I'm Not John Glenn

I’m Not John Glenn

                                                     

I’m not John Glenn the renowned astronaut, US Senator and one time candidate for the US Presidency. I am not him. Back in 1962, Glenn sat 100 feet in the air aboard that Atlas rocket, in a cramped one man capsule with 250,000 lbs of highly volatile fuel a few feet below his ass. His heart rate? That of a sleeping man’s: 110 beats per minute. Can you imagine me inside that Friendship 7 capsule with my heart rate issues?

Jesus, if I put too much sugar on my bran flakes, my heart rate pops to 230. I think. So, needless to say, I’m the last one in the word who wants to be ruffled. When I get angry or flustered my heart rate explodes. By someone or by my actions. So I’m concerned: as my heart rate zooms I must me doing long term damage to myself. Right?

I sought help from a variety of sources, many required by my employer because of my erratic and confusing bouts, especially in the executive room. Mr. Brinkley called these episodes “disturbing, frightening and possible career ending. “ He had a way with words. I had a doctor who diagnosed me as potassium deficient and always referenced my Limbic System or something esoteric. I just shrugged smiled and said to my self: what the hell does he know? But I knew that a fast heart rate on a continuous basis was, well, not very conducive to a long life. Especially mine.

OK so I have this heart rate issue. But what could I do about it? I live alone in an almost Telsa- like existence. I work because I like to getout of this apartment. But I seem to have need for human contact. Kinda odd. Humans haven’t been too kind to me. It is the human, I contend that drives this damn heart rate issue. If only I wasn’t human…

I graduated from college with a math major. One of my college professors implored me to continue my studies toward a PhD. I liked math for sure, but liked accounting and accumulation of things much more. I loved ledger sheets and ledger sheets liked me. I applied and got a position with the Brinkley CPA firm. During the interview I confessed ( to Mr. Brinkley who conducted the interview) to being partial to the declining balance method of depreciation. He was , too.

They did. Those columns and rows sprang out of the page and well, engulfed me. I got pretty expert at classifications and such and was well on my way to a nice career until Excel came along. So I have some freekin software application now controlling all I do. Controlling my career and sending my heart rate into stratospheric heights. I insisted, to Mr. Brinkley’s consternation , sticking with a Pental #9 mechanical pencil ( #7 way too brittle) and paper accounting sheets. By the time I entered all data to those damn Excel cells, I could complete my handwritten work in quicker time .

“ Peter, “ Mr. Brinkley would council, “ You have got to use the Excel. It is the future. Our clients expect to review your work in the Excel format.” As you can imagine I was targeted for dismissal for sure. There goes my heart rate! What could I do? Conform and send my heart to rate to even higher levels or resist which I assumed also sent the rates higher. Jesus, talk about a conundrum.

So there I was caught in some fractured limbo. And not of my making, darn it. So I would lay awake on my bed and conjure my next steps. And I could feel my heart rate , feel the panicked bumping of
my heart. One night I thought I saw my chest balloon like a bubble gum bubble. I was certainly in a quandary.

I had very few viable options. Until the visit.

 Besides I have this issue with my landlord that is driving me crazy. I rent a 4 room, one bath apartment . My HOA monthly fee is based on the number of rooms and bathrooms I have. But the landlord contends that since there is plumbing to one on the rooms I use a sitting room, I actually have 2 bathrooms. So we have a very dysfunctional relationship and in some instances almost violent. Every time he sees me which is 4/5 times a week he hands me past due notices. According to O’Dell I owe $1,300 in arrears! That’s insane. I’m thinking about a lawyer and may just look one up.

“ Does a water pipe equal a bathroom?” I ask him. “ Can I flush a crap down a single water pipe?”

O’Dell is a tall man, very thin with dark purplish veins arching all over hands . “ That’s not the issue. The issue is if someone wanted to put a second bathroom in your apartment they could!”

“ Oh and they could get a permit for that from the city? I doubt it O’Dell.” And I storm towards my apartment and shout: “ And you can shove those arrears notices right up your Irish ass!”

And so my comings and goings in the apartment building are fraught with tension. Every day. My heart ate is catapulted at home and at work. I am being walloped from both sides. And I don’t know how long I can take it. What have I done to cause such angst? Tell me.

But the weekend is coming and I have the young couple above me who scream at each other all day. All day. Alan and Stephanie. I don’t hear words, I hear tone of voices. Some of their scraps seem teetering on physical violence. I have called HOA management – that’s O’Dell- and well you can only imagine the response I get. One Saturday night I called the Police. I heard the knock on their door. I heard the footsteps to the door. I couldn’t hear anything said, but I could envision a smiling Alan arms draped over Stephanie’s shoulder all huggly. Not much came of the 911 call.

Alan is usually drunk by 5:30 in the afternoon and both of them are out on their balcony , listening to Bee Gees music. Alan knows every word of their music especially “ New York mining disaster, 1941.” But so do I, so what the heck. I don’t use my balcony, but on occasions I’m out there looking around at the city.

Now about the visit. It was a Friday morning, I showered and shaved and wore my favorite light blue button down shirt with brown tie. I liked that combination for some reason. Along with my blue blazer and tan pants, I was, well right out of GQ. I think.

I live alone and don’t need a whole pot of coffee in the morning. So I got use to plugging in a small appliance that just heats water and then pouring myself a cup of instant coffee. I sat down at the small kitchen table near the apartment’s door.

I try not to be captured by habit. So I usually use a different coffee mug each day. But that morning, I just felt like using the same cup from yesterday morning: my college alumni cup. Not that I saunter nostalgic over my college experience. I don’t. But the diploma got me this job and I guess I’m grateful.

So that morning as I took a sip of coffee and glanced at the PITT university logo ( PITT was founded in 1787 .) I noticed something moving; fast, furtive all most electric , jolted movements around my left hand. I instinctively raised my hand. Or attempted to. You see, I couldn’t lift my hand no matter how hard I tried. With all my might, with my right hand gripping my left wrist, I could not lift the hand. I thought I was having a stroke- there goes the heart rate thing, I thought.

But upon closer inspection I was aghast! My left hand was cocooned in some fine silk thread. It was anchored to the table top! My hand was wrapped by some opaque glistening , shimmering silk like material. I thought of a butterfly chrysalis. Jesus, I’m having a stroke! I could see my fingers. Then it appeared.

It came out from behind the sugar bowl. It stood there and I wondered what my heart rate is now! It is a spider and it’s multiple eyes are focused right at me. It’s eight legs are steady and supporting the segmented body. A silent rhythm. So I look at the spider and then at my captured left hand.

The spider stood motionless. I think he was staring at me or something around me, I wasn’t sure. I thought I saw its head tilt. It pivoted and walked up and onto my left hand. It began a feline-like kneading movement. Legs up, then down, up then down until all eight legs were rumbling in unison. Like a cat perched upon a blanket, smiling and happy and doing what this species had been doing for millions of years.

Not sure why I wasn’t apoplectic and believe it or not, I didn’t feel or sense that my heart rate was reaching paroxysm levels. I gulped some coffee, and as I peered at the spider, it stopped moving. I sat there motionless, coffee cup in right hand, elbow placed on the table. I glanced at my right hand and it was calm . You would think with this going on my hand would look like Ray Milland’s after the “ Lost Weekend.” No, my hand was steady, as if wavering over a field of daffodils.

“Can I have my hand back?”

So there we were, and in the words of JFK’s Secretary of State Dean Rusk “eye ball to eye ball” but this time we both blinked. The spider stopped the incessant kneading prance and turned to the web encasing my hand. Millimeter by millimeter the spider absorbed the silk threads until my hand was freed. Pieces of thread skipped off into the kitchen’s air currents . I lifted my hand , rubbed it to get the blood flowing and the feeling back. I took a gulp of coffee. I looked around and the spider was gone.

I stood, put on my sport coat , grabbed my briefcase and went to work. I had a busy day that Friday and gave little thought to the occurrence, nor the spider. Oddly I had no fear of going home. Shouldn’t I have? I mean a spider had spun a tight, strong web that paralyzed my left hand . What if it spun the web around my neck and strangled me as I sleep?

But that Friday, Mr. Brinkley insisted that I prepare Excel files for the Flanagan account. I refused. And instead handed in my assignment on 8 column worksheets with my trusty Pental # 9 pencil. He called me into his office and let me know in no uncertain terms that my position at the firm was in dire jeopardy. “I must conform, “ he insisted!

Brinkley was all I thought about on the train  ride home. If only I had a more understanding boss, my work life would be fine. If I lose this job, I figured, I have no chances of another . None. Too much competition. I do have age on my side I figured, but there many over 55 employees in the firm. So an age discrimination suit may be hard to prove. Jesus, what is my heart rate, I wondered as I stepped onto the elevator to home.

I opened the door to my apartment and gasped. I was inside a spider’s web. Everywhere I looked there was silk netting, draping the furniture, covering the stove and refrigerator, doors, draws and even the toilet was silked tight. That pissed me off, I might say. As I stepped through the door, the spider dropped down , almost struck my nose and hung in abeyance tethered by a silk rope attached to the ceiling. So there we stood eye ball to eye balls- again. After the work day I had just endured I didn’t need this confrontation. Besides, I was hungry.

So you have this Brinkley fellow, the spider said. Clear and concise English with a perceptible European edge. It’s voice reminded me of the old English actor, Charles Laughton.

So there I was in my apartment in what was now a phantasmagorical Disney- inspired den of the spider. Now I had three thoughts; one- what is my heart rate and two- how could he spin all this webbing in one day and three- how will I clean up this mess?

“ What the hell is going on?” I asked. “ Who are you? Why are you here?”

You called me, the spider responded. You have been calling me for years .

I’m still standing in the door way, briefcase in hand. I needed to sit down and get the spider out of my face. “ May I sit down? And please get out of my face.” And with that the spider shot up to the draped ceiling and just bobbed . I placed my briefcase down and walked over to the kitchen table. It of course was smothered by layers of spider silk. I began to pry away the almost -twine like material and with a chair uncovered I sat down. Exhausted.

I looked around and saw no features of my home. A faceless place. The sugar bowl was covered. What am I going to do? I wondered.

No Peter, the spider said, what am I going to do? The spider was on my right shoulder, just below my ear lob and then it skipped onto the table. And once again we were staring at each other. Could this be habit forming?

“ I’m not insane, you know. I may have some stress issues and that Brinkley bastard but nothing in my brain’s synapses brings me a talking spider . “ I dropped my head into my palms.

“ And he can read my mind. Great. Just great.”

“ Oh Jesus Christ, “ I moaned “ There’s a spider talking to me. Now am going to talk to a spider?”

I sat straight up in the chair. The spider inched over to my left hand. I began to pull it away.

Peter, I’m on your side. The spider’s voice was firm but soothing. I webbed and captured your hand this morning to let you know of my powers. Do you know Roman history? Caesar had powers. Caesar and his Roman legions were chasing after marauding Germans a few thousand years ago. But the Germans escaped Rome’s capture by crossing the Rhine River. Caesar had his engineers and soldiers build a 40 foot wide bridge across the Rhine well in view of the Germans. The bridge was finished and thousands of Roman soldiers crossed over. The Germans of course had fled having watched helplessly as the Romans constructed the bridge. There being no Germans to fight, Caesar ordered everyone back across the river and had the bridge dismantled. Moral of the story: A show of power can be mightier than the sword itself.

“ Brinkley. Power. What the hell is going on with me?” I was heading out of control “ I just want to do my account work and be left alone. Come home and not be harassed by anyone. Doesn’t anyone understand that I am a simple man? Really, I am.”

Your not strong though, Peter. I am. What do you say, we put our heads together and do something about Brinkley. Life could be great for you, right?

“Brinkley owns the damn place and he’s not going any where. ” I was shocked the spider had to have an explanation. The history buff, no less.

Enjoy the weekend Peter, and wear something special Monday morning for work. And with that, the spider sprang off the table and disappeared.

It took me hours to remove all the webbing from my apartment. Hours, but I was determined to sleep on a clean bed and have my coffee in the morning. I vacuumed everything and made sure to throw out the vacuum bag so not leave a single trace of the webbing. Power? I’ll show it what power I can wield.

I was too rattled to do anything constructive that weekend. But I did put on my sneakers for a brief walk to corner market to get the Sunday paper and a walk through the local park. The spider was no

where to be seen. I dreaded Monday morning and another work week filled with Brinkley confrontations.

Well Monday came and I went through my usual routine. Shower, shave, dress and coffee. But I was constantly on guard for the spider’s return. Nothing. I waited until the very last minute to leave expecting the spider to appear. Nothing.

When I arrived at the office I knew immediately that something was wrong. The door was locked and there was no admin staff at the front desk , lights were off and I could hear murmuring. I entered the office suite area and everyone was huddled together. Some were crying. I noticed Brinkley’s door closed. That was odd. Christina, the office Manager came over to me and gave a big hug. “ Oh Peter, something terrible had happened to Mr. Brinkley. “ He’s dead.” She whispered. “ Dead.”

I was stunned and griped my briefcase so hard I thought I would tear my skin. “ Oh my God, How? What happened?”

“ It seems he fell down a flight of cellar stairs at his home Friday night, hit his head on the cellar floor and bled to death. He lived alone since the divorce. His daughter found him.” Christina remarked. “ The thought of Mr. Brinkley laying there all weekend, bleeding… and poor Dianna finding him...” her voice trailed away.

Gee, I thought of Mr. Brinkley laying dead in a pool of his own blood… Stop that Peter, I said to myself.

Christina called everyone to a huddle . “ We are closing the office for today. I’ll speak with Mrs. Brinkley and our Attorney and get guidance . Everyone go home and please say a prayer for Mr. Brinkley and his family. I will contact you all. Please stand by your telephones and may God bless us all.” And with that we all walked out of the office. I wanted to go home and settle my diverging emotions. Something inside of me was profoundly saddened. I had met Brinkley’s family on many occasions and enjoyed their company. On the other hand he was a  prick.

I was just about to enter my apartment when O’Dell came scampering down the hall way waving that damn foolish white arrears paper. “ $1,390 !! It keeps on going up!!!. “ He shouted. And so was my heart rate. I jumped into my apartment and that bastard placed it under my door like a hotel invoice. I needed a drink, I thought. So I grabbed the bottle of Jameson from the cabinet above the stove and poured some straight into a glass and sat at the kitchen table. I have a sitting room (O’Dell’s bathroom) but I like sitting at this table.

I sat there for quite some time pondering what I should do next. Stay at the firm ? Look for other work. But don’t all firms require Excel proficiency? Jesus, there goes that heart rate. Why couldn’t that damn Brinckley, inventor of the electronic spreadsheet, have had the same fate?

I’m grappling with all these issues and I spoke to a spider! And it responded! I thought I should get help, again. I brushed my teeth and went to bed quite early. I had had quite a strange four days.

I woke up Tuesday around 6 AM and heated water for my coffee. And as I sat at the table I wondered about the spider. God I hoped it was gone. Please Jesus. I wanted it to be a dangerous figment of my

shaky imagination. But I wasn’t sure and so I waited. And waited for it to appear. I sat there all day Tuesday , no spider and no call from the office. On Wednesday morning things started to happen. The phone rang at 8:30 in the morning. It was Christina.

“ Peter can you come in tomorrow?” she asked.

“ You bet,” I said.

“ And Peter, you need to bring your Excel game with you, understand?” she said. Christina was as fixated on Excel as was Mr. Brinkley! There will be no rest for me.

The next morning I went through my routine , waited for the visitor, but he was a no-show. I entered the office and Christina greeted me. “ Peter, the police are here and want to talk to you.”

I was flummoxed. To me? “ Why talk to me? “ I asked . She smiled, shrugged and we walked the hallway into room #4; a small windowless room. There were two men in blue business suits sitting around a small table. One of the men had a holstered handgun tight to this hip. They both stood up as I entered. The handgun guy had a small recorder and a lined writing pad in front of his place.

“ Peter, thank you so much for meeting with us,” The handgun guy spoke. “ I’m Sgt Farrow and this is Sgt. Murray. Please sit down.”

“ Do I need an attorney?”

They both laughed. “ No” the handgun guy said, “ just a few questions. We’re interviewing everyone in the office.” I didn’t think they were. In fact I knew there weren’t. I just knew it, darn it.

Sgt Farrow told me that Mr. Brinkley ‘s front door was unlocked the night of his accident and that Mrs. Brinkley found that highly unusual. Due to this circumstance, the police have to conduct an investigation. Have you ever been to Brinkley’s house? When and why? So I said yes, a few times most for office picnics. That’s all. The officers asked about my relationship with Brinkley. I was 100% forthcoming about our head butting over the Excel vs. my hand written worksheets.

Sgt Farrow jotted some furtive notes on the pad. They thanked me for my time and we departed after shaking hands. Christina was right outside the door and patted me on my shoulders as I walked to my office.

“ Peter, maybe you should go home and get back to our business tomorrow. “ I smiled and said I’m here to work and to honor Mr. Brinkley’s determination.

That night when I returned home the spider was atop the kitchen table perched on a folded paper towel, silently kneading the imitation fibers. I sat down and dropped my head.

“Brinkley is dead.”

Who? What? What?

“Brinkley died this weekend. He fell down a flight of stairs in his home. Must have banged his head or something and bled to death. The police interviewed me today about Brinkley’s death. ”

The police? It was an accident, wasn’t it?

“Yea, but it seems his front door was open and Mrs. Brinkley thought that was odd.”

Oh you are free! The clouds have dissipated! How wonderful !

The spider doesn’t have a clue, I’m thinking. I have that Irish jerk O’Dell and those bastards living above and that Excel - obsessed Christina. And who knows who else to deal with.

I could feel may heart begin to soar. I wish I was John Glenn.

END