Glistening spurts of water sprayed into the air out of sprinklers. The water fell down and dampened the already dew covered lawns. Simultaneously, all the sprinklers shut off as every door in the cookie cutter suburban paradise opened.
From the dark interiors of their Doppelganger homes stepped men dressed to kill, or at least to maim seriously. The identical men all straightened their respective sensible ties as they walked to their sedans parked just outside their garages.
Alan Smithee checked the digital clock on his car’s stereo. He threw his gears into reverse and pulled out of his driveway keeping in time with all the other mindless suburbanites. While participating in the synchronized swimming event that is a Monday morning in suburbia, Alan didn’t notice that he didn’t have to unlock his car door before getting in.
Giving a perfunctory wave and dapper smile, Alan pulled into the North Systems Inc. parking lot and over a big speed bump. He cocked his head to the side when he could have sworn he heard a quick exhale of breath come from the back seat of his car. But then his thoughts of the early 90's children's show, David the Gnome, caught up with Alan and he quickly let the mundane detail escape his mind.
“—eating the donuts. So, did everyone get that?” The level 3 manager surveyed the crowd of faces around him. He stopped when he cast his gaze on Alan, who was arguing with the man behind him.
“Mr. Smithee, is there anything I can do for you?”
Alan and his combatant looked up guiltily at the manager. Embarrassed, Alan stammered, “Uh--no, sir.”
“Then what seems to be the problem between you and Mr. Grutza?” The manager nodded his completely bald head toward the guy Alan was parlaying with.
“Sir, Grutza here tapped me on the shoulder with his pen. Actually it was more like a stab with his pen. He denies it vehemently. It was a hard stab, too. It hurt,” Alan was rubbing his shoulder and tiny speck of blood appeared on his shirt.
“Yes, how very mature of you. Now, if you two pugilistic powerhouses are finished your battle royal, I’ll get back to what this meeting is about,” the manager turned to the crowd of uninterested faces and droned on.
Alan scowled at Mr. Grutza all the while mouthing curses and rubbing his shoulder.
Seizure-inducing beeps and flashes went off on Alan Smithee’s computer screen. He slouched his shoulders as he typed lazily. Sounds of an office doing just enough work so as not to get fired came at Alan in his bland, gray, cubicle.
Even the likes of such zany cartoon characters as “Dilbert” or “Cathy” posted on his walls weren’t enough to brighten his dreary day. Hell, Garfield even mocked his very existence what with the lasagna and all.
Alan reached back in a long stretch and let out a loud yawn. He rolled his feet around on the thin carpet and felt something under his right foot. Alan picked up the strange object and with a confused look on his face he studied it.
Not being an expert on the subject, Alan still swore that the thing in his hands was a very large shotgun shell. Having grown up with leftist anti-gun ex-hippie parents, Alan never held a gun, its bullets, or even saw one on television as television was just another poison of the conservative right. Alan rolled the shotgun shell in his hands for a moment then said to no one except the crazy likes of “Dogbert”, “It’s definitely time for lunch.”
Tossing the shell on top of the chaotic pile of papers, he left.
“Today has been the weirdest day of my whole life,” Alan stated loudly. He tossed his tray of food from the cafeteria down on the table with a clang.
The other guys at the table were eating their own supposedly nutritional gruel.
“Did you win the fight?” Hugo asked as he shoved a spoonful of runny applesauce into his gaping maw.
“That’s not funny and it wasn’t a fight, either.” Alan started eating his food.
“I think Grutza could take you out, Smithee.”
“I ’m not going to fight; we’re not in 10th grade. I mean if he hit me first, I’d--OH MY SWEET LORD!” Alan was holding up his spoon. He opened his eyes wide and saw a large red capsule on his spoonful of applesauce. The crimson object was about the size of a quarter.
The other guys at the table sat wide-eyed in disbelief at the strange object on Alan’s spoon.
“That looks like a huge pill. Smithee, I knew there was something not right in your head, but popping pill is downright pathetic,” Hugo shook his head with a disapproving stare.
Alan felt his fingers relax and the spoon fell to the table, splattering the grayish applesauce all around. He jumped to his feet frantically, “I don’t take any pills!”
Alan sped out of the cafeteria as fast as his dulled, black, discount loafers could take him. He didn’t hear the soft whisper waft from the nearby potted plant. The whisper that had an English accent voiced out, “Curses! Foiled again! Note to self: Do not hide elephant tranquilizers in applesauce; it does not work. Next time, try banana pudding.”
The thin rubber soles of Alan’s shoes left streaks on the linoleum floor as he ran into the nearest men’s restroom. He cautiously poked his head out the door and saw no one. Then quickly shutting the door and snapping the dead bolt home, Alan leaned against the cold comfort of it and breathed heavily.
Small droplets of sweat worked their way out of his skin and ran down his face. Alan loosened his tie and ran his hand through his hair, exasperated.
“Last time I checked, I didn’t use acid. Well then, there goes any logical reason…”
Alan shuffled his tired self over to the closest stall and pushed the door back. In mid-step, he froze like a deer in headlights. Sitting on the floor just in front of the toilet was a rusty, primed, bear trap. A wide smile of large jagged teeth surrounded the spring trigger. Placed delicately on the trigger was a succulent Ballpark hotdog (“They plump when you cook ‘em!”) that was perfectly complemented with mustard and ketchup. Just smelling that hot dog you can see Michael Jordon’s gleaming pate.
Situated next to the steaming tube of pig and rat feces was a small piece of paper. The paper had “EAT ME” printed on it.
Nothing came out of Alan’s dropped jaw except an inaudible squeak. He spun around and headed for the door, when out of the corner of his eye Alan noticed something he didn’t see before.
Standing in the corner of the bathroom was a man holding a tree branch as if hiding behind it. The man looked Indian, the country not the slur of Native American. Dressed in khaki shorts and shirt, he stood out obviously against the blue paint. The few leaves that were on the branch shook as he realized that Alan had seen him.
Alan ran at the Indian, not knowing what else to do, and too close to his wit’s end to care all the while screaming, “Come back Hadji! Come back! I want to talk to Johnny Quest!” The Indian headed for the door still holding the tree branch in front of his face. Quickly unlocking then opening the door, the Indian ran to safety leaving Alan standing in the bathroom precariously prancing on the high wire above the dark pit that is insanity.
Metal met floorboard and revolutions soared as Alan zoomed out of the North Systems Inc. parking lot. Heading home he talked to himself the whole time, occasionally screaming complete nonsense to the Muhammad Ali bobbing head doll in his car.
The gibberish died down, as he got closer to his humble abode. He felt safe just looking at his house. Alan jumped from the car and ran to the door trying to outrun the confusion of the day. His knees gave out and he collapsed as Alan saw the hideous sight on his door. Hanging from his door, with its tail pinned by a knife, was Alan’s prized stuffed dog, Not So Fluffy Anymore. Tears seeped out of the corners of his eyes as he rolled on his lawn. He dry heaved at the thought of the white stuffing laying all over his front stoop.
His pathetic display of weeping was abruptly stopped by the instantly recognizable (even for the son of ex-hippies) sound of a gun being cocked. Alan opened his eyes and through the tears saw a shotgun pointed directly as his midriff. The gun looked like it would definitely hurt with its large caliber and large bell at the end of the barrel. Then Alan dared to move his eyes from the dangerously aimed gun to the holder of said gun.
Staring down at Alan was an elderly gentleman clad in the finest of khakis, shorts, shirt, and even a pith helmet. The skinny man sported a monocle with a gold chain and very impressive handlebar mustache. Underneath the white hair of the mustache a grin of victory pursed the lips. “Good chase, old man, but the so called shenanigans are up. I do believe this is the part where you act like the good prey and die. Mitesh, please get the trophy case ready,” the English accent was strong as the man spoke to the Indian that Alan had seen before.
The old English hunter brought the shotgun up to his shoulder and braced himself for the checkmate, “God save the Queen, how about it Mr. Canon?” He winked through the monocle and was squeezing his finger around the trigger when--
“WAIT! Did you just call me Mr. Canon? I’m not Mr. Canon! Steve Canon lives on the house to the left of me! I’m Alan Smithee! Oh, dang it,” Alan cried out in fear as he noticed he had wet himself.
The hunter let the gun drop and turned to the house Alan had pointed out. He turned back and looked at the writhing Alan with a largely disappointed face on; so disappointed that the monocle fell from his eye. Without missing a beat, Mitesh, the Indian guide, walked up, polished the monocle, and placed it back in the hunter’s eye.
“Bloody heck, I hate these darn suburbs. All your houses look exactly the same. Well, good show, lad, and sorry for all the inconveniences. Mitesh, please help this poor fellow off the ground,” the hunter dropped the gun and took a swig of his flask that he produced from one of the many pockets on his person. The Indian came over and picked Alan off of the ground, then brushed all the blades of grass off of him.
The hunter picked up the gun and stood in a ready stance waiting for his Indian guide to come to his side, “On with the hunt then! Cheerio, and the entire sort!”
Off the two went to the house to the left of Alan’s. Alan just stood there not sure what to do. His sanity quickly catching back up with him, Alan started to look around. As if seeing his house for the first time, he smiled. Just then the water sprinklers started on the row of identical lawns. Alan was quickly drenched from head to toe.
He walked to his car and headed back to work ready for the rest of the day of spacing out and goofing off all the while getting paid for it.
You did a good job setting up the mundane nature of suburban, middle-management life. I like the bizarre undercurrent of dissatisfaction you wove into the story: the "fight," the strange resolution, and his attitude toward work.
If you want any constructive criticism, let me know and I'll post my thoughts up here.
One more thing: the hunter character was great. There's something very English about hunting.
Thanks for the compliments.
And yes, please, I would love to hear constructive criticism. That's one thing I don't think I can really get regularly. A writer needs it like he needs his Wheaties.
OK, first off, a disclaimer: I am in no way an expert nor would I ever attempt to approximate expertise.
What I see when I read your story are a few problem areas in my own writing that I've tried to overcome. One of these problems is focusing on verbage and descriptions of ancillary details while overlooking the important stuff. Case in point, the first paragraph. What seems to be important in the first paragraph is the bizarrely synchronous nature of the community: same house, same lawn, same timing on the sprinklers, everyone leaving for work at the same time. I get this from your description, but I think it would be stronger if you made it the focus of the paragraph instead of something being suggested by words vividly describing the minutia of the setting. What you have now is a really nice, descriptive paragraph. What you could have is a paragraph that's very descriptive and does a better job conveying the strange concept of this cookie-cutter neighborhood.
This happens more than once in your story. I can tell you love words (I do to) and you like to pepper the story with some of your favorites. I have a tendency to do this as well and I find that the fun words, the big and sophisticated words, don't always match the tone. They stick out and draw attention to themselves, kind of like one kiwi fruit in a bowl full of apples. Apples are really good and you don't need a solitary kiwi to make it a good bowl of fruit. The apples get the job done and they do it well because they taste good. A kiwi would be better suited to a bowl with more kiwis and maybe some other exotic fruits (Richard Simmons doesn't count). Removing the kiwi makes for a more uniform bowl of fruit, one that doesn't draw attention to the lone fuzzy thing amongst the apples. I think this anology make a little sense.
The reason I bring any of this up is because I notice my own tendencies in your writing. I do this stuff ALL THE TIME and it seems to weaken my writing, so I try to purge it in the rewrite. Sometimes simple words in complex combinations can say more than complex words can.
I hope this helps and don't let it discourage you -- I'm only one guy with one fairly insignificant set of opinions. I like your stories and look forward to each one as they are very entertaining.
Interesting twist. When Alan spotted the Indian in the bathroom, I thought it was going to end up that the Indian was trying to kill him so he could take Alan's job overseas. Your ending is much more surreal and unexpected.