Wake Up Walter Mitty

Chapter 7

It was only 8:30 when I glanced at the clock on the VCR. Sheryl wouldn’t wake up for another several hours, so I grabbed the remote and began surfing my way towards Sportscenter. After my evening, a good helping of baseball scores, hockey trades, and labor disputes would surely calm my frazzled nerves. Not being on to simply punch in the 1 and then the 6, I poked individually through the various other channels, hesitating briefly on each one to determine the quality of programming at that hour. As I clicked through, I stopped long enough to see that the local news was just beginning.

The usually perky anchorwoman opened the broadcast with a grim expression. “In our Top Story this morning,” she began, “local artist, John Brenly was found dead earlier this morning outside his apartment. Police officers found the young artist shot to death at approximately 2:00 A.M. Officers at the scene suspect that the shooting may have been gang-related, but have refused to speculate on the exact motive. So far there are no suspects.”

I sat in stunned silence as the anchorwoman continued. “In other news, the police are still looking for the men suspected of firing several bullets last night behind ‘The Boombox Club’ near the intersection of 15th and Simon. Witnesses described the men as having dark, tanned complexions and being ‘tidy and clean cut’. The police also reportedly questioned a man who believed that someone resembling the President of the United States may have been involved. Nobody was injured.”

I couldn’t move. I hardly even breathed. I wanted to cry but I didn’t have the energy. I knew that the John from the TV was the same John from my list. I reached over and crossed out the “Find John”. Obviously John had been found. I clicked off the TV. Sportscenter would have to wait for another day. I again consulted my list. I couldn’t bring myself to even think about John and what it would mean to Sheryl. She would be devastated.

At that particular moment I came to realize the danger I found myself in. Someone was killed. Someone very close to the woman in my bed. How could I tell her? Why did they kill him? Again the questions filled my head, but not a single answer accompanied them.

I piddled around lifelessly for another hour occasionally looking the list over for inspiration. Eventually, my impatience got the best of me and I nearly rushed in to wake Sheryl and tell her everything. To keep myself occupied, I prepared a dynamic breakfast of who-knows-how-old granola and powdered milk. I also tried to pretend I had some semblance of a life before last night. To convince myself of that fact, I called my house to check my voice messages. Perhaps, I thought, someone would leave a message that would divert my attention if only for a few minutes.

The first message blandly informed me that MCI wished to speak to me concerning my service. The second message was my Mom calling to ask me if she could borrow my windbreaker. Go figure. The third message was from Jeremy. He spoke so fast I could hardly understand his words.

“Carl, dude, that was crazy. I hope you’re all right. Hey, bud, not to get in your business or nothing, but the cops or the Feds or somebody is after you. They think you kidnapped that girl or something. They threatened to throw us in jail if we didn’t tell them stuff. Don’t worry, we didn’t tell ‘em nothing about Vietnam. Oh, yeah, Linda told ‘em your name, but they didn’t seem to believe her. Anyway, dude, take it easy. Good luck.”

As I listened I reached across and picked up the list and reluctantly crossed out the “Go to the Police” idea. That left only two. The “Find Claude” idea could wait. I decided the “Prayer” idea was the way to go and I could begin that immediately.

Sheryl woke up at about 11:30 and groggily entered the kitchen in what appeared to be one of my father’s flannel hunting shirts. She smiled in my general direction and opened the refrigerator to scavenge something to drink. My parents came to the cabin frequently, so supplies were plentiful, and orange juice proved to be the liquid of choice for my aspiring female gunsmith. She gracefully lifted the glass to her lips and winked. I dreaded the inevitable time that I would tell her about John. I grabbed the list and wadded it up before she came and sat next to me. My prayer experience had been relatively successful. I felt like a plan would soon develop that might eventually resolve the harrowing dilemma we faced.

Sheryl and I spent several minutes talking about the weather and how the night went. We both tried to avoid talking about the shooting, but, before long, a look of pained expectation came to Sheryl’s face. I would have to talk about it. I took a deep breath and began.

“I’ve been thinking all morning and I’ve got a few ideas. First of all, what do I do, you know, as a job?”

Again Sheryl’s eyes narrowed suspiciously and she replied. “You’re a painter, I believe.”

I knew it. I had held on to a slim hope that the John of this morning wasn’t me, but I was. Before Sheryl got any more suspicious, I continued. “Exactly. I paint. I’m an artist and I have a great creative mind. With that in mind, I’ve come up with a plan that’s going to help us figure out what’s going on, and most importantly help us find out who wants to kill you.”

I stopped and nervously tapped my knee. I had no idea what to do. Sheryl leaned closer, anxiously expecting my glorious plan. I didn’t have one yet, so I just improvised.

“The key to the plan, however, is its secrecy. I can’t even tell you what it is. The plan’s success depends solely on the fact that it’s so secret. Don’t ask me to tell you, it will only complicate matters.”

Okay, so my improvisation was lame. Sheryl’s expression confirmed that fact, but she didn’t press me on the matter. Instead, she just sighed and questioned my politely. “John,” she said, “while you are so secretly executing your plan, what would you like me to do?”

“I need you to find out, using your best sources, where Claude is right now. I want you to call around to all his good friends or to his business partners, anyone you might know and find out any information you can. I know you don’t think Claude is involved, but maybe he can help us. Can you do that?”

Sheryl nodded and jumped up from the couch and began cleaning my breakfast dishes. I thought that, all things considered, things were going along smoothly. I decided to press my luck.

“Sheryl, I also think that we may not be in the safest situation. I think we need to get out of here and we definitely need to get rid of that car we stole, um, borrowed.”

She again nodded, and it was the nod of final submission. Basically, she was frightened and didn’t want to talk anymore. The rest of the morning and into the early afternoon was spent cleaning the cabin and preparing to leave. Sheryl spoke rarely, opting to keep her feelings and comments to herself, but one comment stuck out like a sore thumb. As I leafed through the Yellow Pages searching for a cheap hotel, I overheard her mumbling something under her breath.

“I don’t know what’s going on. He hates granola.”

I knew that the Plague still played a huge part in our brief relationship, but her innocent observation gave me hope that perhaps the bonds of stupor and idiocy could ultimately be broken. With that hope, I smiled from ear to ear and buried my head once again in the phone book.

posted by Cool Dad @ 12:22 PM