Here is another start of a new story that will appear in an upcoming book, another compilation of short stories similar to those in my book Level Heads XE: The Deluxe Edition. These are stories of some who just can't keep a level head - stories with Rod Serlingesque surprise endings and enough twists to keep any fan of this genre on the edge of his/her seat. If you like what you read here, buy the book! You won't be disappointed, I guarantee it.
--- EXCERPT ---
Al Aseltine woke up. It wasn’t really that big a deal, as it was the seventh or eighth time that he’d bolted upright from a fitful sleep since midnight. On the other hand, it was a big deal, if only to himself. Today was June 17, 2007. It was today, on this day, that he was supposed to die from drinking.
It was a quarter after seven in the morning and Al was exhausted. He could remember checking his well-being at 1, 2:30, 3:15, 4:10, 4:58, 6:17 and 6:58 a.m., but he wasn’t really sure about the 6:58 check. His tired but overworked brain may have cloned an artificial copy of that event from the 4:58 rousing or, just as likely, it may have been falsely registered in memory by tired, blurry eyes. Not that it mattered anyway, really. Though it was Thursday, he wasn’t going to work today and had no plans. On a day when one was destined to have the big ticket punched, work and other obligations were reduced to mere trivialities.
At first, Al hadn’t planned on calling in sick. For years, he’d just assumed that by going to work, he would be surrounded and protected by his coworkers. People didn’t really die at work, did they? Until last month, he’d never heard of such a thing.
But then Tim, the clerk from Relational Arbitrations, told him a story about an experience at his prior job. He described an event that occurred during a quarterly staff meeting, where the Production director had keeled over, dead on the spot, in front of one hundred eighty-some-odd people.
Keeled over is not the way I’d put it, Tim had said. No, he was sitting at a table alongside his fellow directors when BOOM! – without any warning whatsoever – he just fell face forward into a glazed doughnut on a plate in front of him. I mean, no shit. His nose went right into the hole, a perfect bulls-eye. We all noticed right away, of course. But the CFO kept talking about how the company really wasn’t dying on the vine and how the stock market wasn’t a real indicator of profitability. He didn’t notice what was going on until turning to ask Dean to verify some production numbers and whoa—no Dean! I mean, Christ! Can you imagine dying with a doughnut around your nose? I’m just surprised the C-Fucking-O didn’t catch on sooner. You know, you might think that he would have seen our eyes glaze over. Get it?
Al got it. He wasn’t going to die at work. There was no way he was going to end up in a story. Of course, he didn’t really think he was going to die, but he wasn’t taking any chances. Twenty-one years had passed since the prediction had been made and now, in hindsight, he was amazed at how what basically equated to a quarter-century had elapsed since then as if on fast-forward.
Back then, 2007 wasn’t a real year and wasn’t even on the calendar. Back then, in 1986, people were talking about the space shuttle Challenger explosion, worrying about seven-percent unemployment and wondering how in hell the song “We are the World” had won a Grammy. The FOX television network was created that year, The Oprah Winfrey show debuted and some people were watching “The Color of Money” in the theaters. Those who weren’t might have been watching “Platoon” or listening to Survivor, Paul Simon, Robert Palmer or Bananarama on the FM dial. To really put things in perspective, the first 80386 computer chip was introduced back in 1986. Anyone who realizes the significance of that gets the point and the following one as well: 2007 meant nothing back then.
But it had meant something to a sideshow psychic outside of Apache Junction, Arizona—a middle-aged bag of a woman who had exhaled noxious cigarette smoke though each of the ten words used to foretell one climactic event.
“You’re going to die of drinking on June 17, 2007,” was what she’d said. And then, after catching a then-young Al’s blank stare, she made yet one more prophetic statement: “Now beat it, kid. There’s a long line of people just dyin’ out there to get in here to see me.”
That was it. One shattering prophesy, ten cut-to-the-point words. No “I see you marrying a lovely little princess.” No “you’re going to be rich beyond your wildest dreams.” And not even one casual attempt to bolster his self-confidence with a promise of good looks or success on any point of time in his life.
You are going to die of drinking on June 17, 2007…
Now up and on his feet,
…people just dyin’ to get in here to see me…
he went into the bathroom to empty his bladder, paying more attention than usual to the color and odor of his pee. It all looked normal but that didn’t soothe him; there still were seventeen empty hours to fill before the day slid into the history books. It could be a slip on the bathroom floor, a fall in the kitchen, an accident with the lawn mower, an unfortunate incident while doing laundry, or any one of a hundred other things.
The fact that the psychic had specified the cause of death (of drinking) in her prediction gave him no comfort; he normally conducted most all of the aforementioned activities while drinking. The coasters on top of his toilet bowl and scattered elsewhere throughout the house were there for a reason but now, they made a mockery of this day. Al picked up six of them on his way from the bathroom to the kitchen and once there, he dropped them into the wastebasket.
Yesterday, he’d disposed of all liquor, beer and other spirits in the house. Though he’d originally intended to empty the bottles and cans out in the far back corner of his yard, he’d eventually succumbed to the siren call of the spirits and disposed of them in a more natural way.
Buy the book.
