The instruction for Day 3 of the 30-Day challenge reads:
[ Brief: Imagine you're looking through a collection of short stories. One of the titles
catches your interest. That's the story you want to read first. What might the
title be? Invent a title that would make you want to read the story. Now, write a
story to go with that title...]
On occasions I visit the local recycling transfer station to drop off recyclable household waste sorted into bins for cardboard, paper, plastics, green white and brown glass, tinplate and aluminium cans. Quite obviously there are materials which fall into other categories, items which can possibly be reused as discarded. One such category includes books, paperbacks and magazines, which can be purchased from the transfer station ‘shop’ for a nominal fee. It is here that I find interesting material…
The above paragraph was written last night. This morning I woke up in a panic with that totally blank dreaded ‘writer’s block.’ As Hamlet said in Act 2 Scene 2, “The plot’s the thing…” Yeah, I know, he actually said, “The play’s the thing, wherein I’ll catch the conscience of the king.” But, in my case, it’s a plot I need. Once I have the plot sorted, the rest should be as simple as ABC.
[End of Wednesday morning’s entry. I’m off to the greenhouse to complete the sowing of the seeds… perhaps ideas will develop...]
But I Thought…
The electric lights set in neat rows on the high ceiling above drown the scene below in exceptionally bright white light. There is not a single space in the room where the slightest shadow can be detected. A bank of electronic devices form an amphitheatre of screens and dials around the one end of the narrow flat bed in the centre of the room.
Two white-clad figures wearing surgeon skull caps and face masks stand in attendance next to the bed, one on each side of the still naked figure of a black bearded man. Whilst a couple of the monitors are plotting never-ending wave graphs in luminescent green and red, a number of others are emitting various pitched signals.
At the end of the room is a set of wide doors, stainless steel with painted wooden hand panel. A sign with neat red lettering proclaims “No Unauthorised Entry.” At the other end is a rectangular glass window looking in from what appears to be a small room on the other side. One can just make out a face and shoulders of someone standing in that space looking through at the brightly lit scene. Above the window hangs a simple chrome-plated electronic clock . It shows 04:22
The two white-clad figures speak in muted educated tones. Professional.
“You know, I reckon we’ve done all we can. Look at these,” the taller of the two indicates to his colleague a set of electronic graphs on a large screen, “This has reached the critical point. The BP is too low to try anything else.”
“You’re spot-on, Carl,” the other replies, “Patient 78455 Time 03:22 Sunday 19 July 2009, check… Shall I go to inform him?” and he motions with his eyes towards the observation window at the end of the room.
* * * * * *
Ring. Ring.
Brad Withers looks up at the clock as he lifts the receiver from its docking station on the untidy desk of the little office inside the workshop building. It had a high pitched ceiling and a number of boats in various stages of assembly were standing around on dollies and platforms. In the far corner, a compressor burst into life.
4:05
Who on earth will be phoning at this time on a Friday afternoon, Brad wondered, “Hiya Honeywell SpeedCraft.”
“Brad, where are you? You know that I’m going down to Samantha for the weekend. You were supposed to have the car here by half-three! What’s your game?” The irate voice on the phone belonged to his wife Juliet.
“And Mona has been so looking forward to coming with us this time. It’s all I’ve heard about the whole week,” Julie ranted on. Mona was their 18-year-old daughter, for whom Brad would do anything. Her new association with Samantha, on the other hand, was deeply troubling to her proud father. But Brad had learned that it doesn’t pay to enforce bans on your kids. Not that Mona was a kid any longer; she had developed into a most attractive young lady over the last two years.
“Julie, I’ve had to work on the fine-tuning of the ‘SC170’ for the test runs, which we will have to do over the weekend. The customer will be here on Monday morning. I haven’t been sitting around on my arse, like you make out!” Brad paused to allow his message to get across, then continued, “Listen, I’ll be another quarter of an hour, half tops, then I will be home by… oh shit, it’s ten after already… I’ll try to make it by five.” Brad clicked off before his wife could offer any more encouragement.
Brad sat staring at the phone in its cradle, then at the clock on the wall for a few minutes, motionless, thinking. He pulled a crumpled pack of plain cigarettes from his overall pocket as he strolled outside the building into the deserted yard towards an untidy stack of wooden pallets.
He lit the tobacco with a cheap plastic lighter, blew the grey-blue smoke carefully away from the workshop entrance where the large sign declared, “Home of Honeywell SpeedCraft.” The business was owned and managed by Wallie Honeywell, a good 15 years Brad’s junior. Brad held an engineering degree or two, was a whiz motor mechanic, and an acclaimed speed fiend, with a reputation both on water and on terra firma. Half of SpeedCraft sales were based purely on Wallie’s reputation in the speed arena.
Brad blew another lungful of fumes into the air. Wallie couldn’t tolerate the smoking habit and a number of arguments had resulted between the pair over it on and off during the past number of years.
“Julie is up to no good,” Brad said out loud to himself, as he considered the tone of his recent telephone argument. Samantha, his boss’s wife, was a socialite, with an eye for the guys and always ready for a drink and a laugh. Not the sort of company Julie should be mixing in. The fact that they were trying to draw his precious Mona into this style of loose living, angered Brad no end, but he hadn’t come up with a workable plan for an alternative. Wallie, on the other hand, didn’t seem to care about what Samantha got up to. The two of them Samantha and Wallie, were slowly breaking down his already teetering relationship with Julie. And now Wallie is insisting on having this SC170 up and ready and firing on all cylinders before 8:00 on Monday morning for this big shot customer.
Ring. Ring.
In a few moments, Brad was back in the office, “Yeah?” He was not in the mood for any more fighting with Julie, she must just learn that his job comes first in instances like this.
“Yeah? Excuse me, but is that the way we answer the phone at the Home of Honeywell?” The voice of boss Wallie showed obvious annoyance at the Brad’s apparent lack of professionalism on the telephone.
“So sorry, boss. I thought it was the wife nagging again.”
“And what if it was an important customer? What sort of bloody impression would that greeting give him. I’ll tell you what sort – the sort that will take him elsewhere to buy his boats, somewhere where the staff are professional and courteous. Not bloody Yeah, you hear me?”
Brad could sense that Wallie had possibly not had a good Friday. He was inclined to be moody from time to time, but moodiness goes with the territory of champions, when things are not going their way.
“I said I was sorry. I thought…”
“No, don’t talk shit to me - You did not bloody think. I’ve had just about enough from your sort. It’s time to pull you socks up, matey, or else ship out.”
“It won’t happen again, boss. I promise. It’s just that my wife’s been pestering me about the weekend away with your wife, and I was supposed to drop the car off for her.”
Brad could feel the anger and resentment welling up within him. For a while, he had been sensing Wallie’s change in attitude, and his disregard for considering Brad’s needs. He had started treating him like a paid slave, rather than a friend-employee. The resentment was starting to border on hate…
“You just make sure that you have the SC170 at the slipway at 3:30 sharp tomorrow afternoon ready for the full works, including the 90-minute endurance, and don’t be late, hear?” With that final instruction, the call was ended.
* * * * * *
The SC170 slid easily off the trailer into the water on the slipway, crisp new paintwork gleaming in the bright Saturday afternoon sunshine. It is a high-speed flat-hull performance vessel, with a crew capacity of four. Ideal for deep-sea fishing and recreational water sports. Brad ties the boat at the mooring quay rented by Honeywell, the grey wooden slats creaking somewhat under his weight. He returns to the truck and takes the trailer to the parking yard.
“Hiya, Bennie,” Brad greets the yard-keeper and carefully manoeuvres the trailer neatly between the white lines of bay marked “Trailer 41” near the far end of the yard. Bennie’s ‘office’ is a timber shed with a large window overlooking the yard, with a clear view of the boat harbour and the bay beyond. He takes the large book from Bennie and logs in the SC170 as Vessel: ‘Honeywell 4872’, skipper: ‘W Honeywell’, crew ‘B. Withers’, Next-of-kin: ‘Mrs Juliet Withers’, Estimated time of return: Brad glanced at his wristwatch 3:15. He carefully entered ‘6:30pm’. Yes, that should give them the required two-and-a-half hours for travelling and all the trials as ordered by Wallie.
With ten minutes to spare before cast-off time, he shares a last cigarette and a joke with Bennie. He notices that the dark grey clouds had started gathering in the North, a possible sign of rain?
“You guys must watch your backs if the wind starts picking up, hey, my mate,” Bennie warned, “That sea over there doesn’t have respect for anyone, not even for a high-flyer like your boss-man. It doesn’t favour one fellow over the next. On the water, we’re all equal.”
As he reaches the jetty, he spots the athletic figure of his skipper and boss Wallie already at his post on Honeywell 4872, life-jacket strapped to his chest, strictly as per regulations. Wallie treats the water and the dirt race-track with respect, always using the safety equipment as designed.
Brad gives his boss a wave-salute, and casts off the mooring ropes as Wallie fires up the two powerful engines, preparing to leave the boat club harbour. Brad looks back towards the yard, in time to see Bennie giving his customary wave, his checked shirt fluttering quite strongly in the breeze...
Brad took up his post on the port side, while Wallie stood at the controls. Once more the feeling of rising blood pressure and anger started building up once more. It was something he couldn’t explain, something foreign to him. He found that he had started resenting his boss, something to do with his loss of control over his daughter, perhaps. Did this feeling of resentment contain any components of hate? Hate is such a negative emotion, something which Brad has never experienced before.
He bit on his molars, and took a series of deep breaths, looking straight ahead, like a good naval sailor. Damn, it was impossible to shake off these feelings of resentment…
* * * * * * *
Brad has done an outstanding job on fine-tuning the vessel, which responds to every command. Wallie first puts it through its handling paces, like opening the throttle full from standstill, maintaining maximum acceleration for four or five minutes, then closing down the fuel suddenly. Turning the vessel every which way and high speed, performing dough-nuts, and tackling the swell at top speed side-on. If the craft can handle Wallie’s treatment under such conditions, then it will pass the safety standard required when under the control of an owner-to-be who might perhaps not be quite as deft as Wallie at handling it when faced with sudden unexpected critical situations.
The wind picks up as the boat passes the headland at Seal Point and out into the deep ocean. These are the ideal conditions for testing the SC170, the conditions which help the adrenaline flow through Wallie’s veins to every extremity of his lean muscular body. He is at home now.
As Seal Point fades into the background, Wallie re-checks the fuel levels and then adjusts the controls for Big One. The Big One is a standard Honeywell endurance test in which the vessel is set to top speed for a full 60 minutes, and then all the mechanical and electronic components are immediately evaluated against the standard specifications.
“Set your watch, Brad. We’ll do 30 minutes out and then 30 minutes back. T60 and counting, mine’s set.” Brad noticed that the headwind had stiffened considerably, as his boss dropped his arm as a timing signal, and opened the throttle to 100%. The Honeywell motors roared in keeping with their deep-throated pedigree causing the bow to lift steeply skywards and the stern to dig scarily deep below the watery surface. This was the time for concentration, this was the time for truth…
At this stage of the testing, Brad’s duties were just as important as those of the skipper at the controls. He knew that an critical error on his part could conceivably causing a major malfunction, and lead to who knows what? As serious as complete engine failure at high speed, which could result in a catastrophic event, even death of the crew.
Brad had been on many sea trials with Wallie. He was acutely aware of the details which he needed to check on a minute by minute basis. This was the most important part of the ‘full medical’ of the boat world, and he was the physician specialist. The work required accurate measuring of electrical currents, checking mechanical efficiency at various points, and the turbulent sea wasn’t helping much, either. It need his full concentration every moment of the 60 minutes, but Brad’s mind was elsewhere…
He mulled over the possible fate of his daughter. The negative influences of Wallie’s wife over her. Not the sort of life he had envisaged for his daughter. It was Wallie’s doing that he would be spending the weekend working on this boat, instead of being with his family, instead of spending valuable time with his daughter. He dropped the electronic multi-meter as he stepped towards one of the cover plates.
The dull thud of the instrument on the deck brought him back to reality. Good, Wallie had not noticed the mishap. The last thing he needed was to be accused of day-dreaming. Yet Brad knew instantaneously that he had faltered, that his mind was not on the task; it was on this ‘hate’ crusade, as it had been since Friday afternoon.
The wind picks up even more, making handling the Honeywell even trickier. The swell deepens and Brad needs to concentrate like never before to retain his footing in the performance of his tasks. The deck has become a wet slippery slide and the spray increases. Fifteen minutes later, for no apparent reason, an unholy metallic grating sound, then a dull explosion and the motors cut out entirely.
* * * * * *
A number of cars are parked along the wide driveway leading up the imposing mansion on Park Avenue. An illuminated sign set in river-stone announces “Honeywell.” The double-storey home is illuminated from every window, loud music reverberating around the property.
In one of the reception rooms, Julie Withers, cigarette in hand, sips white wine from an obviously expensive long-stemmed wine glass. She is wearing a tasteful low-cut tailored dress and is in deep conversation with a younger bearded man.
Her mobile phone rings discreetly in her handbag which is lying at her left elbow on a tall coffee table. She excuses herself from the conversation and answers as she walks out onto the open patio, into then strong breeze, leaving her daughter Mona to keep the young man company.
Mona can see her mother through the glass doors to the patio. She can see her speaking on the mobile for a few moments and then she stands motionless, staring out over the expanse of the darkened lawn. Then she turns and walks slowly indoors once more.
* * * * * *
“This can’t be true, Julie. What did they say? Did you get hold of Brad? What does Brad say?” Samantha fired the questions at Julie, between the torrents of tears as they sped along the coast road towards the town, towards the hospital, Julie at the wheel of the black SUV.
“No, the Sea Rescue guys phoned from the boat yard. He simply said that the boat had run into trouble in the stormy sea and that Wallie had somehow fallen overboard or fell somewhere and got injured or something. He couldn’t tell me anything else, just that the ambulance had taken him to the hospital in a very critical condition. That’s all I know. Apparently the other crew member was Ok and was rescued.”
“I have tried a couple of times, but I cannot get Brad on the phone.”
* * * * * * *
Wallie turns slowly away from the white-coated figure and slowly walks out of the hospital building, almost as if in slow-motion. Halfway down the steps, he encounters the distraught Samantha, Julie and Mona running up from the black SUV towards him.
* * * * * * *
This is surely one of my most unimaginative attempts at creative writing. The word “cheesy” comes to mind, something I might have written in my teens? Under normal circumstances, I would have scrapped, but the Challenge advises that, “Many of the story ideas will take much more more than 10 minutes to write, but don't worry. Just get started, and at the end of the 10 minutes, decide if you want to continue.
If not, you can abandon the story guilt-free. You've done your job; you've put in your writing time for the day. If you're inspired to keep going, you can either write for a longer time or save what you've started and come back to it another day.”
[ 3,150 words]
[Brief for Day 4 of the 30-Day Writing Challenge:
Think of two very different people you know. Invent a character who combines
characteristics of both of them. Then put this character in a stressful family
situation...]
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