An Interruption
Carly Heath

 

An Interruption
By Carly

Marie Maxine Clarke was a woman with a gray, pinstripe pants suit, a brief case, and a graphic design job to get to every morning at nine. She had ash blonde hair kept in a sensible bob that took 15 minutes in the morning to do, just enough time to look decent without being vain. She had an alarm clock that rang at seven, but Marie Maxine Clarke always awakened 5 minutes before it went off. Why she continued to set the alarm clock every night when she never needed it was a question Marie Maxine Clarke never asked herself.
Out the door by eight with a paper under her arm, Marie Maxine Clarke knew that she would catch the 8:07 subway, and make it to her office with 5 minutes to spare. Marie Maxine Clarke knew a lot of things: she knew her assistant�s cell-phone and beeper by heart, she knew Mr. Richardson took his coffee black, and she knew that she was on track to get a promotion in 2 months. Marie Maxine Clarke was a woman who hurried up the escalator to the subway platform every morning, and bought tomorrow�s ticket at 5:38 every evening after exiting the station.
Today the 8:07 train going downtown arrived on time as it did 75% of the time. Marie Maxine Clarke was on time 100% of the time. If that train had been late today, she would have given it 2 minutes, then left the station to hail a cab. Late trains were a disturbance, but Marie Maxine Clarke always arrived in her office with at least 2 minutes to spare.
The second car of the 8:07 train was where Marie Maxine Clarke always boarded. She knew the middle cars were always crowded, because they were closer to the escalator, and were boarded by people who didn�t have time to walk all the way to the second car. Marie Maxine Clarke always read her morning paper on the ride to work. But, she didn�t today.
Just as the sliding doors behind Marie Maxine Clarke were about to close, a foot wearing a black go-go boot wedged itself between them. The young woman belonging to the foot shrieked a shriek that could be heard over the loud buzz that the doors make when they are unable to close. As the doors sprung back open, a girl with long orange hair, and a large dufflebag hurled herself into the second car ramming into Marie Maxine Clarke and her brief case.
The large dufflebag was an object in motion that remained in motion, and the force that was acted upon was Marie Maxine Clarke. The impact toppled over Marie Maxine Clarke, and she found herself kneeling on the dingy floor of the subway car; the contents of her briefcase strewn about.
�Ha!� Rejoiced the orange-haired girl. �Just made it!� The girl picked herself up, and tossed her dufflebag onto the nearest open seat. It settled with a sigh, and remained there propped up like a human passenger. �Gee, I�m sorry lady,� proclaimed the girl. Her cheeks were rosy from sprinting to the train. Marie Maxine Clarke noted that in addition to her go-go boots, the girl was wearing fishnet stockings, of all things. She also wore a hot pink trench coat, and rosary beads around her neck, and of course, that untidy, wavy, bright-orange hair. �Lemme help you with that.� The girl grabbed greedily for Marie Maxine Clarke�s proposals.
Marie Maxine Clarke feared the orange-haired girl would get her sticky fingers, and God knows what else all over her designs which consisted of logo concepts, web layouts, and storyboards. Inside, she was simmering.
�It�s okay,� Marie Maxine Clarke hissed, �I�ll get it.�
The girl used a handful of documents to brush away an orange lock out of her own face.
�Hey, no prob Bob,� the girl handed Marie Maxine Clarke a handful of papers, �say, these are really pretty. You an artist or something?�
�Or something.� Marie Maxine Clarke was witty.
As Marie Maxine Clarke took a seat in the rust-colored plastic chair, she realized the orange-haired girl sat down next to her. Unconsciously, Marie Maxine Clarke peered around the car of the train. She spied an empty row of seats in the back, and a few empty seats a few rows down. Why, wondered Marie Maxine Clarke, did this girl feel the need to sit next to her?
�You know, that�s a great talent to be artistic and stuff,� the girl began, �I mean, there�s a lot of stuff you can do if you know how to draw ---besides just bein� a regular-old artist.�
All Marie Maxine Clarke wanted to do was read her paper on her way to work. She didn�t want to deal with maintaining a conversation, she didn�t want to be polite, and she didn�t want to strive to come up with answers for this girl�s unrelenting questions. Why did this girl want to talk to her? Doesn�t she have something better to do? Wondered Marie Maxine Clarke.
�Like,� continued the girl, �you could illustrate books, write comics, do movie special effects, hey, you could draw those cartoons�animations.�
Marie Maxine Clarke was a woman with a sensible haircut, a gray pinstripe pantsuit, and a brief case. She didn�t want to illustrate books, write comics, make special effects, or animations; and, she certainly didn�t want to build a relationship with this orange-haired girl and her dufflebag.
�Yes,� responded Marie Maxine Clarke, �you could.�
�Yeah, I like to draw and stuff. I mean, there�s lots of things I thought about doing. What I really want to do is write a book, but I guess that has nothing to do with drawing does it.� The girl persisted, �do you like what you do?�
Marie Maxine Clarke probably shouldn�t have even asked. �What do you mean?�
�I mean,� explained the girl, �what you do, is it fulfilling?�
Marie Maxine Clarke knew her assistant�s cell-phone and beeper by heart, she knew Mr. Richardson took his coffee black, and she knew that she was on track to get a promotion in 2 months. What she didn�t know, or ever really think about, was if she liked what she did.
�I don�t hate it.� Replied Marie Maxine Clarke.
�Ah, come on, it must be better than that.�
If there was one thing Marie Maxine Clarke didn�t want to do it was �come on�. She boiled. A giant balloon filled in her chest, and made its way to her throat. Marie Maxine Clarke hoped the balloon would pop, so she could breathe again. She didn�t want to talk to this girl. She wanted to read her paper, and be in her office at 5 minutes before nine.
But, what if Marie Maxine Clarke was late just once? People are late for work all the time. One day late after the five-plus years she worked at the company is trivial. In fact, figured Marie Maxine Clarke, it was long over due. So, she devised a plan. Marie Maxine Clarke would exit the subway car at the next station, and wait for the next train to come along. She would tell the girl, �nice speaking to you, this is my stop,� (even though it wasn�t) and, �goodbye�.
As Marie Maxine Clarke exited the subway train, she sighed with relief. She was free of that girl. Free of the anthropomorphic dufflebag, free of the orange hair, fishnet stockings, and the relentless conversation. All too soon, a new worry gnawed in the chest of Marie Maxine Clarke. Although the thought of being late for work seemed like less of a burden than talking to the girl, a surge distressed thoughts filled her mind. First, Marie Maxine Clarke had allowed this girl to destroy her painstakingly crafted schedule, which had been part of her life for every weekday of the past 5-plus years. Second, what sort of explanation would she give her co-workers when they would ask her why she was late? Certainly, any explanation for her tardiness would have to be a lie. How silly it would sound if Marie Maxine Clarke told her co-workers that she was late, because she didn�t want to sit next to and maintain a conversation with this girl on the subway. Marie Maxine Clarke had never told a lie, and wondered if she would be the kind of person who could lie well. She rehearsed her lie, in her head, as she waited for the next train.
"My goodness, my alarm clock didn�t go off this morning. Was there a power outage? There wasn�t!? Then I don�t know what happened. Just imagine, I might have slept all day if it wasn�t for�"
If it wasn�t for what? Marie Maxine Clarke asked herself. She had to think up a brilliant way to have something wake her up� But then, a third worry installed itself into her mind. Marie Maxine Clarke would no longer be the person who was never late to work. If there was some sort of award for someone who was exceptionally punctual, it could never be given to Marie Maxine Clarke. She would now be known as the person who was only late once, and to Marie Maxine Clarke that didn�t sound as good as �the person who was never late�. Her record had been broken, not that she was keeping one, but broken none the less.

*

When Randy was a kid, his teacher asked him what he wanted to be when he grew up. Randy was the kind of kid who said he wanted to be an astronaut, and he really meant it. But, Randy never became an astronaut.
He graduated High School with a C average, and planned to go to college, but wanted to take a year off to make some money. As he worked as a Station Agent at the subway, Randy�s aspirations faded. He rationalized that it was over indulgent to want to become an astronaut. Who becomes an astronaut anyway? What�s important in life, Randy thought, was being happy. Randy�s goals changed. All he wanted was a decent job, meet a nice girl (doesn�t have to be a supermodel or anything), get married, and start a family. Randy planned to keep the Station Agent job just as a temporary thing, until a better job came a long ---something he could live with.
On this morning, 15 years after graduating High School, Randy woke up in the guest bedroom (his room) of his parents� house. He realized that he would never amount to anything more than a Station Agent, and someone was to blame.
Randy�s father was the kind of person who owned a gun. The kind of person who wanted to defend his family against an intruder, the kind of person who believed the right to bear arms was absolutely necessary to maintain individuals� freedom. Incase the government should try to take away that freedom, then Randy�s father was a person who had the gun.
The gun lived on the top shelf of Randy�s parents� walk-in closet. Inside a tan, and black vinyl bag, which was molded to look like tooled leather, was a rifle of some kind and an orange, plastic case with bullets.
With two shots, Randy killed both his parents while they were asleep in their bed.

*

Yes, Marie Maxine Clarke was waiting for the next train down town at the station where Randy worked. When Randy, who was also late for work, entered the station he didn�t need to make up a lie for his actions. Still wearing his pajamas--- mid-calf socks, black sweats that had faded to green, and a plain gray tee shirt--- Randy had his gun drawn, and was looking for more people to blame.
The subway is full of loud sounds, the wind being pushed through the underground tunnels, the electric hum of the track, the intercom with an unintelligible human voice, and the murmuring sound of crowds. So, when Randy fired the first shot, the one that killed his boss, people heard it, but didn�t know what to make of it. Then Randy jumped the turnstile, that�s when people started to notice him.
Mr. Bay was a man with a navy suit, a red tie, and a brief case. He was the first to see Randy. Mr. Bay was looking around the subway at no one or anything in particular, simply subjecting his optical nerves to some form of stimulation, when he saw Randy enter the station looking like a �crackpot�, as Mr. Bay would say. He was the kind of man who used words like �crackpot�. It took a half a second for Mr. Bay to register what was happening. A half a second later, Mr. Bay�s heart felt like it was being grated with a cheese grater. Hide, thought Mr. Bay, run and hide. He set off at a purposeful walk, half hunched over, down the platform. If someone had been looking at Mr. Bay, they might have said that the way he scurried away made him look like hyena fleeing from a tiger, who wanted his dead animal. Mr. Bay crouched behind the cement barrier between the escalator, and the underground tunnel hoping Randy the tiger wouldn�t see him. From his vantage-point, Mr. Bay could clearly see Randy aim and shoot the unsuspecting Marie Maxine Clarke.
Marie Maxine Clarke was the kind of person who inelegantly sobbed as her life was leaving her. She was an ugly crier, her nose got big and red, her face scrunched up, her eyes wet and puffy. It was just like Marie Maxine Clarke to think that her own death was all that orange-haired girl�s fault. If only that girl hadn�t been so nosy. Marie Maxine Clarke wailed for the injustice of her death, the unfairness of it all. Marie Maxine Clarke believed that she had a lot to live for, and she was too young to die. As the pain of her own death was almost completely faded away, Marie Maxine Clarke asked a question she had never asked before.
�Why!?!� Screamed Marie Maxine Clarke, as she lay on the chilling cement of the subway station, �why did you kill me?� The scream got Randy�s attention.
�Because,� responded Randy nervously, �I�m not an astronaut.�
�Neither am I,� she declared, �but you don�t see me complaining.� Marie Maxine Clarke gasped a bubbly breath before she continued, �Are you happy now?�
Randy paused for a moment and stepped closer to the mess he made of Marie Maxine Clarke. �I�ve never been happier in my life�.
As her life was about to depart, Marie Maxine Clarke�s body started to twitch.
�Well,� she whispered, �I guess happiness isn�t the most important thing in the world after all.� Then she died.
If Marie Maxine Clarke hadn�t died that day she would have gone to work, and arrived five minutes before nine as usual. During her work day she would have been so engrossed with the task at hand that if someone had asked her, �What did you do at work today?� she would have had to think about it for a few moments before she could come up with an appropriate answer. Marie Maxine Clarke almost always stayed at work a few minutes after 5 �o clock. She would walk more slowly down the escalator, as she headed home. Weeknights consisted of waiting for tomorrow. Weekends were about creative ways to pass the time.
Now that she is dead, the word of her death will spread to Marie Maxine Clarke�s co-workers, friends, and family members. In a few weeks, someone will comment to one of her friends or family members about �how well you�re holding up after such a tragedy�. While secretly, said friend or family member will chastise him or herself for not feeling worse about Marie Maxine Clarke�s death. To her co-workers, Marie Maxine Clarke will be a convenient anecdote during a lull in the conversation.
�Hey, remember that woman that worked here, and she got murdered in the subway by that crazy guy?� one would say.
�Yeah, what was her name again?� another would ask.
�Marie�.
Nobody would remember that she was never late for work.

 

 

Copyright © 2000 Carly Heath
Published on the World Wide Web by "www.storymania.com"