The Non-adventures of Agent Smith... and Other Tales
The digital electro-puke sound of Walter Mellen’s alarm clock went off at 8:30 AM as it did every Saturday morning. It was an annoying way to start the day but today was somehow different: Walter liked it. Still not entirely out of a pleasant but now-forgotten dream, he swiveled into his slippers. They felt nice; he liked them too.
As he shuffled into his kitchen, he looked around. He liked it. Yesterday’s dishes in the sink looked sort of nice… well, not exactly “nice” but he liked them, the way the small, balanced pile looked. He also like his linoleum floor, (in fact, he even discovered that he liked linoleum), and he liked the small dark spot in the corner where something indelible had spilled a long time ago.
He put some coffee on and slid two pieces of sliced bread into his toaster. He liked the smell of the coffee and the toasting bread. Already he had liked the sliced bread before even slipping it into his toaster. He liked his toaster. He liked his scant breakfast and his breakfast table. He liked going back into his bathroom, getting ready for a new day, taking his time, liking his slow Saturday routine. He liked the taste of his toothpaste, his mirror, the sink and the color of his shower curtain. He liked slowly getting dressed - the way his socks felt, his pants, his shoes and his shirt. Hung on a nail, was a baseball cap, with something clever written on it, that he had received as a gift and had rarely worn. But this morning, he decided to wear it - he liked it.
Walter’s phone rang. He liked the sound. It was a wrong number - someone wanting to speak to Margaret. “Nope, no Margaret here.” But he liked the name.
The list of everything that Walter liked is very long. Without fully realizing it, there wasn’t anything that Walter had NOT liked ever since he had awakened. A quick peek out of his window informed him that it was drizzling outside. Walter liked that and he was soon outside ambling down the sidewalk, in no particular direction, in the drizzle, looking into the different shop windows and liking everything about it.
Not far down the street he spotted Joe, busy behind his hotdog stand, hunched under his striped square umbrella, trying his best to stay out of the drizzle. Walter wasn’t 100% sure that Joe was his real name, but his umbrella proudly advertised, over a bright red hot dog, “Joe’s Hot Dogs - the best in town”. The vendor’s real name was Adolphe, but he didn’t mind being called Joe - it was better for business.
Walter joined the other two customers patiently huddled while Joe scooped a heap of his special bright green relish onto his nearly-completed hot dogs. The first man was a young, promising nuclear scientist. The other man was a retired history teacher. Joe looked up with a damp business-like smile: “Hey, Walt. How’s it goin’ in this miserable drizzle?”
“Hi, Joe. Well, I like it.”
“What? C’mon. Who likes drizzle?! It’s cold, it’s damp and it’s bad for business.”
“No, Joe. I like it - really.”
The young nuclear scientist hardly reacted - he had seen many other strange things in his lab. But the retired history teacher’s head jerked up in disbelief. There were only a few things that nobody liked, one of which was drizzle. His long professional experience teaching at Bergen Tech had made him wary. He decided to try a trick question. “What about history? Do you like history?” It was a sure way of testing someone’s sanity. A hard, frustrating life of trying to teach dumb, undisciplined teen-agers about the Monroe Treaty or the Battle of Hastings had established one thing: NOBODY like history!
“Oh yes, I like history,” answered Walter.
The reply got a silent, raised eyebrow from the nuclear scientist and an emphatic negative head-shake from the retired history teacher whose trick question had failed for the first time in his life. Jaw slightly dropped, Joe handed a relished dog to the nuclear scientist. He was handing back the man’s change when the retired history teacher, just to be sure he wasn’t losing his mind, asked him: “What about you, Joe? Do you like history? I mean when you were in school - did you like it?”
“What’re you crazy? I hated it! Couldn’t wait ‘til the bell rang. Sure, we had some fun driving the teacher nuts but…”
Joe’s reassuring views on history were interrupted by an ear-splitting noise coming from across the street. A city employee had been summoned to do some emergency work on a dangerously broken up part of the sidewalk and he was giving his jackhammer a short warm-up run before tackling the job. It could have waited until Monday, especially in this drizzle, but the menacing crevasse was situated right in front of a councilman’s niece’s apartment, which classified the job as mildly urgent and worthy of overtime Saturday rates. The jackhammer stopped; the workman was now chalking a 3 by 1 foot rectangle before having a quick cigarette.
“Oh great! Just what I needed - some jerk making a racket. It’s bad for business. At least we can agree on that?” he tried, shooting a quick glance at the retired history teacher.
Walter shrugged his shoulders.
“C’mon, Walt. Don’t tell me you like all this noise too?”
“I don’t mind,” answered Walter. “I kinda like it”
This was becoming a bit too much for the retired history teacher’s worn-out nerves. He hastily grabbed his relished hot dog, paid up and sped off. Joe was also becoming nervous. This had to be cleared up once and for all. He knew that Walter never took relish; knowing your customers was part of the job. He forked a steaming dog into a roll and asked: “Relish?”
“Yeah, fine, Joe.”
Joe furiously heaped on a triple dose of relish. It was more than a standard hot dog could handle and some of it was overflowing onto the sidewalk but he didn’t care. “There ya go, Walt. One dog. With extra relish.” Grabbing Walter’s bill he stood poised, waiting for the reaction.
Walter took a bite. “Hmm. Tastes great, Joe. Very nice.”
Joe felt like shouting something but he was lost for words. Fortunately, or not, the jackhammer started up again, making any eventual comment inaudible. Joe just forced a half-smile and slowly nodded his head. It was one of those head-nods heavily laden with condescending sarcasm and Walter was a good half block away before it stopped. It was time to cross the street and tell that noisy jackhammer guy to stop his racket - or else.
Walter soon arrived at the local pet shop where, despite the drizzle, a small crowd had gathered around a half-dozen protesters carrying cardboard signs and chanting…chants. Not being musicians, their coordination was a bit sloppy so it was hard to get the exact meaning of the chants. But their attention seemed to be focused on the shop’s main window where a medium sized brown turtle with slightly browner stripes was munching a piece of lettuce amongst the various rocks, sticks and plastic decorum of a large aquarium.
Walter moved in for a closer look at the turtle before hearing a voice behind him. “So, what do you think of THIS? A Nicaraguan Brown-Striper!”
“Oh, yes. It’s very nice; I like it.”
“What?! How can you stand such a sad sight? The Nicaraguan Brown-Striper is practically extinct and this unscrupulous merchant is selling off what could be one of the last ones - for a few hundred dollars!” The man was obviously an expert on the subject. After all, he was wearing a T-shirt bearing a hand-drawn turtle that looked pretty much like the one in the shop’s window. Of course, there was also a slogan on the T-shirt: ‘Save the Brown-Stripers’.
Another protester stepped in. He had taken the precaution of covering his sign with a transparent plastic bag to protect it from the rain. The sign said: ‘Save the Nicaraguan Brown-Stripers’. Walter looked like a reasonable man, albeit ill-informed despite the signs and chants.
“Tell me, sir, aren’t you appalled at the sight of this? Just look at the expression on that poor Brown-Striper’s face.”
Walter took a closer look in the shop’s window before answering. “I like it.” Someone in the crowd snickered, which only made things worse.
Two more protesters stopped chanting and started approaching but the shopkeeper boldly stepped out into the drizzle and poked a stiff index finger into the T-s
hirt, right above the Nicaraguan Brown Striper’s left eye. “Listen, you guys; you’re bothering my customers and I just called the cops. So you better get outta here quick before they arrive.”
A nearby police car soon pulled up with flashing lights but without the siren. The rookie driver’s senior partner, Sgt. O’Oley, didn’t like the siren. So close to retirement, his nerves were pretty worn out and he felt he was entitled to as much silence as possible. He didn’t like noise. “Oh, great! Protesters,” he muttered, scowling through the drizzle. The small crowd parted as the two men in blue stepped up to the shopkeeper who was now nose to nose with the T-shirt man. Hand on club, Sgt. O’Oley gave the standard summation: “Alright, break it up… And you guys stop that chanting - it sounds like shit. What’s goin’ on here?”
The shopkeeper spoke up: “These here… people are bothering my customers, officer. I’m an honest, hard-working...”
“He poked me, officer!” interrupted the T-shirt man. “I’m filing charges for… for poking!” The rookie had already started taking notes while his senior partner’s professional eye quickly swept the entourage, mentally sorting the crowd into by-standers, protesters and customers. No cameras; that was good. Walter was placed in the customer category and seemed like the best way to verify the shopkeeper’s complaint.
“Are you a customer?” he asked Walter.
“Hmmm, I don’t know. I was just looking at this turtle. So I don’t know if…”
“You see, officer? He’s looking. That counts as a customer, don’t it?” interrupted the shopkeeper.
“That’s a Nicaraguan Brown Striper!” shouted the protester with the plastic-covered sign. “They’re on the list of endangered species. And, no; looking doesn’t count as a customer… does it?”
Sgt. O’Oley let out a brief sigh of annoyance. He would much rather have preferred riding around inside his patrol car, eating donuts and planning his retirement than having to deal with these idiots. He wasn’t very sure whether interested lookers could be considered customers or not; and he didn’t really care. He turned to his colleague: “OK, you get this guy’s story and check out his list and everything.”
He turned back to Walter. “So you say you were looking at this here turtle in the window… Then what happened? Did any of these protesters bother you? What about that chanting racket? Doesn’t that bother you? How do you feel about this?”
“No. No bother, sir… In fact, I like it.”
Sgt. O’Oley usually appreciated things being simple. But this simple answer was not a standard answer. In fact, the situation was becoming increasingly annoying. “Whaddya mean, you like it?” he growled.
“Yeah, whaddya mean, you like it?” echoed the shopkeeper.
“Yeah, whaddya mean?” paraphrased the T-shirt man, beginning to suspect that someone had sent Walter in to infiltrate the protest and stir up trouble.
The news quickly spread to the back ranks of the by-standers: the customer liked it! A growing hubbub set in and the general tension moved up a notch. The rookie was already trying to calm everybody down and considering calling in some back-up on this one. But he was only a rookie, so he figured he’d better wait for Sgt. O’Oley’s opinion before making the decision.
“I’m askin’ the questions here,” shouted Sgt. O’Oley to no one in particular. “So whaddya mean, you like it? What’s there to like about this?”
Walter went over the long list of things that he liked before answering. “Well, I like the turtle; it’s sort of peaceful. And I like the shopkeeper… and the protesters and the chants too. And I like the sound of jackhammers… and relish… and... ”
“What???” Sgt. O’Oley’s eyes narrowed. Walter’s status immediately changed from ‘customer’ to ‘wise guy’ - a trouble maker. Yep, he was the head of the group, the instigator, the brains behind this outfit. “And how would you like to take a trip down to the station; how does that sound?”
“I don’t know, sir. I’ve never been taken to a police station,” replied Walter in all sincerity. “… but I like the idea.” Before he could continue his list of what he liked, he found himself forcibly handcuffed and sitting in the back of the patrol car. Four of the protesters had already melted into the crowd, not particularly wanting to join him, and the Nicaraguan Brown Striper was soon left to fend for himself.
Two hours later, Walter was still handcuffed to a bench in the police station while a handful of variously attired policemen were discussing his case. They were still undecided as to what to do with him. And while there was nothing intrinsically wrong with liking things - at least nothing in the books he could be charged with - they all agreed that Walter was getting on their nerves.
Just then Dr. Gardocki, the visiting psychiatrist, came walking down the hall, on her way to getting some fresh pens. The men all gave each other a silent nod.
Detective Ramos spoke up for the group: “Hey, Dock, we got someone here for you - right up your alley.”
“I’m sort of busy right now,” she replied evasively.
Lt. Beems leaned over his desk toward her. He had known Dr. Gardocki for quite some time now and was aware of her peculiar fixation with pens. He was nonchalantly toying with a small fistful of brand new Bics. The psychiatrist’s eyes immediately riveted onto the bright yellow cylinders. “I hope you weren’t going for pens, Dock. I just got the last ones this morning. Yeah, anyway, we don’t know what to do with that guy over there on the bench. He seems to like everything; it’s really annoying. We could sure use your professional opinion if you have a minute. How about it?”
“Hmmm, the last ones, you say?”
“Yeah, the last ones,” smiled Lt. Beems. “But I’ll gladly let you have a few … in case you needed to take notes about this guy. His name’s Walter Mellen.”
Dr. Gardocki fought her fixation as best she could but she finally gave in. “All right, then,” she mumbled, slowly reaching for the pens. “I think I can spare a few minutes.”
Walter was led to Dock’s small office and handcuffed to a Naugahyde chair facing a large, neat desk. He waited patiently while Dr. Gardocki carefully examined each of her new pens before placing them in a large cylindrical can that already contained hundreds of similar pens. While he was waiting, he gazed around at the walls entirely covered with very strange paintings and drawings done by many of Dock’s previous patients.
With a hint of pleasure, Dock discretely noted Walter’s interest in her prized collection of works. A few had even been selected to show in Psychiatrists’ Weekly as prime examples of HDA: heavily disturbed art. There was also a small print of a Kincaid winter scene that served as a reference model of sanity. She took out a notepad and, after much thought, selected a pen.
“So, Walter, you like everything… is that right?”
“I don’t know,” answered Walter truthfully.
“Hmmm,” thought Dock, “this is off to a bad start.” She jotted down a few notes and continued: “Well, for example, how do you like being handcuffed in my office?”
“Yes, I like it.”
The man was certainly odd but Dr. Gardocki was used to odd people. And Walter was not the first case that enjoyed being handcuffed in a psychiatrist’s office, or elsewhere. She tried a few other questions that got nowhere: Walter seemed to like everything. It was time to delve a bit deeper into his psyche and her collection of disturbed art had always been a foolproof test.
She decided to start out with the Kincaid. Getting up from her chair, she pointed to the winter scene. “How do you like this painting, Walter?… Well, it’s not really a painting; it’s a print… from a box of chocolates… The original was too expensive, she added.
Walter studied the painting, the blue footprints in the snow, the soft yellow light coming from inside a snow-covered log cabin, the gentle curl of smoke coming out of the chimney. “I like it. I like prints”
She jotted down Walter’s reaction as “normal” and then indicated a dense, circular black scribble. “And
this one?”
“Yes, I like it.”
“Does it convey anything to you - any particular feeling?”
“Mmmm, no. I just like it.”
It was time to move on to some more difficult stuff. “How about this one, Walter?” She was pointing to a black crayoned stick figure in which a large red knife was planted, dripping bright red drops of blood. It was a classic.
Walter obliged with a closer look before answering. “I like it.”
Dock was beginning to feel a hint of annoyance and jotted down a few nervous notes before continuing. There were still quite a few offsetting works that never failed to provoke uneasiness. But after an aggravating hour, it appeared that Walter’s reactions were always the same, regardless of whatever pathos-laden scribbles, blotches, crumples, rips, slashes, etc. she showed him. The man was really starting to get on her nerves: no one, disturbed or not, could possibly like more than three or four of these prized horrors. It was… frustrating… insulting. She was angrily scribbling down some key words when it happened. Her pen skipped. A desperate, circular, fruitless attempt to get it going again only tore through the paper, resulting in something that looked like it could have been pinned on her wall.
She slapped the notepad down on her desk, threw the disobedient, ungrateful pen across the room and screamed: “Get out of here, you idiot!”
Sgt. Ramos who had been stationed outside the door - just in case - rushed in, ready to grab Walter. But Walter was calmly sitting, still handcuffed to the Naugahyde chair.
“Umm, are you alright, Dock?”
“Of course I’m alright; I’m a psychiatrist,” she shouted, tears in her eyes.
“Well… should we lock ‘em up? Or what? Can we hold him for anything?”
“Uhhh... No, you can’t. Nothing! Just get this man out of my sight - right now! ”
Ramos shrugged and quickly escorted Walter out of the office and past the group of men who were hanging around, waiting for Dock’s opinion. A mumbled consensus was rapidly reached: the man had taken up enough of their time and extra paperwork was out of the question. Good riddance!
Outside, the drizzle had stopped. It was now pouring rain. Judging from the sour expressions on the by-passer’s faces, Walter was the only one who seemed to like it until he came to a man standing on the corner, forcing a smile from under a small plastic umbrella. The man was selling umbrellas. He had a keen sense of business and immediately spotted a potential customer.
“Some downpour, eh? And it looks like it’s not about to stop.”
“I like it,” replied Walter.
The salesman was not easily put off. “Wouldn’t you feel dryer, cozier under one of these? They’re very cheap, they come in five different colors and you can fold them up easily.” He gave a quick demonstration that went along with the pitch.
“I suppose I would. Yes, I like them.”
“They’re only ten dollars - three for twenty-five. Would you like one?”
“Yes, I think I’d like that.”
“What color, sir? We have, red, orange, brown, blue or green.” The man noticed a hint of happy hesitation that might not last long. “How about brown? They go with everything - never out of style.” He was already opening and closing one of his slow sellers. “Works perfectly. A very popular model - I only have a few left,” he lied.
“I like it. Yes, I’ll have one,” answered Walter, handing the man a ten.
The deal was done and the salesman seemed quite happy about finally unloading one of his brown models. He did, however, feel mildly perplexed seeing Walter walk off with the umbrella under his arm. “Aren’t you going to open it?” he yelled.
“I don’t know… Yes, I suppose I will, sooner or later.”
The man had been selling umbrellas on the street for nearly four years now, ever since he had lost his job making spare keys. This was the first time that he had seen someone walk off in a downpour with one his umbrellas unopened. This was more than suspicious, especially for someone without a permit for selling umbrellas on the street. The rain had become drizzle again and it was time to move to new corner. Joes’ hot dog wagon seemed like a good spot: not too far away and he was feeling hungry.
The pet shop crowd, disappointed by the lack of action, had relocated there also. The T-shirt man, now hunched under an imitation Greenpeace parka, had tagged along too; he had done his best but the rain had gotten the best of his team. When the umbrella salesman arrived, the crowd had rathered around Joe and the jackhammer man who were fighting, rolling on the ground, and trying their best to throw in a punch.
So, fight or no fight, it looked like a good spot for business. He figured it was good for at least three, maybe four, umbrellas. In fact, he had only set up five minutes and had already sold six! Things were looking good - until a police car screeched in and Sgt. O’Oley jumped out, shouting: “Alright, break it up.”
Joe and the jackhammer man were pretty puffed out and easily separated, finally happy to find an excuse to stop rolling around on the wet pavement without losing face. A lot of the crowd were feeling a little better, no longer under a downpour but nice and cozy under their new umbrellas (no brown ones). Sgt. O’Oley was also feeling pretty proud of how he had broken up the fight; his rookie partner was impressed. The umbrella salesman had discretely packed up his stuff - not a bad day for business, all in all. And a long string of customers were now lined up waiting for a much-needed hot dog.
Exercising his prerogative, Sgt. O’Oley cut to the front of the line for further questioning. “I’ll have two dogs with extra relish, Joe.” he began. “But first, what’s going on here? What was this all about? ”
“I dunno, Sarge. Nerves, I guess. It’s been a pretty weird day.”
“Yeah, you can say that again.” Mumbles and silent nods from the crowd bore out his statement. “So I guess you two guys are calmed down now?”
Joe and the jackhammer man eyed each other up, exchanged a short manly nod and reluctantly shook hands. The jackhammer man decided to pack it in for a day and Joe was soon busily at it, forking out steaming hot dogs left and right.
Sgt. O’Oley had just stepped into his patrol car with his relished dogs when the crowd suddenly started grumbling. Something was up. “Oh, great!” he muttered. “Now what!?” He quickly handed the rookie a hot dog and took a quick, large bite of his, spilling a bright green wad of Joe’s special relish on the seat before getting out again. Nope, there was no fight; what the hell could… Oh, no; not him again! There he was, right across the street, standing under a brown plastic umbrella: the man who liked everything! He turned to the rookie. “Better call in for some back up.”
Walter had finally decided to try out his new purchase and was quite pleased with it. Waiting his turn for another hot dog - with relish - he was gradually absorbed into a growing group of people that seemed increasingly hostile although none of them could say why. It was simply contagious. The fight had been broken up, but the T-shirt man had come up with something new to do now that the turtle demonstration was over.
Sgt. O’Oley marched back across the street, stopping traffic and losing relish all the way. Before he could reach the curb, he was met with a familiar and pretty worked-up citizen: the T-shirt man. He was pointing to Joe, hard at work underneath his red awning. “Officer! That man shouldn’t be selling this poison. Do you know the real ingredients that go into those hot dogs? Forty seven - forty seven! different ingredients!”
Sgt. O’Oley took advantage of this interesting information by taking another generous bite before responding. Thoughtful chewing, and a growing dislike for this man, gave him the time to think about it. “So what?” he barked.
“Three of those ingredients are on a comprehensive list of toxic substances, published by the…”
“Are you saying that Joe here makes his hot dogs out of turtles?” This got a good laugh from the crowd and the rookie jotted it down for the guys at the station.
The T-shirt man, wou
nd up like a spring in April, and fearing embarrassment, boldly justified himself and shouted: “No, I’m not saying that…”
“OK, then take that up with my partner over there. He’ll file it along with your charges for… poking.” He called to his partner: “The charge was ‘poking’ wasn’t it?” The rookie checked his notes before nodding: affirmative. Some of the crowd were laughing now and making snide remarks. It was all too much, too insulting, for the T-shirt man who huffed off, looking on his way for any good cardboard he could eventually use for a new sign.
Sgt. O’Oley stepped into the small group in Walter’s vicinity. “So what’s the problem here?” he bellowed. This was more than enough to get the group shuffling away in different directions, especially since no one could answer that question. Some tried to renegotiate their former places in the line, without much success.
Sgt. O’Oley eyed up Walter, happily standing in line. “And I s’pose that you like this?” He immediately brandished the stiff index finger of authority and ordered: “Don’t answer that! Not a word! Just get your hot dog - with relish - and get out of here. You’re just too annoying!”
A back up patrol car pulled up but Sgt. O’Oley told them that, finally, he had managed to handle the situation and now that everything was calmed down, he too would be cruising around for more insanity to deal with - at least for another few more months. Then, after that, he would be on his small fishing boat on the lake with a cold six-pack of… This was enough to get the extra patrol car back in motion: they had just finished eating and had already heard Sgt. O’Oley’s retirement plans hundreds of times.
Sgt. O’Oley walked back to Joe, sort of explaining that, with all this commotion, he had spilled a lot of Joe’s delicious relish and could he… Before he could finish, Joe had obligingly spooned a bright green mountain of his specialty onto the half-eaten hot dog. It was good business.
“Excuse me, officer; can I ask you something?”
Sgt. O’Oley sighed heavily and turned around. “Depends. What now?”
“When you were in school, did you like history?” The retired history teacher had just returned from his analyst, still seriously perturbed and needing reassurance. He had been asking a lot of people this question all afternoon and mentally keeping score. So far, he had 874 no’s, including his analyst, and 6 disturbing yeses. Unbeknown to him, three of the yeses were history teachers. A man of authority’s opinion seemed of great importance right now. It could be a determining factor in his outlook on life, his firm convictions. He felt like Napoleon at the foot of Mount St. Jean on June 18, 1815. Could he have been wrong all this time? He waited nervously, fingers crossed.
“No. Of course not,” growled Sgt. O’Oley. “I hated it!” He pointed to Walter and added:”Why don’t you ask him?” before speeding off to the shelter of his patrol car with the firm intention of calling in sick for the rest of the day.
The retired history teacher sighed with relief. It was like being a British foot soldier on September 19, 1854, the day before the Battle of Alma. There was still hope for humanity. He carefully avoided Walter and decided to ask just two more people: If he got two more no’s, that would make an even 877 as in 877, first sighting of Greenland by the Viking Gunnbjorn. He decided to play it safe and, despite his natural aversion, went over to a couple of teen-agers who were busy thumbing their phones while waiting their turn in line.
“Excuse me; do you like history?”
They looked up briefly with an annoyed, mild look of disbelief and went back to their occupations with silent but resounding headshakes - definite no’s. That was that! The retired history teacher thanked them wholeheartedly and happily whisked off down the street whistling an old sailors’ tune much in vogue among the Portuguese naval forces in the early 1700’s.
Standing in the line, behind Walter, was a junior newspaper reporter, eyes and ears wide open. He had heard from various people (he called them sources), including from his uncle at the police station, about this man who liked everything. He figured it would make a good story, especially since, as a college sophomore, he had learned that days of drizzle were usually slow news days. It was time to check his info.
“Some drizzle, eh?” he began, his small Dictaphone discretely turned on.
“Yes, ever since this morning, except for that downpour,” replied Walter.
“How do you feel about?”
“I like it.”
That checked. So far, so good. “Hey, what about that nut - that guy asking everyone if they liked history?”
“I liked him. I like history.”
Yep; no doubt about it. But just in case, the junior newspaper reporter tried a short list of other things that people generally disliked. But he didn’t get the type of answers he was expecting. Walter seemed to like only things related to his direct experience, like alarm clocks, drizzle, turtles on the brink of extinction, getting dragged into a police station, etc. And couldn’t really say whether he liked war, cancer, or things like that. He had no particular views on controversial subjects that could have an impact, a shock factor, for potential readers. Finally, maybe this interview was not such a hot idea and this guy was not that interesting after all - just an annoying waste of time. Somewhere between disappointment and frustration, the junior newspaper reporter turned off his Dictaphone.
“Hey, Walt. Another dog… with relish?” Business had picked up for Joe. “I see you got a new umbrella. And brown; great color!”
“Yes, Joe. It certainly is.”
There was no need for Joe to delve any further into what Walter might dislike, even if short, casual conversation was part of good business. A few quick gestures born from seventeen years of whisking out hot dogs and Walter was on his way home with extra relish.
He went up his front steps and closed his umbrella… no, it seemed to be stuck in the open position. He forced it a little and only managed to break some small plastic mechanism. Now it could close, or open, but it refused to remain either opened or closed. He had hardly opened his door before noticing a strange scent coming from the kitchen. It smelled like something was burning. Something was. The source was soon located: it was coming from his toaster. It was slightly glowing with heat, some of the plastic parts had started to melt and the bread crumbs in the little crumb tray had reached incandescence, giving off bread smoke. It was probably a faulty thermo-switch but there were no qualified toaster repairmen around to verify this. Toaster repairmen were becoming increasingly scarce.
Walter rushed over, unplugged the toaster and grabbed it. Ouch! That thing was hot! He dropped the toaster onto the floor and headed directly to the sink, bumping his thigh into the corner of his kitchen table. Knocking over his pile of dishes, he turned on the faucet all the way. A heavy stream of cold water hit a plate and sprayed across the room drenching Walter and the linoleum. Fortunately, this cooled down the toaster and the linoleum that had started getting weirdly lumpy, but Walter didn’t notice this: he was too busy trying to cool his burnt hand off.
The phone rang, then it beckoned and finally commanded response/action as phones so easily do. Hand still wet, Walter darted off to answer. “Hello?”
“Hello. Is Margaret there? Is that you, Jim?”
“Sorry, there’s no Margaret here. And no Jim either. My name’s Walter. Didn’t you call…”
“Oh, c’mon, Jim,” interrupted the voice, “I’d recognize your voice anywhere. Quit joking around with your phony imitations. Is Margaret there?”
Walter’s hand was still painful, as was his thigh; his toaster was shot; the linoleum had gone scorched and lumpy; his drizzle and rain-soaked jacket was now generously watering his rug while some woman on the phone was refusing to believe that there was no Margaret there… and - Good Grief! - the wide-open faucet was still tenaciously spraying his kitchen floor.
Walter’s simple, basic philosophy and usually uneventful life were not accustomed to dealing with event overloads.
All of a sudden, there were si
mply too many things for Walter to like at once. In fact, there was something definitely unpleasant about it. Dr. Gardocki might have concluded that Walter was re-becoming “sane”.
Walter raised his voice a notch: “There’s no Margaret here!” He hung up and dashed for the faucet. Faucet off - good. That’s was two things off the list: in fact, two things that he did not and had not liked. At all. There were still quite a few immediate and unpleasant chores that Walter could have done without; like mopping up his linoleum, seeing if anything could be done to improve the melted spot, bandaging up his hand, trying to dry out his rug, getting a new toaster… and many more.
So that’s what he did the rest of the week-end. Some things he liked, some less. Some not at all. He even had a hot dog on Sunday at Joe’s. Without relish.