wall he said “Computer locate Florence.”
“Florence is currently located in the kitchen area.”
“Thank you computer.”
It always felt strange to thank a computer, but Frank was unable to break himself of the habit, despite the fact that he probably talked to the apartment’s central computer more than he did his own wife. The computer ran almost everything in the apartment, from climate control, to door locks, and lighting, all at the command of a voice.
The apartment itself was 3000 square feet of pure luxury. Its furnishings were as ultra modern as the central computer. All clean lines, and made for efficiency.
The kitchen was located to the left, but today Frank decided his usual morning coffee wasn’t worth the aggravation. He turned right, and made his way through the living room, past his private library, which he kept stocked with the finest legal books, and into the front foyer. He had almost gotten his jacket nestled on his shoulders when his wife confronted him.
“Frank, we have to talk.”
He found himself, not for the first time, marvelling at how such an annoying voice could belong to such a beautiful woman. Florence had been his wife for eight years, and he knew that if she hadn’t possessed such stunning beauty, he would have dumped her long ago.
“We talked about this last night Flo, I can’t make it tonight. I’m sorry.”
“No you talked, I listened. Usually when you break a promise, I let it go. Not this time Frank. I won’t be embarrassed again.”
“Look you’ll just have to explain to your parents that I have an important meeting to attend. If I could change my schedule around, I would. But it’s just not possible.”
“Damn it Frank, you promised three weeks ago!”
He couldn’t take any more of Florence’s nasally voice, and childish ways. Her face was beginning to crumple, and Frank thought that at any minute she was going to stomp her foot like a child begging its parents for candy.
“Florence, I have a job to do. You don’t work because I provide for us. To do that I have to go to this meeting, so you and your parents are just going to have to live with it.” When her eyes started to well up with tears, he softened his voice. It was easier to pretend he cared about her delicate sensibilities, then it was to argue. “I’m sorry. Listen I’ll tell you what, I’ll do my best to get here, I might be a little late, but I’ll try to shorten the meeting or something. I can’t promise anything.”
Before she could say another word, Frank grabbed his briefcase, turned, and walked out the door.
* * *
The elevator doors whooshed open, and the cool air of the parking garage buffeted his face. He strode to his parking spot, and not for the first time, stood and admired his car.
It was a state of the art “Aero”. It got it name because of its aero dynamic design. It looked faintly like an egg on steroids -- except with a flat bottom -- and propped up on tires. The tires, resembled thickened hula-hoops with spokes, and were made of a synthetic rubber that was able to mould itself into the shape of any obstacle it ran across, and would never need to be inflated, or have a nail removed.
Fifty years ago, the car companies had been confronted with three major problems. The first was air pollution, which they overcame by developing cars that ran efficiently on solar power, like the aero, which eliminated the need for fossil fuels.
The second was traffic congestion. To beat this, cars were equipped with sensors hidden beneath the skin of the body, which detected if another object got close, and moved to avoid it; A development that practically eliminated accidents (except by malfunction) allowing traffic to flow in straight lines, without drivers cutting in and out.
The last problem facing the car companies was road rage. People were getting out of their cars and opening fire on other drivers in increasing numbers. While the smart sensors helped, they just didn’t do enough. The car companies conducted more research, and they developed another type of sensor. It was inserted into the driver’s side door, and steering wheel, and was designed to monitor the drivers breathing, heart rate, blood pressure, and other vital signs. If the sensors told the central computer that the driver was becoming angry, or violent, the car responded immediately by trying to pacify the driver. The car could do many things to achieve this goal, one of which was to play soothing music.
The car was a marvel of engineering, and of course the “Aero” was the top of the line in modern automotive technology.
“Computer, unlock car doors,” Frank commanded. Immediately the car responded, and he heard the clicking sound that confirmed the locks had been disengaged. Frank got in, placed the briefcase on the passenger chair, and settled into his seat.
“Good morning Frank,” the cars flat, mechanically engineered voice said.
“Good morning” he responded. “I need to get to 1200 Young street in Toronto”
“Will you be driving, or will I?”
“You for now.”
The car started as soon as the last word had left Franks mouth, and cleanly backed out of the parking spot. In minutes he merged smoothly into traffic on highway 401, heading east towards Toronto.
Not this time Frank. I won’t be embarrassed again.
That’s what she’d said to him. How dare she demand anything of him? Wasn’t he the one slaving at an office all day, while she sat on her ass? Who was she to tell him what to do? She should be grateful.
She’s a bitch, an ungrateful, whiney, snivelling, and low down fucking bitch.
Franks hands clenched into fists. The more he thought about his wife, the angrier he became. When the radio snapped on, it startled him enough to relax his hands. The car was flooded with the mellow tones of a symphony.
“Computer,” he said between clenched teeth “I didn’t request the radio be turned on.”
“No sir, but I detected that you were becoming increasingly agitated. I therefore deemed it necessary to calm you.”
“You’re a car for Christ’s sakes. I didn’t buy you to make decisions. Turn the radio off!”
The car said nothing. Of course it didn’t, it was just a stupid computer, made of microchips, and wire. It didn’t understand swearing, but it should have recognized the command to shut the radio off.
“Computer, shut the radio off.”
The dashboard lit up, playing liquid pink, yellow and white light back and forth. Frank found the flowing lights faintly eerie. It was meant to soothe, but only served to enrage Frank even more than he already was. He slammed a fist into the steering wheel as hard as he could. When the lights and music didn’t stop, he did it again.
“Doing damage to the vehicle is illogical sir.”
What the hell is going on he thought? This isn’t supposed to happen to me. I paid almost a million tokens for this piece of shit car, and what do I get in return. I get held prisoner… me, Frank Barnes, one of the most successful Lawyers in Canada.
“Pull over damn it! Let me out of this damned car now!”
For once the car responded to his command, and began cutting its way effortlessly towards the upcoming exit ramp. As the car changed lanes, he looked over, and noticed that a driver from another car was staring at him. Frank could just imagine what he saw. A man with wide angry eyes, dishevelled hair, and rumpled suit. He gave him the finger on the way by, and the other man quickly turned away, pretending to be look at something else.
The “Aero” glided down the exit ramp, and along a street that Frank didn’t recognize, until it reached the entrance to a deserted church parking lot. The car pulled into the lot, and parked. The engine turned off, and Frank reached for the door handle. The click of the door locks engaging surprised him.
“Computer, why did you engage door locks?”
“I can not allow you to leave the car in your current condition.”
“Can not allow? Let me out of this fucking car!” he roared.
“Sorry sir. When you have calmed down enough to be able to interact in civilized society, then I will let you out.”
Frank couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Somehow this heap of circuitry was making a decision to keep him locked up.
He patted himself down looking for his cell phone, before realizing that he must have left it on its charger in the kitchen. He’d skipped his coffee, to avoid his wife, and now it was going to cost him.
Of course the car was equipped with an onboard phone, and so forgetting his cell phone was usually just a minor inconvenience. He punched the button on the dashboard that would connect him to an operator. Nothing happened. A part of him had known that the phone wouldn’t work, but that didn’t stop the first chill of fear from climbing his spine, and making him shudder. He forced the feeling down, and it was quickly replaced with the familiar feelings of rage that usually fuelled him.
Frank decided the time for talk was over. He started to ram his elbow into the driver’s side window. After two hits the pain in his elbow convinced him to stop.
In his rage he’d forgotten that when buying the car, he’d specifically requested that the car be equipped with the latest synthetic polymatalhyde glass. They were shatter proof so that thieves couldn’t break in. If he was ever in a wreck, and paramedics needed in, they could call the car company and a satellite in space would lower the window. Quite ingenious, he had thought at the time. He was starting to see the disadvantages now.
I’ve created my own prison.
The thought skittered through Frank’s head, and he shuddered. He grabbed the brief case that he’d left sitting on the passenger seat, and rammed it into the window. Nothing happened.
“It is illogical to damage the vehicle Frank.”
The engine started, and the heaters suddenly began to pump hot air from the vents.
Now what was the car up to? Why would it turn the heating vents on? It was 32c outside for Christ’s sakes. He was going to fry.
“Computer, why did you turn heating vents on?”
Frank heard a clicking noise, followed by static. Not the most reassuring noise that someone can hear while being held captive by their own computerized car.
“Humans are lulled by warmth. Sometimes they fall asleep.”
“Not when they’re being roasted like chickens on a spit!”
Frank loosened his tie. He could feel sweat beading on his brow, and starting to trickle beneath the collar of his dress shirt.
The symphony music playing on the radio was maddening. It felt like the car was taunting him, not trying to soothe him at all. He removed his suit jacket and shirt, and tossed them on the back seat. Sweat ran down his forehead and stung his eyes.
“Computer, are you listening?”
“Yes Frank, I’m listening.”
“I’m calm now. I’ve learned my lesson. Can you now disengage door locks?”
There was silence for a moment, and then the faint static sound he had heard earlier filled the car again. The lights playing along the dashboard turned an angry red, before muting into the shades of pink, yellow and white they had been previously.
“No Frank.”
Those simple words scared Frank more than anything else in his entire life.
Once I run out of moisture I’ll die of dehydration. The thought sent splinters of ice into his spine.
I have to get out of this car. I can’t die of thirst. A mental picture of himself, with a face that was shrivelled like a dried out apple, tongue swollen and protruding, crashed into his minds eye.
I’m a successful lawyer; surely I can outsmart a car. He looked around, and his eyes settled on the cardboard divider, that divided the back seat from the trunk. He tried to remember what was in the trunk, but it had been such a long time since he had last been in it, that he couldn’t. He crawled between the seats, and wriggled into the back seat. Sweat coated his body in an oily sheen, and he flicked wet hair out of his eyes.
He punched the cardboard, and a smile lit his face for the first time since this whole ordeal had begun. The divider caved in almost soundlessly and Frank was looking at the interior of his trunk. In one corner rested a flashlight that he kept for emergencies. Also a small plastic basket Florence had picked up sat in the other corner. It was filled with cleaning supplies, but none of these things would help him to escape the car. He knew that he couldn’t bash his way out of the trunk, anymore than he had been able to break the window.
“Fuck!” he screamed, and the sound of his own voice seemed to take on a metallic quality, that reminded him of the cars cool computerized voice.
He quickly backed out of the confining space of the trunk, and slithered back to a sitting position in the front seat. He felt helpless, and he knew that panic would start to settle in soon, making him unable to think coherently. He rested his forehead against the steering wheel and tried to calm his frantic thoughts. The heat from the vents continued to relentlessly pound into his naked face and torso.
You have to get out of here, Frankie baby. The voice that spoke in his head wasn’t his own, but his wife’s. Even when he was facing the biggest crisis of his life, her annoying voice was preaching to him.
Shut up you bitch, and mind your own god damn business.
Should have stayed and had dinner with my parents Frank. Now look at you. The voice that represented his wife, had taken on a mocking tone that finally sent Frank over the edge. He gave into the panic that was hammering against his shell of carefully cultivated calm, and finally burst through.
With a wordless snarl, he began beating on the window again. He used his fists and elbows, frantic to escape the confines of his car before it became his coffin. He could feel himself weakening. The heat combined with the physical exertion was taking its toll. His fists began to bleed from the pounding, and he could barely see because of the sweat that ran into his eyes. He was about to give up, when a small crack appeared in the drivers side window. His tears of relief mingled neatly with the sweat that coated every inch of his body.
“Frank you will cease harming the vehicle.”
“Fuck you I will!”
He began hitting the glass madly, concentrating on the area where the crack had appeared, and ignoring the burning in his hands.
“Frank you will desist immediately or I will resort to harsher methods.”
The warning cut through Frank’s madness, and he paused his flailing for a minute. The dashboard lights had again changed to the pulsing red of earlier. It reminded Frank of hungry flames. The music had stopped as well.
What did it mean? How could things get any worse? I’m dying of thirst. I can already feel my throat burning. What else can it possibly do to me?
“Fuck you” he croaked, and started working on the crack again.
The radio suddenly turned on, and Jim Croce began to blare out of the speakers.
“YOU DON’T TUG ON SUPERMANS CAPE”
“YOU DON”T SPIT INTO THE WIND”
“YA DON’T PULL THE MASK FROM THE OLD LONE RANGER, AND YA DON”T MESS AROUND WITH JIM” Jim Croce warned in a deafening voice, that Frank barely heard despite the volume.
When the airbag hit Frank in the face, he didn’t understand what was happening. It forced him back against his seat.
He couldn’t breathe.
His arms snaked out to the sides, and he clawed at the windows, producing a skreeeeeeing noise. He tried to puncture the airbag with his nails, but his sweat-slicked hands couldn’t find any purchase, and just slid off. He kicked, writhed, and tried to scream into the bag that covered his face. His vision was filling rapidly with flying black dots, like tiny angry fireflies that produced darkness instead of light. The darkness closed in and engulfed him. His arms relaxed, and after a few more twitches, finally lay still.“YEAH, BIG JIM GOT HIS HAT”“FIND OUT WHERE IT'S AT”“AND NOT HUSTLING PEOPLE STRANGE TO YOU” “EVEN IF YOU DO GOT A TWO PIECE CUSTOM MADE POOL CUE, YEAH” Jim Croce crooned before breaking into the chorus one final time.
The air bag retracted back into the steering wheel, and the lights on the dashboard died.
“Heart rate and blood pressure are no longer at dangerous levels. Subject has calmed to within acceptable levels for release,” the computer intoned.
The door locks clicked open, and the radio fell silent.
* * *
Florence Barnes finished placing a teacup in front of her mother, being careful not to spill any of the hot liquid on the brand new tablecloth, when the phone rang.
“I’ll just be a quick sec” she said to her waiting parents, and then turned and made her way into the kitchen to retrieve the jangling device.
“Hello?” she asked, and in a few more moments her face turned white, and then a faint smile began to form on her beautiful face, lighting it from the inside out.
When she returned to the table, her hand shook slightly as she pulled the chair out to sit.
“Is everything all right dear? You look a little pale.” Her mom asked her.
“I’m fine mom,” she answered, smiling broadly and fluttering her hand as if she could brush the question right out of the air.
“Frank won’t be home after all. He’s had some car trouble.”
Snow falls in lazy circles from the iron gray sky. A dog barks excitedly at the approach of another dog, while the owner’s try to keep the animals under control. Their paws make small crunching noises every time they leap into the air and land in the soft, white snow.
I smile to myself, wondering at the audacity of the smaller Collie, which is trying to pull his owner towards the much larger and more ferocious looking German Sheppard.
The owner of the Collie, a stick-like man, who looks as if he’s made up of hard angles, his face a mask of wrinkled concentration, is trying desperately to hold his dog in check.
A cigar is clamped forgotten in his mouth, the sweet acrid tang of the cigar smoke drifts lazily on the breeze towards me.
I put down my pad of paper with the thought of helping the beleaguered man, but before I can make my way to him, the owner of the German Shepard veers away, and is soon lost in the snow laden trees which line the edges of the park.
The stick-like man puts his hands on his knees. His breath coming in short, wheezing, cloud-like plumes from his mouth, while he tries to catch his breath.
The Collie, sensing a break in the action, decides to reach up and lick his owner’s cheek as if in apology, before squatting to relieve himself.
The urine steams in the frigid, early morning air. The owner, who now seems to have caught his wind, eyes the dog with minor irritation, before setting off once more along the path.I sit back down on the park bench, and again pick up my pad. I can hear the trees rustling slightly in the breeze, and the sound is faintly comforting.
The swing set behind me, which looks as if it’s seen better days, with it’s fading red paint, and dented frame, squeaks in protest as a sudden gust of chilly air sweeps in and sets the seats and chains to rocking.I imagine that come spring, the park will look quite differently. Instead of trees that look like they have been lightly coated with icing sugar, they will be green and vibrant.
The swing behind me will once again be filled with screaming children, as they recklessly test the boundaries of both gravity, and the swing set it self. The air will smell of flowers, and fresh mown grass, rather than the clean, cold air of winter, and hopefully, the sun will be shining down on me, filling me with warmth, instead of the cold snowflakes that are now falling from the heavens, dotting my arms and hair.
While winter has a peacefulness all its own, I yearn for the warmth and gaiety of spring.
Published in 'Home Remedies For The Soul' March 2008 http://www.homeremediesforthesoul.com/inspirationalstories.htm
The small brick, wartime house, on the quiet suburban street with an addition built onto the back always brought back fond memories for me.
Memories of water fights fought under the old maple tree that still stood proudly in the front yard. Of the numerous afternoons spent playing road hockey in the street with the neighbor’s kids, or quietly learning how to pick rhubarb, while my Nan gave me sound advice.
Whenever I found myself walking up her front steps, the memories would always flood my mind, bringing a smile to my face.
My Nan was no longer able to garden, or even get out of bed. In fact, she could barely string together three sentences without coughing up phlegm.
“Hi, Nan, it’s Mike!” I would yell, upon entering the house. Since Nan couldn’t get out of bed to see who had come calling, I only thought it polite.
From around the corner would come her reply, beckoning me into the bedroom where she lay. Often she would have a pile of yarn in her lap, a crossword puzzle, or a dog-eared book, and she always had a smile for me.
However, that smile couldn’t cover up the fact that her body was crumbling around her. Tired, watery eyes and a body, which looked like it was made of sharp angles of bone with no flesh, were always the first things I noticed.
My Nan had suffered from Emphysema for about twenty-five years, and it showed. She was also diagnosed with angina, chronic bronchitis, osteoporosis, cracked disks in her back and a hiatus hernia.
Yet, despite this, she still somehow retained her sense of dignity and purpose. Although watery, her gaze was still keen, and full of wisdom.
A pile of yarn and some knitting needles lay in her lap, as I walked over, smiled and gave her a kiss on the cheek.
“Whatcha working on, Nan?”
I made my way across the room, spreading open the curtains, which hung by her bed to let in the thin autumn sunlight.
“Oh, you know…just some hats and mitts for the Salvation Army. I might be old, but I still have my uses.”
I nodded my head, and took a seat in the armchair, which always sat like a silent sentinel by her bed.
“So, what’s new?”
I proceeded to tell her, leaving nothing out. It was never wise to leave out details, or try to hoodwink my Nan. Her mind was still as sharp as ever, and while her body was emaciated, her tongue could be as rough as sandpaper, if she had a mind too.
During our conversations, she’d ask polite questions, and watch with a gleam in her eye as I answered them. She’d once told me I was the worst liar ever.
“Mike, you have no business lying. You’re terrible at it, and your eyes tell everything,” she’d said while shaking her head and doing her best to look stern. “Now wipe that stupid grin off your face…”
But although I couldn’t lie worth a spit, I knew the grin was my secret weapon. My Nan would always tell me to wipe it off my face, but deep down, I knew she adored it.
On this particular day, as I was thinking about leaving, she decided to tell me something that shook my world.
Folding her hands in her lap, she regarded me with sad eyes. “This is going to be my last year. I’m going to make Christmas, but after that, I think I’m done with this world,” she said, her gaze steady on mine. “I’ve seen everything I want to. I saw your cousin go to College, and I was lucky enough to see my great-granddaughter born. My hands shake so badly that I can barely knit now-a-days, and I’m tired.”
I sat there unable to speak, my mouth opening and closing like a guppy out of water. The ever-present air conditioner-Nan couldn’t breathe unless the air was just right-hummed in the background, adding a backdrop for my racing thoughts.
I wanted to tell her not to give up. Although she’d been lying in the same bed for the last seven years, I’d never seen her look so vulnerable.
Although sad, her eyes were determined. Her hands were clenching and unclenching on the coverlet, as if she were nervous and unsure of herself.
Then I realized she was worried about my reaction. Although she was talking about her own death, she was more worried about my feelings than she was hers.
I looked down at my hands, more to break eye contact than anything, and noticed they were wrapped so tightly around the chair arms they were turning white.
My mind raced, picking up and then discarding things to say. I relaxed my hands, and felt them tingle slightly as the blood returned.
Then, like a hammer to the forehead, another realization hit me; Nan wasn’t admitting defeat…she was saying goodbye, in her own way.
The same woman who lay here, day after day, knitting hats, mitts and scarves for needy children as a means to go on living, and who fought a war against death, more valiantly than the most courageous knight ever had, was saying goodbye to her grandson.
Tears pricked the corners of my eyes, and silently I got up and hugged her. It was the only thing I could do at the time.
I hugged her fiercely to my chest, careful not to hug too hard, not knowing if I’d be able to hug her again.
* * *
Just before Christmas, my Dad called me, and told me Nan was in the hospital, and wasn’t going to make it. She had been hooked up to life support systems, but the doctor said there was no chance of survival.
Without the machines, Nan had less than three hours to live.
“As per her wishes, I’ve ordered that she be taken off life support,” my Dad said, his voice cracking with doubt, and probably a little bit of guilt, with a boatload of sadness thrown in for good measure. “There’s no reason to come down to the hospital. She’ll probably be gone before you could get here. I’ll call you.”
When she’s gone, my mind added silently.
I could hear my Dad struggling with his grief, and knew it had cost him a great deal of pain to make this phone call.
I put the phone back on the receiver and waited.
The doctors unhooked the machines and watched as her blood pressure dropped steadily, and her vital signs faded.
I can picture my mom, surrounded by linoleum and the smell of antiseptic, holding my father as if she could shield him from the pain with her body.
But Nan had other plans. With death knocking on the door, and with no hope of recovery, she woke up. She didn’t just wake up, but sat bolt upright in the sad aluminum affair that was supposed to be her death bed, and said: “It’s not Christmas yet!”
Nan made it to Christmas, just like she’d promised me that sad autumn day. She not only made it to Christmas, but also almost made it to Christmas the following year.
Nan died October 15, 2000, at 4am.
I’ll always remember my Nan’s silent courage, and her funny, wisdom filled anecdotes. Her strength, intelligence, wisdom and spirit live on in my memory.
Sometimes, when a big decision of life altering proportions confronts me, I find myself wondering what my Nan would do.
In fact, sometimes I hear her voice in my head at such times, counseling me in soothing, conciliatory tones, as if she were still here with me, sitting in her bed, and listening to the small problems of my life.
In a way, I suppose she still is here with me. She lives on in my heart.
