Chapter Two
Ned glanced down at the number on his key. Dim lights above every
room door cast only enough light to recognize the numbers. His room was
number seven. He passed room five, then six, which was missing its number
entirely, and finally came to number seven. The seven hung crookedly, the
top screw missing. He stared at the door and took a deep breath.
It was cold outside, and he was wet and getting wetter by the second.
The rain was coming down in sheets. Normally fastidious about his
appearance, Ned let the rain saturate him without thought. His hair was
lying flat against his head, water streaming into his eyes. The sound of
rain falling on the roof was getting louder, and he could hear water
draining from water spouts nearby as it hit the old asphalt. He was cold,
but no colder than his heart. He didn’t think he could feel anything
anymore, and he was almost right.
His heart began pounding again. He didn’t have to do this. He could
run to his car and leave this pig sty behind forever. He could wait and
think this over. As he pondered these thoughts a red glow brightened his
door. He didn’t turn around. He knew it was the glow from the Rescue
Mission’s neon sign. Apparently it was working again, trying to inspire
hope in a hopeless world through digital electronics and religious clichés.
Hope. How he hated that word. Hope was a crutch for people who
couldn’t handle reality. Well, Ned Phillips could handle reality without
hope. And death was the ultimate reality. Fate wouldn’t determine his
end. He would call the shots all the way.
With rigid determination he inserted the key slowly into the lock,
turned it, and hesitantly pushed in the door, the last room he would ever
enter. It was as dark as a tomb inside. His fingers groped along the left
inside wall till he found the light switch and flicked it on. Ned blinked
unbelievingly.
“Well,” he thought, “that was a mistake.”
As he slowly surveyed his last residence he discovered the room had
all the charm and ambiance of an old gas station restroom. As he stepped
inside, almost reluctant to shut the door behind him and close off his
escape, the room’s aroma greeted him. The smell of mold, smoke, human
sweat and a cheap fruity sanitizer, a token attempt to minimize the odor,
combined to make a smell that perfectly fit the room.
Two small twin beds separated by a table were on the right side of
the room as he stood looking at it. He tossed his rolled up package on the
nearest bed. The room’s one lone attempt at decoration was a painting in a
cheap black plastic frame hung above the two beds. It pictured a small
outdoor European café on an overcast day. The picture decorated the room
like a cheap, gaudy piece of jewelry on a bag lady. A dim wall lamp hung
between the two beds trying desperately to cloak in shadows as much of the
room as it could.
Two forlorn looking bed covers, one with a large mysterious stain
upon its rust orange colored top, hid the thin, sagging mattresses. The
beds were bedraggled orphans, used and abused over the years.
One small black bedside table sat between the twin beds, water
stained, chipped, and sporting one unmatched leg, spray-painted black in an
attempt to mask its differences from the other three. Because its one peg
leg was shorter than the other three, the table listed slightly to
starboard.
The bathroom was a small darkened cave to the back and right of the
room whose odor discouraged anyone from illuminating its dismal, prison
cell interior. It was clearly only to be entered and used in moments of
greatest need. Ned was thankful he would not need the room.
The walls were covered in a cheap dark paneling that had, over the
years, been chipped, nailed into, spilled on, and at several places
crushed, so the white press wood showed through. On several walls,
squarish holes indicated where a lamp or electrical outlet had once been
installed, but later removed. Like the rings in the trunk of a tree, these
holes served as indicators of that time in the distant past when the
management ceased caring what the room looked like.
The over 20 year old black, brown, and beige shag carpet sported
assorted cigarette burns, stains from foods and drink and other things Ned
would rather not think about. The ravages of time were forever etched upon
it.
To the left sat one large heavy black naugahyde chair in front of a
small black box that Ned was surprised to discover was a television set.
Multiple tears in the old chair had been repaired with black electrical
tape, but apparently long after the tape had been exhausted, the chair was
still taking hostile fire from the room’s occupants. The frequently
exposed interior stuffing, yellowed now by sun and time, contrasted with
its more recent wounds where the stuffing was of a lighter hue.
There was only one window in the room, and it faced the outside
walkway. Like the tattered sails of a ghost ship, the threadbare, dirty
brown curtain attempted vainly to cover the window that faced the
dilapidated Rescue Mission across the street. The curtain’s main purpose
had obviously changed over the years from originally cloaking the outside
world, to serving now as a dreary gown upon a leprous interior, feebly
hiding from public view the horror within.
Ned looked closer at the television set that sat in front of the
naugahyde chair. It was an odd looking device, enclosed in an all black,
cracked plastic frame. The controls at the bottom were ancient. Two small
knobs, one for power, one for volume, occupied the bottom left, while a
large channel knob sat in the middle on the bottom.
Thirteen numbers, once painted in white to set them off, had long
been rubbed away. If Ned peered closely enough he could make out the
numbers, though it was like trying to read Braille. Trying the channel
knob, he noticed that no matter how hard he twisted, it was permanently
stuck between the five and the six stations. A pair of rabbit ears was
perched on top of the set.
Ned smirked. He remembered Gabe’s comment that the repairman hadn’t
arrived to fix the set. The last call for repair on this television set
must have occurred when Milton Berle ruled the airways. Obviously the
repairman had died and been buried fifty years ago, but the Atlas Motel
hadn’t gotten the message, so they assumed he was still on the way.
Ned let his gaze drift back to the small bundle on the bed. His
light jacket was rolled up to conceal his handgun within. As he stared
around the filthy depressing room he felt powerful waves of sadness.
He allowed himself to wonder what Dee and the kids would think about
the last room their husband and father had occupied. Would they feel any
sorrow and compassion? Any regret? Then again, Ned thought, wouldn’t the
Coroner just come and remove his body from the room? Would Dee ask where
he had died? Would the kids be curious? Would they understand what he was
trying to say with his last act? Would they get his message of the
futility of life and the darkness of his soul?
No, probably not. Definitely not, he corrected himself.
This last moment, this act, was his and his alone. He would die, as
he had lived, misunderstood, unappreciated, and alone. He tried to steel
himself against waves of emotional nostalgia; Dee’s young and vibrant
attitude in college when they had fallen in love, Jes and Beth as children,
running towards him to be picked up and hugged, or carried to bed at night.
Of course, Dee might have a different take on that.
That thought brought an entirely different vision of Dee, a hard
faced, cold woman who had no more warm feelings towards him than she did
towards the dog that pooped on her lawn. Then a scene of Jes’ face,
contorted with anger, tears filling his angry eyes as he cursed Ned and
stormed out of their house six year ago, never to return. He had barely
spoken to Jes since, and when he had it had always been stiff and
uncomfortable. He vividly remembered Beth’s sweet young voice over the
phone begging him to “be nice to Mommy” so he could come home. She had
called often at first, but then, gradually, she had grown more distant and
the calls had stopped.
Life was a cruel joke. As he stood there, a dim red glow bathed the
back wall. He turned reluctantly and through the thin drapes could be
clearly seen the message slowly scrolling down:
Y
O
U
N
E
E
D…
Before the word GOD could appear Ned turned away in anger.
There was no God. Only weaklings needed someone other than
themselves to blame for how life turned out. He suddenly rushed to the
small black table between the bed and quickly opened its only drawer.
Reaching in he discovered what he had suspected: a Gideon Bible. He hated
the Gideons.
One last time, he thought, one last time.
His father, like himself, had been a fervent atheist. When their
family had gone on vacation and stayed in hotels or motels, his dad had
always made a big show of going first to find if there was a Bible in the
room and then throwing it ceremoniously in the trash can. Ned had carried
on that tradition his entire adult life. Ned Phillips had personally
disposed of literally hundreds of Gideon Bibles all over the United States,
and parts of Europe. This would be his final act of defiance, of rebellion
against the religious establishment.
“Here’s to you, Dad,” Ned said gruffly as he found the trash can in
the bathroom and dropped the Bible in. He then wetted some toilet paper in
the sink and dropped it on the top. This would discourage rescue attempts.
It was a small act of defiance in the great conflict, but he would remain
consistent to the end.
Ned couldn’t help feeling a bit of irony. He hadn’t thought much
about his father in years. They had never been close, and he never
particularly liked him as a person. His father was brash, arrogant,
cutting in his remarks, and the two had clashed frequently. He had died a
bitter old man, alone in a county nursing home. Ned has visited him
exactly once at Dee’s urging, nagging actually. Within five minutes his
father, hooked up to an oxygen tank and pale as a ghost, was telling Ned
what a disappointment he had been as a son. Ned had simply turned and
walked away forever.
Hating God and religion were about the only thing they shared in
common. But he was determined not to die like his father, hooked up to
tubes, alone, waiting, and wishing to die.
After throwing the Bible in the trash can, he felt as if somehow he
had purified this pathetic excuse for a room. He went over to the bed,
gently unrolled his coat and felt the cold steel of his salvation. He held
the pistol he had bought several months ago comfortably in his right hand.
It would just take a moment, he thought, and everything that had once been
Ned Phillips would cease to exist forever. The world would continue on in
its downward spiral until it blew itself up, or some natural catastrophe
destroyed all life on earth. Then, maybe life could start again in some
other way, maybe some better way.
He walked heavily to the naugahyde chair and collapsed in it.
Despair and anger struggled for supremacy within him. He didn’t want to
see another sunrise. He had nothing more worth living for. And he felt
very sad.
The sadness disturbed him the most. What did he have to be sad
about? A group of cells would cease to function, nothing more. There was
no great purpose to life anyway, no matter what the philosophers said. He
had done everything he had interest in doing and living no longer held any
attraction to him. It was a clear, logical, unemotional choice.
Ned silently cursed himself. His conclusions were certainly clear
and logical, but not unemotional. Why did he feel such sadness? Why was
this all so hard now? As he had gone over it many times in his mind he had
been able to think so clearly and dispassionately.
He needed to clear his mind. As he sat slumped in the chair an
annoying red glow appeared on his face, a glow he could almost feel. He
certainly hadn’t planned this part very well. Some message was scrolling
down the display at the Rescue Mission. Didn’t the religious people have
any feelings? The last thing anyone at the Atlas Motel needed or wanted
was some kind of neon religious lecture.
The blinking red lights, the silence and the ugly memories were
distracting him. He was in danger of becoming sloppily sentimental. He
would not suffer the indignity.
He rubbed his eyes wearily, then glanced at his watch. It was 6:30.
He was wondering if he’d be able to hold off until 12:01, the appointed
time. Time was passing too slowly. He needed a distraction. He hadn’t
figured on the swell of emotions he would experience in his last few hours.
He had thought it would be easy to be calmly detached and unemotional.
His eyes fixed on the television set. The one time he was willing to
sit in front of the tube and it was probably broken. He half heartedly
leaned forward and turned the power button on. A tiny white light emerged
in the middle of the small screen and grew larger while a buzz indicated
that something was still working.
While the television’s picture struggled to come into focus the sound
was coming through clear and he heard a familiar song that tugged at his
memory. It was cheerful music, which he could hear clearly enough, even
through the buzz, but the picture was still fuzzy. The cheerful music was
like lemon on an open wound. He was hoping to catch a tragic movie, or the
news, anything depressing to help get him in the mood.
He reached for the knob and tried desperately to change the channel,
but it wouldn’t budge. It was as if someone had welded the knob in place.
In exasperation he looked up at the screen just as the movie title
appeared. Ned rolled his eyes in disgust.
No. Not that, he cringed—anything but that.
The words appeared on the screen, The Miracle on 34th Street.
Christmas movies!
This was just cruel and unusual punishment. He had forgotten that
they had a virtual monopoly on all stations this time of year. He was
about to turn the set off in disgust when it began to flicker and suddenly
the screen went blank and the music slowly died out. Just his luck. He
glanced at his watch and noticed he was still clutching a pistol. The
sight of the gun drove all thoughts of the television set out of his mind.
He couldn’t take another onslaught of memories, not now. He needed to
stick to his plan.
He tried desperately to keep his memories at bay, but it was like
trying to hold back a wave on the shore. His heart began beating rapidly
and he consciously tried to remain calm and detached. It wasn’t working,
and he suddenly discovered his hand holding the pistol was moving closer to
his head, almost as if it were a separate part of his body trying to
mercifully put an end to his pain. He felt a rising panic. It wasn’t
supposed to happen this way. He closed his eyes tightly, trying to ward
off what was coming, when suddenly, out of nowhere, he thought he heard the
sound of bells.
His eyes blinked open and he saw that the old television screen had
flickered to life again. A Christmas ditty was playing. “Deck the Halls,”
he thought. But when the picture finally focused, he saw a scene of snow
covering the ground and a gravely voiced narrator saying, “There it is, my
house at Cleveland street. Good old Cleveland street. How could I ever
forget it?” A group of young boys dressed in heavy jackets were running
down the street in 1940’s home town America.
He recognized the movie at once. It was A Christmas Story. Ned
Phillips had a hard and fast rule—he hated all things Christmas, and
especially Christmas movies. He couldn’t stand the sentimental
shucksterism. He had watched the movies in secret when he was a young boy
and his father was gone. In spite of his father’s mockery of them he had
actually found them enjoyable. He later realized that he had only been
attracted to them because they were forbidden. They were sentimental and
intellectual junk food.
He tried desperately to maintain a ban on them at home, but he
learned from Jes and Beth that when he was out of town during the holidays
(which was frequently), Dee had watched them with the kids. When he had
confronted her about it she had been thoroughly ashamed and repentant. But
the next year she did it again. It was a weakness in Dee. She was far too
sentimental. Finally, he had lifted the Christmas movie embargo for Beth’s
sake, who could get him to do anything with her big blue eyes.
However, over the years his negative, biting sarcastic commentary
throughout the movies had caused Beth and the family to start watching them
without him again, which wasn’t hard since he was rarely home. But for
some reason this movie had always appealed to him since it was so
unrepentingly commercial and highlighted what modern day Christmas was
really all about—blatant commercialism. Ralphie knew what he wanted and he
went after it—Ned could admire that kind of single-minded devotion. And
the scene of Ralphie in the Pink bunny suit was worth the price of
admission all by itself.
Without realizing it, Ned’s grip on the pistol loosened and his hand
slowly descended into his lap. This was what he needed. He’d watch for a
few minutes, relax, and clear his mind. Ned leaned back and relaxed in the
chair, the smell of his damp clothes and wet hair now mixing with the other
odors in the room. He rested his head on the back of the chair and began
to watch the movie more out of an attempt to shed some of his darker and
painful emotions than anything else.
After a few minutes a deep weariness descended upon Ned and his eyes
began to dim. His breathing grew heavy. And contrary to his will, Ned
Phillips fell asleep. To an onlooker it would probably have seemed a
rather sudden, restless, almost unnatural sleep. But Ned’s mind was not
asleep, indeed it was just beginning to stir.
A series of scenes passed before him in a gentle blur of images as he
drifted in and out of sleep; a storefront window with a gigantic Christmas
display, with toy trains, tanks, planes, and a Red Ryder BB gun with a
compass in the stock; a little blond haired boy with glasses wearing a cap
and scarf looking into the window with longing in his eyes.
Then the same boy dressed up as a cowboy in a daydream shooting bad
guys with his trusty Red Ryder BB gun while his little brother and his
parents huddle under the kitchen table in fear.
Now he’s in a large department store and Ned felt himself being led
roughly up a glittered and tinseled stairway of a lavish Christmas display.
At the top a large snow mountain framed a real life Santa and his elf.
Ned’s heart started beating fast. He was afraid. He was suddenly in
Santa’s lap, overwhelmed, unable to speak or respond to Santa’s question:
what does he want for Christmas? The next moment he felt himself slipping
down a giant slide brokenhearted.
Suddenly everything went dark. Then a new scene emerged and Ned
found himself in a comfortable chair next to a Christmas tree. His wife
was coming down the stairs, she’d put little Jes and Beth to bed. She
turned off the living room lights so that the colored lights on the tree
illuminated the room in a soft colorful glow. Dee, holding a glass of
wine, came and sat on Ned’s lap. They both gazed quietly out upon the snow
falling outside as Silent Night played on their phonograph quietly.
“It’s beautiful outside,” Dee said softly, as the large snowflakes
fell quietly on the street outside.
Ned puts his arm around Dee’s waist and was flooded with feelings of
warmth and love. She turned to gaze into his eyes and they clinked their
wine glasses together.
“Merry Christmas,” she said to him warmly.
He looked into her beautiful eyes and tried to speak, to respond, but
nothing came out. Desperate, he tried again, but something was wrong. He
couldn’t speak. Dee’s eyes looked at him questioningly. Ned tried
desperately to speak, to say that he loved her, but nothing came out. He
desperation he realized that he couldn’t even change his expression; it was
frozen in cold indifference.
What was wrong? Why couldn’t he speak to her? Why couldn’t he tell
her how he felt? It was tearing him up inside. The pain in Dee’s eyes
sliced into him. Then, slowly, her expression turned to hurt and with
tears in her eyes, Dee ran out of the room.
Crying. Ned was sure he heard crying.
He woke with a start and found himself in the naugahyde chair in the
Atlas Motel. There were tears streaming down his cheeks. He’d been
dreaming. It was just the movie…but it had seemed so real that he still
felt the pain of Dee’s disappointment.
The television flickered fuzzily and the sound disappeared. He had
no idea how long he had been asleep. Never in his life had Ned experienced
anything like this. He took deep breaths to calm himself and angrily
brushed away his tears.
He got up and walked to the window, drew the curtains back angrily,
and looked out. The neon light at the Rescue Mission was mercifully out.
It was dark and the rain was so heavy that little could be seen, which was
best.
Ned couldn’t shake the feelings he had experienced in his dream.
They drudged up other painful memories. The dream had seemed so real. He
knew he had just been watching a movie while he fell asleep and obviously
through the power of suggestion he had…what? He still wasn’t sure what
happened. The scene in the movie was still vivid in his memory, but Darren
McGavin was the actor who should have been sitting in the chair. But
somehow, some way, it had been him. Ned Phillips had entered the scene.
He shook his head in an attempt to clear it.
All he knew was that he’d forgotten how much he loved Dee. He closed
his eyes and tried to will himself back into that scene, but he couldn’t.
He found it difficult to breathe. This felt worse than when he and Dee had
broken up. In the dream he had been with the old Dee, the one who still
loved him. He had seen her, smelled her, felt her, sensed her love for him
once again, and then, in an instant, it was gone again.
He turned and looked at the pistol he had left lying in the chair.
Was he making the right decision? What if their relationship could be
salvaged? Hope sprang up in him so powerfully it almost overwhelmed him.
Then, just as quickly, his mind took over again. Dee couldn’t stand the
sight of him. She wouldn’t talk to him if you paid her.
“It’s not gonna happen, Pal,” he said softly to himself.
“God, I wish I could hear from her one more time, though” he thought
to himself. That thought sounded almost like a prayer and he silently
berated himself for it.
Suddenly a song broke the awful silence. It was from a musical,
“Meet Me in St. Louis.” It was the Trolley Song. His heart raced wildly.
It was Dee’s favorite song, and she had made him download it to his iPhone
as her personal ring tone.
Dee was calling him.
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