The Best Of… I

Frank decided it was time. He didn’t really know what for, but it was time.

Now that he’d come to that conclusion, he needed to find something to apply his decision to. Trouble was, he really didn’t have anything to do it to.

But that was okay, he’d find something to do. Maybe.

* * * * *

Across town, in another world (not literally, but another world nonetheless), a rather subdued individual named Screech—well, not really named Screech, but named Niles but who’d decided that Screech was somehow preferable to Niles—was putting the finishing touches on a project he’d spent the last four weeks of his life on, neglecting nearly everything with the exception of his appetite, as his bulging midriff would attest, and his backups for his computer, attempting to insure that his labor would not be lost by some freak accident such as his computer deciding that it would be a lot more fun if it were to suddenly explode when the Enter key was pressed for the 14,893rd time that day or some dope tripping over his power cord and pulling it out, losing all his unsaved data, which, in all likelihood, would amount to slightly over four weeks of work, regardless of how much time was actually spent entering and processing the data.

Soon, however, Screech would soon learn the meaning of the words “put out” in a very meaningful way.

But not just yet.

* * * * *

Frank closed the door behind him. Apartment 3D. He traced the outline of the D, somehow expecting the letter to empower him with the knowledge of what he needed, or rather, wanted to do. It didn’t work. Frank sighed and turned to go down the stairs, deftly avoiding the skateboard left in the hallway by his neighbor’s son.

He began going down the stairs, soon becoming lost in his thoughts about his upcoming date with Veronica and how he really needed to buy orange juice, and not that lousy store brand, but the good, expensive stuff, like Minute Maid or Tropicana.

He reached the second floor and continued down the stairs, waving a quick hello at Mrs. Murphy, a widow who periodically invited him over for dinner claiming he reminded her of her dear Charles, “a wonderful man. Too bad he walked in front of that truck back in 1964.”

* * * * *

Screech rubbed his eyes briefly while waiting for the massive file to save. He yawned and looked at his calendar, leaning back in his chair and imagining that the picture was a window rather than an overused image on a cubicle wall.

He glanced over at the computer monitor, checking the status of his save. Satisfied it was coming along nicely, or as nicely as it going to get, he stood up to stretch.

* * * * *

Frank reached the first floor without much loss of breath. Glancing quickly in his mailbox to establish that it indeed was empty, he started out the door onto the street.

* * * * *

Screech decided it was time for him to go on a break. Weaving his way out of his crowded cubicle onto the crowded floor, he maneuvered himself in the general direction of the restrooms and drinking fountain.

Pausing for a moment to catch a quick drink, he entered the restroom, observing his figure disapprovingly in the mirror before proceeding to do his intended business. Completing his task he walked to the sink, washed his hands and dried them. Looking closely into the mirror he inspected his face and hair, straightening it conscientiously, then left.

He returned to the drinking fountain, this time drinking deeply, enjoying the sensation of cold liquid in his mouth. He stretched once more, wiped his mouth with his hand, and returned to his cubicle.

* * * * *

Frank walked for awhile, then entered Tony’s Café, a not-so-classy place with good food and clean tables. Motioning to Tony’s son, Jake—recently “paroled from high school,” as he put it—Frank asked for a glass of water.

Taking his napkin, Frank began to scribble random words, letting the previous one guide the next.

Jake arrived with the water.

Frank thanked him, and looked back to his napkin.

“Come now, Frank, what are you doing?” Jake questioned.

“I’m not sure. Why?” Frank looked up at Jake. “Sit down for a sec., if you can.”

“Of course. Why couldn’t I?” Jake pulled back the chair and sat down. “If you are thinking that Father might object, I’m reasonably convinced that he is pleased with my job performance to date and will allow me a small bit of latitude to associate with a dear friend to both of us.”

Frank glanced at Jake. “’Kay. If you say so.” He continued to scribble.

“You haven’t answered my question.”

“And that was?”

“What are you doing?”

Frank paused, wrote one more word, then looked back to Jake, suddenly alarmed.

* * * * *

Screech reached his cubicle and checked the progress of the save. It was completed. Screech stretched again, sighing loudly.

Stan, his next-cubicle neighbor, popped his head over the top of the cubicle wall. “Whatcha doin’?”

Screech looked up, smiling with satisfaction. “Just finished up the Gorman project. Four weeks, and it’s over. All done. Give it to the boss tomorrow.”

Stan nodded understandingly. “Yeah, know what you mean. Worked on a project for almost three days once. Sure felt good to get that over with.”

Screech grinned.

* * * * *

Frank quickly thanked Jake and stood up.

Noticing the alarmed look on his face, Jake asked “What ever is the matter, Frank?”

Frank only handed him the napkin and turned to leave.

“Are you sure?” Jake asked incredulously.

Frank nodded.

“Oh, my.”

“Tell me about it. Thank your dad for me.” Frank walked out the door rapidly, leaving Jake shaking his head slowly. Frank nearly collided with an older lady walking a rather large and unhappy looking Great Dane. Briefly apologizing, Frank continued towards his apartment, soon losing himself in the memories.

Opening the door to the apartment building hastily, Frank hurried up the steps to his apartment two at a time. Reaching the door, he unlocked it and stepped inside.

Now he knew what it was time for. And he wasn’t happy about it.

* * * * *

Screech began to straighten up his desk in preparation to leave. He shut down his computer, gathered his coat, and began walking briskly toward the elevator, reaching it just before the door closed. Opening the door, he nodded his thanks to the other three occupants of the elevator, and waited for the descent to the lobby.

Reaching the lobby with no further incident, he made his way outside, hailing a cab with one hand stretched upwards and whistling loudly. Seeing a cab about to pass, he rushed to the curb waving his hand in an effort to draw the driver’s attention. The driver, noticing his antics, pulled over and collected his passenger.

“Where to, pal?” the cabby asked.

“That parking garage over there,” Screech pointed.

“That it? How ‘bout I take you home.” Noting Screech’s shaking head, he shrugged. “You’re the boss.”

Pulling the cab over to the left side of the street, the driver glanced at his meter, noting sadly that the total wouldn’t be much over a dollar, meaning little or no tip. Making the turn and stopping just short of entering the garage, he stopped and looked back at Screech, who was already on his way out of the door.

“What do I owe you?” Screech asked into the open driver’s side window.

“Looks like about $1.13.”

Screech handed the driver a five, then turned to leave.

“What about your change?” the driver called after him. Screech merely waved. The cab driver shrugged and started to pull out of the garage entrance, only to have his way blocked by another car. Pounding his steering wheel in frustration, the cabby pulled into the parking garage and began to approach the exit, observing it would cost him $1.50 to get out of the garage. Paying the charge, he pulled out onto the street.

Screech began heading up the stairs to the third level, where he usually parked. He found there weren’t as many people willing to go up three flights of stairs to get their cars, so he was able to park in nearly the same place every day. Reaching the second level, he noted that he was quite out of breath—more so than usual.

He reached the top of the stairs, and headed towards his car. Reaching the driver’s side, he fumbled in his pocket for his keys, and then for the correct key for the door. Opening the door, he dropped heavily into the seat, throwing his coat onto the passenger’s seat. Closing the door, he started the engine and pulled out of the parking spot, heading down towards the exit.

* * * * *

Frank sat down at the computer, looking in disbelief at the napkin he held in his hand. Starting up his e-mail program, he entered his password and began to compose a new message. Completing it, he pressed the send button and got up to get a drink.