Fiction: The Essentials

When the bad weather rolled into the town, Clark was on his way out. The clouds didn't look quite as ominous as he would have hoped (more of a light grey reminder of the morning's forecast than a darkened force of destruction), but he would make do. Storms came through the state pretty frequently in the spring months, but he wasn't about to wait for appropriately dramatic weather to take his leave. The notorious Chicago wind stripped budding leaves from trees and made the rain sting any exposed skin. The glass facades of the buildings downtown shuddered with the stronger gusts, and Clark, leaving work early on a Friday afternoon for only the second time in his life, briefly hoped this storm would be the one to overcome their reflective surfaces.

Clark was the kind of guy who wore a leather jacket and looked good in it, but then ruined any vibe he might have going by forgetting to take off his narrow-framed reading glasses. He was also the kind of guy who bought a fast motorcycle well before his midlife crisis and then, out of consideration for his neighbors, put a better muffler on it so as to not wake them up on the off chance he came home late. When his midlife crisis finally did hit, Clark was the kind of guy who bought a Prius.

But perhaps most importantly, Clark was the kind of guy who took people at their word. He had taken his fiance at her word when she accepted his ring (and again when she said “I do”). He had taken his boss at his word when he said that hard work would be rewarded. He had even taken his friend seriously when he said investing money in the stock market was a good idea. So a few years later, Clark was the kind of guy who was broke, divorced, and stuck in a dead-end job selling insurance.

Priuses, it turned out, were not comfortable cars in which to spend any significant amount of time. The seats seemed perpetually locked in a stiffened upright orientation, as though Toyota couldn't bear having their flagship of environmental awareness seen being driven with bad posture. Clark normally didn't mind. He had purchased the car for his twenty-minute commute, and twenty minutes of good posture never hurt anyone. But as he passed the sign for the city limits, the wind threatening to drive small drops of rain through his windshield, the idea of sitting lodged in this respectable position for hours at a time became a bit daunting.

The important thing was that he was on his way. He had packed what he thought of as the essentials into the cramped trunk that morning before work. Which meant that in the morning's stop and go traffic he had a heavy metal flashlight thumping back and forth, an irritating reassurance that today would be different. The flashlight was accompanied by a suit encased in clear plastic, a pair of black wingtips, a duffel bag with five sets of street clothes, and a separate bag of bathroom supplies (including his preferred brand of toilet paper, because even when roughing it, some comforts weren't worth giving up).

He anticipated his motivation for leaving town would spike around 3:00, and sure enough, at 2:30 his sales group held a meeting to come up with a new mareketing strategy. After listening to some inane ideas, Clark, in what might be viewed as the most reckless move in his life to date, stood up (knocking over his chair in the process) and strode across the drab conference room to the door. After only the slightest hesitation, he turned the knob, wrenched the door open, and, pace quickening with each step, made directly for the exit. He had planned this part out last night. He couldn't risk the elevator taking too long to get to the 11^th floor and stranding him there in plain sight of any potential questioners. So he took the stairs (two at a time, sometimes even jumping down the last three).

He drove at a measured pace out of the parking ramp, but so as to stay in keeping with his new-found rebellious side, he did turn the music up quite a lot. He was even sure the people outside his car could hear it. Realizing this, he switched the station from country to one of the ones playing popular music. And when a rap song came on next, he abruptly turned it off, glancing around to make sure he hadn't attracted any undue attention. Rather than dwell too much on his sudden self-consciousness, Clark thought about what his colleagues must be going through. Would they be conflicted over his insubordination? The turmoil left in his wake would no doubt be tremendous. His associates would be lost without his input on the upcoming project, and he regularly outsold all but a few of the people in his branch of the company. He briefly wondered whether his display of storming out had triggered any others to express their displeasure in a similar manner. He might have even started a company-wide revolution. Once the news spread, the entire insurance industry could be in jeopardy.

Clark was especially proud of the way he hadn't even bothered to pick up his papers from the conference room table. The charts and spreadsheets of market analysis had been left behind, symbolic of the shackles he had cast off in one decisive moment. He had also completely bypassed his desk on the way out. He was sure someone had noticed this. His disdain for the company was so great that he couldn't even be bothered to take his things from his cubicle on the way out. (Of course, all the important stuff had been taken home either yesterday or the day before in preparation for his grandiose departure.) And here he was. Free at last.

Hours passed with Clark behind the wheel. The storm blew by overhead, the dreary sky retiring just in time for night to fall. By the time more gas was required, Clark was sure he couldn't drive much farther at such an unnaturally attentive angle, so he pulled over at a nearby rest area, crawled into the back seat, and fell asleep. In fact, the interior of the car was so compact he fell asleep five or six more times throughout the night, each time waking from a sudden pain or cramp in areas he didn't know were used for sleeping. After a few hours it became obvious that the essentials he had packed should have included a blanket. The only good way to avoid feeling the cold was to sleep through it, but maintaining any semblance of a comfortable position was impossible, despite how drained he felt after his adrenaline-filled day.

When the sunrise finally justified staying awake after one of his many jolts of discomfort, Clark wasn't capable of noticing the beauty of the reds, purples and oranges that lit up the sky. His rebellious nature had fled sometime near the beginning of the night, and the only thing that kept him heading away from his former life was the reminder of his triumphant feeling, only an echo of the thunderous bloodrush that had overwhelmed him the day before. It was just enough to give him a bit of resolve, so he propped himself up against the washing-board of a front seat and gingerly worked the pedals until he reached a town with enough of a populace to warrant a coffee shop.

He had been planning on a quick double shot cafe latte and an abrupt departure, but the young lady behind the counter (her name tag designated her a Jenny) made the mistake of asking, “And how are you doing today?” in such a peppy tone that he couldn't help but divulge a bit of how he was feeling. He tried to keep it brief, intending on just a short “Well, I didn't sleep very well, but I'll be okay once I've had my coffee,” but he made the mistake of starting his statement a bit too early in the sequence of events.

“Well, I quit my terrible job yesterday, and I slept in my car last night and almost froze to death, but I'll be fine once I've had my coffee.” And then, realizing how ridiculous that sounded, he felt the need to clarify.

“Well, I probably won't be fine, per se, but my job was a dead end and it felt really good to quit, and while I don't really know what I'm going to do now, I do know I could really use a cup of coffee, so I think things will seem at least a little better once I've had it.” But then he realized how much he was rambling, so he glanced around for something to make his little outburst seem a little less awkward.

“I'm sorry; I didn't really mean to say all that. This is a pretty nice place. I like the, uh... lights. They're, you know, a bit different.” Which wasn't all that true, but Jenny seemed willing to overlook that fact in order to change the topic.

“Well, thank you. I wish I could say I had something to do with the lighting choices, but I really just work here.” She turned away but seemed a little less uneasy. In fact, Clark noticed her glance back over her shoulder, a sure sign she was interested in him. It must have been his rebelliousness showing through. His courage restored with his coffee and a “good luck” from Jenny, Clark made it all the way back to his Prius before climbing in reminded him of the lingering soreness in his hips and lower legs. Positive Jenny was watching his departure, he wished for a moment he had taken his motorcycle, imagining how much cooler it would have been to roar away (because his rebellious persona would have removed the muffler immediately) wrapped in a shroud of mystery and allure. But motorcycles were even less commodious than cars, so he sighed and purred off in his Prius, afraid of flooring it lest it reprimand him for the poor fuel economy.

In the next town he bought a newspaper, which he sat and read in his car. He scanned the headlines for any mention of his abrupt departure, and failing that, of any mention of the storm. The winds, it reported, had reached sustained speeds of over forty-five miles per hour, and some photos tucked away in the middle of the paper showed some damage from branches being blown into buildings. Having established that none of those buildings were his, Clark tossed the paper and resumed driving.

An unforeseen dilemma cropped up an hour later when the radio started cutting out. Clark had completely forgotten that it was possible to get far enough away from the city to outdistance the radio signal. This had him quite out of sorts. He had been relying on his familiar country songs to reassure him of the virtue of suffering through the hard times. The lamenting lyrics were now comforting in their relatability. He hadn't ever been able to provide an answer to anyone asking why he liked country, but now he realized it must have always been the case that he was made for heartache. Before, when the inconveniences were small, like job dissatisfaction or being let down by those he trusted, nothing had stuck out enough to make change appealing. But the discomfort that had resulted from taking charge and walking out was an affirmation that his love of country music was rooted in his very being. Realizing that he had a purpose in life, that a whole genre of music was written for him, made Clark positive that his action on Friday was in accordance with his place in the universe.

He pressed on through the town with about as much assurance as a person can have that they have done the right thing (especially when there is no actual evidence to support that conclusion). Recalling the article from the paper, Clark began noticing the wind damage. There were probably signs of destruction in every town, but it was getting to be 9:00am, and people were emerging from their houses, looking around, and helping each other out. As he was driving through his third or fourth unified neighborhood bonding in the aftermath of the storm, his cell phone rang. Responsible driver that he was, he stopped the car and pulled out his phone as he watched one group's efforts in moving an entire tree trunk from the relative comfort of his car.

He looked at his phone's screen to see who was first noticing the void caused by his departure. It was his neighbor, and Clark wondered whether he had heard the news from someone or had taken note of his car's absence. He answered his phone.

“Hello?”

“Hey Clark! It's Greg from next door. I saw your yard was a bit messed up and was wondering if you'd like some help clearing it out.” Greg must have missed the fact he had left town. It was understandable; sometimes he went out for coffee on Saturday mornings, so perhaps that's where Greg thought he was.

“I'm not home right now. I didn't even know I had been hit. Is there any damage to the house?” Clark didn't really know why he was asking. He told himself it was just out of curiosity, wondering whether all ties to his former life had been severed by nature's fickleness.

“I can't really tell, but everything looks okay. I'm sorry, I had no idea you weren't even home! If there's anything you need help with when you get back, you be sure and let me know. After all, what are neighbors for?”

Clark thought that was a good question, but refrained from comment. If Greg wasn't even a good enough neighbor to know when he had made a life-changing decision to leave town suddenly, Clark certainly wasn't about to take his offer of help seriously.

“Okay, Greg. I'll be sure to do that. Bye now, and thanks for calling,” he replied with a slight trace of sarcasm.

“Alright, then. Bye.”

Clark wondered what Greg would think when nobody came to clear up whatever debris was in the front yard. He wouldn't have called if he didn't need Clark for something, after all. Clark turned his attention back to the families outside his car. It looked cold out there, and the wind hadn't let up much since the brunt of the storm, though the clouds were long gone. Clark abruptly put aside what he thought of as his surly persona and opened the car door to make his way over to the group.

“Is there anything I can do?”

The man who seemed to be leading things gave him a once-over. He must not have been too disgusted by what he saw, for he shrugged his shoulders and didn't even ask his name. “Yeah, you could help these guys. They're headed over to the waste pile to unload what we've removed so far.”

Clark was surprised at how readily he had been accepted. He didn't have long to be impressed with himself. A quick introduction to the two high schoolers and he was off in the little blue Chevy pickup truck.

The wasteyard was a busy place, but nobody was lingering in their work, so the line moved quickly. No sooner had they backed the truck up to a pile of branches and leaves than the two boys had hopped into the back and were pitching things out. Clark eased himself to the ground and made his way back. He put down the tailgate and clambered into the bed. He did a token amount of work, but couldn't help feeling redundant as the boys stooped, grabbed, rose and pitched all in continuous motion. The only thing they needed help with was a particularly wide section of branch (or trunk) that had to be rolled out of the bed and carried the short distance to the designated area. The two boys rolled the piece to the edge, one steadied it while the other got down, and then Clark and the boy carried it between them to join other large chunks. They thanked him readily enough for his help and drove back to their neighborhood, where they found another load ready to go. Clark began to take a more passive role, wondering where the young duo got all their energy. Granted, he didn't exercise much, but he kept the weight off for the most part. He hadn't bought clothes in a new size in over two years, and still looked good on his motorcycle sporting his leather jacket. But he was no teenager, and it showed.

After another few loads the families had decided they had done enough. Clark bid them farewell, climbed into his Prius, and drove off, not even tempted to gun the engine. Seeing that community come together so effortlessly made it impossible to value the rebelliousness he had been cultivating so carefully. He backtracked to the coffee house, arriving in time for a very late lunch. He was pleased to see Jenny was still working, and took his time looking at the menu. He knew right away what he wanted, and spent the extra time wondering how to ask a coffee house girl out for a cup of coffee. In the end he just ordered his quiche and attempted some small talk, which was met with another smile. Just before he left, Jenny branched out from talking about the weather (for once, not entirely a stereotypical topic).

“I thought you were headed for parts unknown when you came in here this morning.” She smiled a bit as she put her hand on her hip, clearly expecting an interesting answer. Clark didn't really have one to give.

“Me too.” They both knew that wasn't enough. “My car isn't very comfortable.”

“I see. Well, are you headed all the way back to the city then?” Jenny was quite forthright. Clark supposed she could afford to be. After all, there was no reason to be shy around the tons of people that probably came through when for many it would be their only visit.

“I don't know. My neighbor called and said my property needed some attention after the storm.” That seemed pretty weak as well, but he hadn't told her he wasn't really planning on going back.

“Well, good luck then, with your house and your job and all.” And with that, she walked away. Clark thanked her retreating figure, pulled out the last of his cash and tipped her three percent more than he usually tipped waitresses. On the way out he grabbed one of the paper menus by the door, though he knew he probably wasn't coming back.

He walked to his car, despising its very shape, and got in, disgusted with himself. He calmly turned the key in the ignition, placidly pressed the gas, and accelerated gently to the edge of the parking lot, where he jammed his foot to the floor and reveled in the squeal of rubber (however short-lived) as he peeled out. The acceleration was rather mild, but his adrenaline pumped regardless, and he watched the display with contempt as it glowed angrily, ridiculing him for only getting eight miles to the gallon.

Clark quickly eased up, his statement made, and settled back into his normal, considerate driving. He let people merge in front of him on his way back into the city, kept his patience when he hit bumper to bumper traffic, and hummed along to his favorite country station, still reveling a bit in feeling linked to the singer through mutual heartache. His posture was perfect, and his Prius happily reported he was getting great gas mileage.

He didn't get back until long after dark, and upon examining the back of the house, Clark saw that a rather large piece of debris had done a number on the corner of his deck, even shattering his kitchen window. He called the appropriate people and was put at the end of the waiting list. The weather got cold again that night, and rather than try to do combat with the gaping hole in the kitchen, Clark turned off the heat altogether. Concerned that someone might take advantage of his broken window, he slept on the couch, a bit cramped for space, and inadequately padded. The position was all too familiar, but this time when he started shivering, it was a simple matter to find some heavy blankets.

He called Greg in the morning, and to his mild surprise, Greg was as good as his word. He was over in a matter of minutes, and they went out into his yard with hacksaws to dismantle the limbs that had fallen. He found his satellite dish under one particularly big branch, and Greg helped him stack all they could by the curb in the hopes that the city would deal with it. If not, Greg's son lived across town and had a truck Greg assured him they could borrow within the next couple of days. With Greg's help he had finished long before anticipated, so he spent the rest of the day in the garage, taking apart sections of his motorcycle and putting them back together, satisfying himself that everything was in perfect working order. As he was replacing the muffler, though, he thought better of it, deciding the chances of him arriving at a time that would anger Greg were pretty slim (but promising himself he would walk the bike down the block should the unexpected happen).

Clark spent another night on the couch, but never felt the cold under his layers of blankets. Despite the chilly morning air, he rode his motorcycle to work the next morning, shoulder bag flapping off to the side and even weaving in and out of traffic occasionally. He walked up the ten flights of stairs to his cubicle, placed his bag next to his desk, and sat down. He didn't even bother to turn on his computer, sure that someone would approach him within minutes irate at the consternation he had caused. He noticed everything was as he had left it but didn't think much of that fact, since in the chaos of his rebellion it was unlikely that anyone would have found time to remove what was left of his things.

He sat in front that shut down computer until lunch.

When he found an excuse to walk by the conference room, he noticed with surprise that his charts and graphs were still on the table in front of his seat. He glanced into others' work areas, attempting to provoke the reaction he was still hoping was brewing beneath the surface. Nobody looked at him differently. His boss went the entire day without giving any indication he had noticed his display of defiance. In fact, the only person who talked to him the whole day was a girl from his team who told him she was glad he was feeling better, and that he had looked pretty ill when he left last week.

Clark just thanked her and reached down to the bag next to his desk. In it were the essentials: the key to his motorcycle, and the menu from the coffee shop with the phone number prominently displayed on the front. Sure, it looked like things were back to normal, but Clark knew that at a moment's notice, he could be roaring away on his loud sports bike, off to the coffee shop and the girl who smiled at him. (Of course, he'd have to be sure to check in with his neighbor before he left.)