With his hand shaking, he held the glass under the refrigerator’s ice dispenser and, on the third splash, withdrew it. Perfect. He at once tasted it and exhaled, “Ahhh,” then scraped a chair across the hardwood floor and sat at the small kitchen table where he had spent hour upon hour plotting his revenge.
Sitting, hoping to squelch his pain, he sipped the gin and stared mindlessly, squinting at the wall in front of him covered with headline clippings from his period of infamy, as he called it.
It all started when the scientific world rebuked his noteworthy research on global warming using “cooked” data and Jennifer, his dedicated wife of twenty-five years, left him publicly for his deceptive actions. He had become a persona-non-gratis in the social circles in which she flourished for years and, too embarrassed to support him further, she left him five years later. It was the hardest five years of his life. That broke his spirit more than his respected peers’ discovery and denouncement of his forged research.
The overlapping headline messages thumb tacked to the wall bore the details of his demise. He frowned as he recounted the first few through the bottom of his glass: Simple Simon Let A Lie, Man,Fogner’s Weather Model Fogs the Data and Renown Scientist Implicated in Global Warming Data Tampering.
Those were the ones on top. Below them, more banners spewed similar claims. He knew they were accurate in every detail. He gulped the last swallow from his glass and threw it against the wall, smashing it into hundreds of pieces that scattered across the floor in frenzied paths.
The numbing effect of the first gin brought him immediate relief from his inner demons. Needing another, he returned to the hutch and filled a new glass almost to the brim, leaving room for three ice cubes. Rather than returning to the table, he carried the glass into the music room, placed it on the polished grand piano his wife had played during the good times, and turned on the vintage stereo system.
He had resisted the notion of electronic storage devices, such as iPods and MP3 players as his friends suggested, and instead bought a new top-of-the-line turntable with all its bells and whistles to continue playing his extensive library of LPs. He thumbed through the albums on the shelf, seeking his favorite. It was always on the left but now it was three records in. Antonio Vivaldi’s Four Seasons was his choice. He pulled the LP from its jacket being careful not to touch the grooves. Then with his thumb over the spindle hole, his hand stretched to grasp the rim, he slid the LP over the spindle, moved the arm to the first track and paused. Do I want Summer, Fall, Winter or Spring? Hmm. Today must be Summer for me. The summer I shall never see.
He placed the arm’s needle into the beginning groove of Concerto #2 in G Minor, cranked up the system’s volume, and stood anticipating the powerful opening cello sequence. It burst from the speakers with incredible ferocity, reminding him of his tumultuous journey through life. At once, he became the conductor waving his arms madly through the air with each passage, increasing his emphasis on crescendos and restraining his commands during the adagio movements. As the concerto entered its last movement, the thunderstorm, his long jet-black hair joined with his arms, soaring in rhythm to the emotive passage. Then all was quiet.
He took the gin glass from the piano, wiped the ring with his hand and swigged several gulps, then returned to the turntable and dropped the tone arm into the entry groove of Spring, Concerto #1 in E Major. As he released the arm, it bounced several times before catching, creating a raucous repetition of the string introduction. Then, once again, he was directing the symphony in his mind, organizing thoughts and finalizing plans. Everything was perfect; nothing could go wrong. By Winter, he had emptied the decanter and was stumbling intoxicated through the house screaming. “Come get me! Kill me please!” Not a soul could hear his plea over the blaring strains of Vivaldi’s continuing concerto. In desperation, crashing into walls and furniture, he returned to the kitchen, grabbed a butcher knife from the slotted block on the counter, and put its glinting blade to his throat. Suddenly, at the edge of death in his drunken state of depression, he found an inner peace as Vivaldi’s Winter swept him away.
It was Christmas morning. Snow blew through his vision as he shivered, but it mattered not. He loved winter. The stately pines layered with delicate snow banks on each branch, moved with the cold wind and fought to hold their beauty. Escaping flakes landed on young Simon’s laughing face reminding him that Santa would visit him tonight.
He released his grip on the hilt, sending the knife clanging to the floor.
He could hear his mother’s distant call through the winter storm, “Simon, come in. You’ll catch your death of cold.” He ran toward her voice, his teeth chattering in the frigid headwind. “Ccoming mom.” With each step, his feet grew heavier as the snow gripped his boots. He imagined the roaring fire awaiting his arrival and ran faster and faster, stomping the snow away as he raced home. Soon his shivering would stop; his teeth would calm their incessant vibration.
Puffing and panting on the icy porch landing he stopped to rest and watch his frozen breath swirling with the wind. He moved forward, then slid and stepped cautiously to the front door avoiding a fall. Through the stained glass window, he could see the warm glow of the fireplace dancing across the room. Just then, he decided he loved coming inside from a cold winter day almost as much as he loved winter. He stamped his feet, releasing the snow clumps and opened the door to the aroma of gingerbread and hot chocolate. There, by the hearth, his mom had placed a plate of warm muffins and a steaming mug of hot cocoa. He tore off his wet boots, threw them by the door, and ran into the warm living room decorated with holly berries, leaves, and mistletoe everywhere.
Standing over the plate, he shyly asked, “Hey, mom?”
“Yes, dear,” she answered gingerly from the kitchen.
“Are these for me or Santa Claus?”
She laughed and replied, “For you silly. Santa’s will be much larger.”
Simon grinned. “Good. I may leave him one of my muffins, too.”
He loved his Christmas surprise more than anything as he sat listening to the winter wind roaring outside. It was his most perfect Christmas Day.
The speakers went silent; the turntable clicked as the arm reached the final groove of Winter, but he didn’t move. He had succumbed to his drink and fallen fast asleep, his head resting on the kitchen table.
POETIC AIM
Morning was not welcomed, as the pain grew deeper and more debilitating. He lifted his head from the table, looked around at his bleary surroundings and screamed in agony. The radiation sickness fueled by the hangover overwhelmed him. Then he remembered the knife. He felt around and found it at his feet with a small smear of dark blood on its blade. Quickly, he grabbed his throat. A few drops of dried blood fell into his hand as he released it. Damn! I can’t even do that correctly. He stood and pitched the knife into the sink. “Lived to die another day,” he muttered. “What irony!”
Gradually his plan nudged his mind back into awareness. He had work ahead and his illnesses could not deter him. After a quick trip to the bathroom for his morning constitutional and a quick throw-up, he returned to his wall of shame, plastered with clipped newspaper headlines, and stopped at a small yellow Post-it note off to the side. Staring a moment, he focused his eyes on the five-element list of things to do.
At the bottom was the number 3.1415926… He reached back for a pencil from the table and scratched through the top item, “#1 Introduce Adam.” Snickering with accomplishment, he dropped the pencil nib to the second item and paused. The message, coded so that only he could understand, read “#2 Wax Poetic.”