Writing Challenge – Day 10

The instruction for Day 10 of the 30-Day writing challenge is:

Brief: Perhaps the best way to learn about writing is by studying the work of other writers. Today, you will choose a book by a writer you admire. Read a paragraph of this book to get the author's "voice" in your head. Now, try to write your own story (or rewrite a story you have written) the way this author would have written it. Imitate the author's style and the techniques he or she uses..

Wow! Back to my schooldays, and “Appreciation of Literature 101”, except that our instruction was never as advanced as this. I can hear some of my readers rolling their eyes once more, “Here he goes again, making excuses, finding reasons why the question is vague, or why he doesn’t know this or that…”

One of the writers I admire is Winston S Churchill. Having read excerpts from a number of his writings, I can but throw my stubble little pencil after his Parker fountain pen creations in language I could only wish to use. For that reason, I haven’t a hope in hell in transforming any of my writing into something resembling Churchillian prose. Therefore I have chosen a “commercial” writer, one Stanley Bing.  Stanley Bing is the pen name of Gil Schwartz, a business humourist and novelist. He has written a column for Fortune magazine for more than ten years, after having spent a decade at Esquire.

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The Ticket

Tom is a travelling handyman, moving from town to town in search of ways to earn a simple living without resorting to the habits of tramps and winos and folk who sleep under bridges. He was formerly a career guy, with a regular job in a national company, pushing a pen and towing the corporate line. One day, whilst attending a farewell ceremony for a senior guy, Harry Clutterbug who was retiring after a lifetime of service and dedication, he saw a feeling of hopelessness and fear of the unknown as in the victim’s eyes as the director handed him a gold, would you believe it, pen and said a couple of words of appreciation for his work.

With a “Is this what I want to achieve in life?” question pestering him for the rest of the day, he awoke the next morning, grabbed the phone and called his boss with his resignation, effective immediately. Since that significant moment in his life, Tom has never wanted for anything, he has never had a million bucks, nor owned any property, or furniture, or much clothing, for that matter. But Tom has had those things which Harry Clutterbug, with his gold pen and all, would never have been able to dream of. Tom had never even had reason to see a doctor or dentist like his office-mates. Even more significantly, Tom had not even thought of a psychiatrist or a psychologist as someone a regular guy would want to visit. Ever.

Today, Tom is doing a spring-clean of a garage-cum-laundry for the Macintosh family in the Eastcliff holiday mansion. The building is occupied most weekends and over extended holiday periods like Easter and the Christmas / New Year season. A housekeeper Mary-Mae is busy airing the rooms and cleaning carpets and the like, in preparation of the arrival of the Macintoshes in a few days.

He spent most of the morning cleaning up the storage shelves, and checking over the mountain bikes on their special mounting hooks along the walls. He cleaned and checked the lawnmowers (both of them) and the petrol-driven hedge trimmer.

Tom was about to disconnect and move out the washing machine and tumble dryer in preparation of painting the walls and ceiling of the laundry area, when he heard the voice of Mary-Mae calling out, “Tom, come and get it! I’ve made some soup and some toasted sandwiches for our lunch if you like.”

Tom had already received his wages from the property agent for the job, so was his reputation for integrity and workmanship. There was no question in their minds that he would grab the cash and ignore the job. No sir, Tom’s motto had always been “The customer is king, and deserves only the best service…”

Tom pulled up a garden chair in the small kitchen yard where Mary-Mae was serving the meal. He thanked her for the hospitality and tucked in, not wanting to waste any of his employer’s time. Mary-Mae sat opposite at the garden table, “What’ve you still got to do today, Tom?”

Tom had never been one to become too involved with others, and he applied the same philosophy to his social relationship with Mary-Mae, “I must still paint out the laundry area, and then I’m done. I guess I should be finished by knock-off time, so you will be able to lock up after me, and still have time to get down to the bus-stop in time.”

They exchanged a few pleasantries, and the talkative housemaid offered anecdotal pictures of the Macintoshes, their habits and moods. It appeared that their employers had little regard for others and spent more money on the luxuries of life than the average person could afford in simply funding the business of living.

When Tom had finished his food, he excused himself from the table, “Thanks Mary-Mae, that was swell. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must get back to that laundry or you’ll be walking home to-night!”

Back in the laundry area, Tom disconnected the machines from the water and electricity supplies. He moved the tumble dryer clear of the area to be painted, but struggled a bit with the large bulky washing machine. Eventually, it moved. It was clear why he had struggled – there were a number of small items on the floor under the machine, which had become wedged and had prevented the machine from moving. He swept these to one side with his foot, and moved it out of the area to be painted.

Tom bent down to sweep away the obstructions, propping the handful of junk into the rear pocket of his overall. There were also three one dollar coins and a few of more minor denomination. He strode to the kitchen and placed these coins on the counter near where Mary-Mae was busy ironing pillow cases.

“From behind the washing machine,” Tom mumbled as he placed them on the surface.

“I would be concerned about money when it comes to the Macintoshes, Tom,” Mary-Mae mused, “it would take a lot more than a couple of dollars to make them sit up.”

Later that afternoon, Tom was sitting on the bus bound for town (and his home). He saw groups of affluent kids along the road, playing football on open patches of grassed areas or mobile on expensive-looking bikes and designer skateboards. All were dressed in the latest labels. So, this was the way the other half lived.

As the bus took a corner rather sharply, Tom’s backside slid a bit on the leather seat. There was something uncomfortable beneath him, in his back pocket. He scratched and pulled out a small bundle of papers. The muck he’d cleaned out from behind the washing machine in the Macintosh laundry, he recalled. Two chocolate bar wrappers, three tickets to the movies from last week, some till strip receipts from a supermarket and an old lotto ticket. 

Chuck this lot in the bin as I leave the bus, Tom thought to himself. The bus continued on its way. He fiddled with the paper in his hand a few times. The old lotto ticket accidentally fell to the floor.

As Tom bent over to retrieve the offending litter, his eye caught the date Wednesday 22 January. Not quite a week ago. This was not an old ticket, it was the latest…

There was no writing on the ticket, it looked almost new. Hmmm… He’s heard all sorts of stories about unclaimed lottery tickets…

“You should always write your name on your ticket, you know,” the guy behind of the counter of the convenience shop, “anyone could take it and cash it in if there’s no positive ID. And, would you believe it? Look here, its your lucky week – your prize on this is seventy-eight thousand dollars!”

That night after his usual fresh salad and roast chicken breasts, Tom sat back and listened to a classical musical concert on his little plastic portable radio, one of his few material possessions. Plan A, Plan B or Plan C? These tumbled continuously through his mind as the violins and violas built up the music to a noisy climax on the radio, should he hand the prize money to the Macintoshes, should he simply keep mum and invest it somewhere, should he keep some and donate the rest to the school for needy kids down the road?

Tom’s nature was such that indecision could never form part of it. A thing was either right or wrong, nothing in between. When faced with a choice, he would not go to sleep in a state of indecision.

Later, he had made a choice, a final choice and was no longer undecided. Shortly after that, he managed to doze off, nothing weighing down on his conscience.

[ The brief for Day 11:  Your character gets trapped in an elevator with someone he or she is afraid of (you decide why)… ]