Loser
(with deference to Kate Chopin's "Story of an Hour")
San Jose State University | James D. Phelan Literary Award - Second Place, Short Story (2004)
Adapted and filmed by the Film Production Society (SJSU) March 2011
The executive staff knew that Douglas had just recovered from heart surgery, and so they carefully considered just how to let him know that he had been let go.
It was his manager, Charles, who summoned him and delivered the news, unable to look him in the eye, and implying rather than actually telling him what had happened. Elaine was there, too; she had been in the meeting, taking minutes, when the decision had been made, when the name of Douglas Livingstone had been laid upon the table. She had gasped, dropped her pen, and ventured to object, but it had done no good. She insisted, then, as his assistant, upon being present to ease the blow.
Douglas did not react to the news as so many men had this year, with a tightened grip upon the chair and a set of the jaw that belied the quick, ego-saving shrug and belligerent contortion of the lower lip. He leaned forward, rested his silvering head in his hands, and issued an abysmal sigh. Elaine stood and put her hand on his shoulder, offering soothing comments about his resiliency, his marketability. He rubbed the heels of his hands against his eyes, then pushed himself up wordlessly and turned to go back to his own office. She stepped forward to follow him, but he motioned her away. He needed to be alone.
In his executive suite he sank heavily into the kilim sofa near the window, oppressed by the paper-thin weight of his damaged resume. The room seemed chilly. He felt drained and lethargic, as if his entire being, and not only his role with the firm, had been desiccated.
He could see within the frame of the wall-sized window the iconic San Franciscan architecture that had made his view so enviable: the Transamerica pyramid, Coit Tower, the Bank of America building, the Golden Gate bridge. The sky was tinted white by the winter sun. A fighter jet soared by, nearly even with his 60th floor office; he had forgotten that the Blue Angels were performing at Moffett Field this weekend. The pilot climbed into oblivion, plunged down in a silent spiral, and pulled up at what seemed to Douglas the last possible second.
The typical city fog was nowhere to be seen. The sky was clear and bright.
He leaned back and swung his feet up onto the brass-studded ottoman, then was still except for the occasional sigh, as one might sigh who has lost his way, but not yet his will.
He was nearing middle age, with a handsome, serious face, whose high forehead indicated dignity and intelligence. But now, as he reclined in the diffused warmth of the late afternoon light, he stared vacantly at the distinguished structures and the fading vapor trails before him. He did not appear to be dwelling on any one particular thought, but rather taking an interlude from all of them for a moment.
Something was coming to him, something he sensed he would not recognize until it arrived, something indefinable and important. He felt it seeping toward him across the white winter sky, over the faint hum of the fighter, around the celebrated geometry of the city. He held his breath, waiting for it.
Now his chest heaved and rose. He saw what was approaching and squinted his eyes to bring it into focus. On the other side of the glass the Transamerica pyramid blurred like a mirage, then broadened and gleamed white against the sand of a foreign desert. He tapped his fingers rapidly on the arm of the sofa; Coit Tower swelled, shifted and leaned sideways to astound tourists in an ancient piazza somewhere far below. He swung his feet to the floor. The Bank of America building shimmered and narrowed into an elegant web of wire and steel towering beside the Seine. Douglas leapt up from the sofa and ran to the window, pressing his hands against it, gaping, as the Golden Gate became a great rope bridge swaying over a dark and glossy jungle.
His heart was beating fast.
When his breathing slowed, a phrase fell from him in a whisper, and he began to repeat it over and over: “The list! The list!” The despair had left his eyes and he was feeling warm again.
When he was twelve he had made a list of a hundred wondrous places he would investigate when he grew up, places that had beckoned to him from the global realms of nature and science and history and literature. The list had long since been exchanged for diplomas and paychecks. Now it could be restored. He had set aside quite a bit of money, and he could afford a year off. He did not allow himself to consider whether he was being childish in his desires or irresponsible with his finances. A sudden certainty of destiny lifted him up and brushed away the admonishments.
He knew that he would struggle as he emptied out his office and said goodbye to the people with whom he had worked for so long. He counted the years. Twenty-two! For nearly half his life the position had defined him, fed him, enabled him to be a sociable companion and a generous host, if not a husband. He shook his head. It had been good, but when the door had closed behind him he would be the master of his own hours, his own days and weeks. His own places. He grinned and extended his arms toward the vast wide world beyond.
He would be able to fulfill the wishes of his youth, to see the world, and stand upon its great stages. He would be able to travel when it suited him, to go where his impulse took him, to surround himself with the music and reading and conversation that accommodated his own soul. There would be no interruptions, no meetings, no hurried responses to executive orders. He had always understood that those were the ways of business, but that did not detract from the joy he felt now at his emancipation.
Sometimes the career had fulfilled him; more often, it had not. His success had brought him both pleasures and problems. Charles, for instance, had hated him for it. But the esteem of others mattered little now to Douglas. His hard-earned reputation seemed a shallow achievement compared to the life yet unlived -- the quest around the corner.
“Escape!” he whispered. “Adventure!”
Elaine was knocking on his office door. “Mr. Livingstone, may I come in? Mr. Livingstone? Please, sir, I’m worried about you.”
“There’s nothing to worry about,” he said, without turning around. The fighter jet was making another approach, getting in another practice before the upcoming performance. Douglas was imagining himself in a twin engine plane over Arabia, making jovial small talk with a rugged pilot and offering reassurances to a nervous but beautiful blonde in the seat behind him. He would be holding a worn leather valise, wearing khakis and an old bomber jacket over a white cotton shirt. He ran his fingers through his hair. Maybe even one of those “Indy” hats.
Suddenly he was impatient to begin his new life. He walked briskly to his desk, emptied the printer paper from its cardboard box and began to pack up his few personal belongings -- the photo of his parents, whom he had buried long ago, and his poster of Machu Picchu, and some of his more expensive pens. Quite on impulse he decided that he would go directly to the airport and purchase a ticket for the next plane heading anywhere over an ocean and far away. He could buy what he needed when he landed, when he knew what to expect of the climate and customs in that place.
He paused. Perhaps he would make just one stop first, at the Embarcadero, for a piece of luggage. A portmanteau, for Pete’s sake. He laughed out loud, feeling like a boy again.
When he opened the door Elaine was standing in the hallway. He saw the relief in her eyes and reached out to squeeze her shoulder, flushing as he realized her startling resemblance to the nervous blonde he had just visualized. An inspiration struck. Should he ask her to join him, for at least part of his travels? His blood warmed at the thought, and he smiled at her a little shyly. She smiled back, not so shyly. She was very pretty. Yes, he could postpone Arabia in favor of Portofino. He opened his mouth to speak and she looked up at him, waiting.
He heard footsteps and glanced to his right. Striding down the hallway was the CEO of the company, a tall, pallid man with a slight hunch. He stopped, very angry, in front of Douglas.
“This is nonsense, what they’ve done to you while I was away,” he snarled, stabbing the air with a long finger. “It’s nothing but petty office politics, and I won’t stand for that crap around here. You’re the top money-maker in this company. I fired that ass Charles, and I’m giving you his job at double your existing salary.” He looked over Douglas’s shoulder. “And an office with a much better view of the bay.”
He thrust out a hand in shock as Douglas crumpled to the ground. Others dropped files and briefcases and reports and came running. Douglas, eye level with the fallen baggage of the corporate world, clutched at his heart and moaned.
Elaine cried out for someone to dial 911, but it was too late.
The coroner called the cardiologist later that week to tell him that the angioplasty had failed.
The balloon had burst.
(with deference to Kate Chopin's "Story of an Hour")
San Jose State University | James D. Phelan Literary Award - Second Place, Short Story (2004)
Adapted and filmed by the Film Production Society (SJSU) March 2011
The executive staff knew that Douglas had just recovered from heart surgery, and so they carefully considered just how to let him know that he had been let go.
It was his manager, Charles, who summoned him and delivered the news, unable to look him in the eye, and implying rather than actually telling him what had happened. Elaine was there, too; she had been in the meeting, taking minutes, when the decision had been made, when the name of Douglas Livingstone had been laid upon the table. She had gasped, dropped her pen, and ventured to object, but it had done no good. She insisted, then, as his assistant, upon being present to ease the blow.
Douglas did not react to the news as so many men had this year, with a tightened grip upon the chair and a set of the jaw that belied the quick, ego-saving shrug and belligerent contortion of the lower lip. He leaned forward, rested his silvering head in his hands, and issued an abysmal sigh. Elaine stood and put her hand on his shoulder, offering soothing comments about his resiliency, his marketability. He rubbed the heels of his hands against his eyes, then pushed himself up wordlessly and turned to go back to his own office. She stepped forward to follow him, but he motioned her away. He needed to be alone.
In his executive suite he sank heavily into the kilim sofa near the window, oppressed by the paper-thin weight of his damaged resume. The room seemed chilly. He felt drained and lethargic, as if his entire being, and not only his role with the firm, had been desiccated.
He could see within the frame of the wall-sized window the iconic San Franciscan architecture that had made his view so enviable: the Transamerica pyramid, Coit Tower, the Bank of America building, the Golden Gate bridge. The sky was tinted white by the winter sun. A fighter jet soared by, nearly even with his 60th floor office; he had forgotten that the Blue Angels were performing at Moffett Field this weekend. The pilot climbed into oblivion, plunged down in a silent spiral, and pulled up at what seemed to Douglas the last possible second.
The typical city fog was nowhere to be seen. The sky was clear and bright.
He leaned back and swung his feet up onto the brass-studded ottoman, then was still except for the occasional sigh, as one might sigh who has lost his way, but not yet his will.
He was nearing middle age, with a handsome, serious face, whose high forehead indicated dignity and intelligence. But now, as he reclined in the diffused warmth of the late afternoon light, he stared vacantly at the distinguished structures and the fading vapor trails before him. He did not appear to be dwelling on any one particular thought, but rather taking an interlude from all of them for a moment.
Something was coming to him, something he sensed he would not recognize until it arrived, something indefinable and important. He felt it seeping toward him across the white winter sky, over the faint hum of the fighter, around the celebrated geometry of the city. He held his breath, waiting for it.
Now his chest heaved and rose. He saw what was approaching and squinted his eyes to bring it into focus. On the other side of the glass the Transamerica pyramid blurred like a mirage, then broadened and gleamed white against the sand of a foreign desert. He tapped his fingers rapidly on the arm of the sofa; Coit Tower swelled, shifted and leaned sideways to astound tourists in an ancient piazza somewhere far below. He swung his feet to the floor. The Bank of America building shimmered and narrowed into an elegant web of wire and steel towering beside the Seine. Douglas leapt up from the sofa and ran to the window, pressing his hands against it, gaping, as the Golden Gate became a great rope bridge swaying over a dark and glossy jungle.
His heart was beating fast.
When his breathing slowed, a phrase fell from him in a whisper, and he began to repeat it over and over: “The list! The list!” The despair had left his eyes and he was feeling warm again.
When he was twelve he had made a list of a hundred wondrous places he would investigate when he grew up, places that had beckoned to him from the global realms of nature and science and history and literature. The list had long since been exchanged for diplomas and paychecks. Now it could be restored. He had set aside quite a bit of money, and he could afford a year off. He did not allow himself to consider whether he was being childish in his desires or irresponsible with his finances. A sudden certainty of destiny lifted him up and brushed away the admonishments.
He knew that he would struggle as he emptied out his office and said goodbye to the people with whom he had worked for so long. He counted the years. Twenty-two! For nearly half his life the position had defined him, fed him, enabled him to be a sociable companion and a generous host, if not a husband. He shook his head. It had been good, but when the door had closed behind him he would be the master of his own hours, his own days and weeks. His own places. He grinned and extended his arms toward the vast wide world beyond.
He would be able to fulfill the wishes of his youth, to see the world, and stand upon its great stages. He would be able to travel when it suited him, to go where his impulse took him, to surround himself with the music and reading and conversation that accommodated his own soul. There would be no interruptions, no meetings, no hurried responses to executive orders. He had always understood that those were the ways of business, but that did not detract from the joy he felt now at his emancipation.
Sometimes the career had fulfilled him; more often, it had not. His success had brought him both pleasures and problems. Charles, for instance, had hated him for it. But the esteem of others mattered little now to Douglas. His hard-earned reputation seemed a shallow achievement compared to the life yet unlived -- the quest around the corner.
“Escape!” he whispered. “Adventure!”
Elaine was knocking on his office door. “Mr. Livingstone, may I come in? Mr. Livingstone? Please, sir, I’m worried about you.”
“There’s nothing to worry about,” he said, without turning around. The fighter jet was making another approach, getting in another practice before the upcoming performance. Douglas was imagining himself in a twin engine plane over Arabia, making jovial small talk with a rugged pilot and offering reassurances to a nervous but beautiful blonde in the seat behind him. He would be holding a worn leather valise, wearing khakis and an old bomber jacket over a white cotton shirt. He ran his fingers through his hair. Maybe even one of those “Indy” hats.
Suddenly he was impatient to begin his new life. He walked briskly to his desk, emptied the printer paper from its cardboard box and began to pack up his few personal belongings -- the photo of his parents, whom he had buried long ago, and his poster of Machu Picchu, and some of his more expensive pens. Quite on impulse he decided that he would go directly to the airport and purchase a ticket for the next plane heading anywhere over an ocean and far away. He could buy what he needed when he landed, when he knew what to expect of the climate and customs in that place.
He paused. Perhaps he would make just one stop first, at the Embarcadero, for a piece of luggage. A portmanteau, for Pete’s sake. He laughed out loud, feeling like a boy again.
When he opened the door Elaine was standing in the hallway. He saw the relief in her eyes and reached out to squeeze her shoulder, flushing as he realized her startling resemblance to the nervous blonde he had just visualized. An inspiration struck. Should he ask her to join him, for at least part of his travels? His blood warmed at the thought, and he smiled at her a little shyly. She smiled back, not so shyly. She was very pretty. Yes, he could postpone Arabia in favor of Portofino. He opened his mouth to speak and she looked up at him, waiting.
He heard footsteps and glanced to his right. Striding down the hallway was the CEO of the company, a tall, pallid man with a slight hunch. He stopped, very angry, in front of Douglas.
“This is nonsense, what they’ve done to you while I was away,” he snarled, stabbing the air with a long finger. “It’s nothing but petty office politics, and I won’t stand for that crap around here. You’re the top money-maker in this company. I fired that ass Charles, and I’m giving you his job at double your existing salary.” He looked over Douglas’s shoulder. “And an office with a much better view of the bay.”
He thrust out a hand in shock as Douglas crumpled to the ground. Others dropped files and briefcases and reports and came running. Douglas, eye level with the fallen baggage of the corporate world, clutched at his heart and moaned.
Elaine cried out for someone to dial 911, but it was too late.
The coroner called the cardiologist later that week to tell him that the angioplasty had failed.
The balloon had burst.
To Catch a Keeper
Middle-grade 44,000-word novel
The pool was a large, still area, bulging slightly into the banks, where sunbeams rested just under the surface. I could see fish flicker and flash in the wavering shadows. There was even a fallen log, upholstered in moss, exactly where I wanted to sit. An extinct campfire on the shore told me someone else had appreciated the spot before. Buck ran to the shore, lapping lustily before flopping down.
“Perfect,” sighed Claire. She dropped to her knees among the maidenhair ferns at the edge of the creek and held her splayed fingers under the water. They seemed extra long and pale against the amber sands and gravels, like a mermaid’s hands might look. “Like an Audrey poem.”
“Who’s Audrey?”
“Don’t ask,” said Charlie. “She’ll recite something.”
Claire ignored him. “Audrey Wurdemann. She’s the poet who just won the Pulitzer, you rube. For Bright Ambush. This is one of my favorites.” She tipped her face toward the circle of blue at the top of the redwoods, closed her eyes, and began to recite:
“The grace of gold can make me glad today;
The summer sun has come alive in me,
And from the little left of yesterday
The seed takes root, the blossom bows for me.”[1]
“I told you,” muttered Charlie.
I didn’t answer him. I was looking at his sister’s face, glowing with the warm, dusty light of the forest, her eyes still closed, her hair shining, and my mind was lingering on the grace of gold. Her forehead was damp and I could see that some of her freckles were darker than others, like an unnamed constellation of pale bronze stars. I flushed with the awareness that yesterday, like in her poem, something had taken root -- had come alive.
I stood up and turned toward the depth of the woods.
“I’m going to see if there’s a better spot a few yards upstream,” I said to my friends, and walked away.
A few dozen yards later I looked back. The daylight was filtered and diffused over a clearing between us, and I could just see them through the haze of tiny insects and forest murk. It was as if I were looking at them through a dusty glass, fringed by airy maidenhair and columbine and framed within the dark vertical trunks. Claire looked up and smiled, and I waved. Charlie was intent on his drawing. I shook my head, thinking that someday he was sure to do something brilliant that would really get his dad’s attention.
[1] Audrey Wurdemann. “The Grace of Gold.” Bright Ambush. New York: John Day Co., 1934. Page 34.