The images came to Perry vividly and palpable. His heart would skip a beat and his immediate reality would fade as he stared off into scenes from another world. This happened often and often inconveniently. He couldn't help it. He was inhabited by ghosts and relics of secret sagas that writhed endless and deep, stories that he really should start writing down, he often thought. And this year, that was exactly what he committed himself to do. This was the year, he decided one day, that he would write and publish these stories that have plagued him for so long. He might as well, what else was he going to do?
Today was Tuesday and Perry was hungry. He couldn't think of anything else. it was twelve o'clock, and according to his prepared schedule for Tuesdays he was supposed to eat at one o'clock. His schedule was as follows:
9am - Wake up
9:15am - Breakfast
10am - Write 500 words
12pm - Update Blog
1pm - Lunch
2pm - Free Time/ Run errands
3pm - Write 500 words
5pm - Go for walk (or perhaps go to a movie?)
6pm - Supper
7pm - Write 500 words
9pm - Night routine
10pm - TV or a book until sleep
He enjoyed having a schedule to follow every day and thought it was important, his grandpa (on his mother's side) had taught him that, but he had yet to follow any of them. He always felt guilty when he failed to follow his daily schedule and following the guilt there was then a fervent renewal of his resolve and the analysis and revision of all schedules (which never did any good). it was twelve o'clock and he didn't want to wait. So far he had written one hundred words into chapter three of one of his unfinished novels. This one was a science fiction story involving a world of telepathic robots that met secretly trying figure out the whys and hows of humanity. Currently, he was trying to figure out if the humans knew they were telepathic or if they were ignorant to it. One thing he was sure of, though, was that the robots could only read human minds and not each other's. It was an odd but important plot point.
Today, he thought, might be the day that I get rid of these blasted schedules. He was hungry, but he had nothing to eat in his house and, in fact, he never did (unless it was takeout or pizza or some leftover food like that). When he was a child, he had a frightening and disturbing thing happen to him in a grocery store. He vowed never to set foot in one again (it's a strange, bad story that I don't want to remember, as his grandpa used to say). He read over what he had written so far and immediately felt a sense of frustration and dread. It was not awful, but it was just meh, as they say. It was missing something. He deleted fifty words. Fifty-four. Eighty-nine. And then closed his laptop with a sigh. What he needed was a sandwich. That sounded perfect. Or pizza? No, a sandwich. Italian maybe. With a quick glance in the mirror he agreed with himself that he looked fine. Khaki pants, a button-up shirt. Brown shoes. Socks. Adequate hair (band name! he thought, and quickly scribbled it down in his scratchpad he kept in his pocket).
He went downstairs, grabbed his house keys, stepped outside, locked the door, and started walking. He had a garage, four garages in fact, but no car (except the collectibles which were not to be driven). He could take the bus, but he felt ashamed to even consider it. Growing up, his father had used shame to ensure that Perry would do what he thought was good for Perry, which made Perry very sensitive to that feeling of shame, it made him almost physically ill (his father obviously knew this well). "Don't take the bus, Perry. Losers and little old women ride buses. And I didn't raise a loser. And you're not a little old woman, Perry, are you? Are you a little old woman?" No he wasn't. So he avoided the bus. His father, Charles Cappa, (and mother, Clara Cappa) had named him Perry because it was a better name than Paul, and it wasn't Percy (which they hated above all names). They had once considered Pavel and favored it the most, but they didn't write it down, so by the time Perry was born, they couldn't remember Pavel. "Peyton? -no. Paxton? -no that's not it. Pedro? oh stop it! Perry? hey, that sounds right. Fine then. Perry." For his middle name, they chose Chester because that was the name of the man who owned their favorite restaurant "Chester's" where they ate every Thursday, until Clara died (when Perry was eight years old). Chester died a few years after Clara and the restaurant was closed down because Chester's wife, Lucia, couldn't stand the place (she had also fallen in love with a banker in town who had inherited a small fortune from his rich uncle (that swindler!) and they got married and moved off to Europe). Charles never remarried and he raised Perry by himself in a small two bedroom apartment close to downtown.
Just before Charles died from lung cancer (the day before Perry's thirty-fourth birthday), Charles told Perry, "I lied to you. I'm sorry." "About what?" Perry asked. But his father was dead. He received a certified letter the following week explaining everything:
Son,
I thought about telling you this sooner. But I didn't. You remember when I told you that your Grandfather, my father, died before you were born and that he was poor? That's not exactly true. Your Grandfather died ten years ago. And he was very wealthy. He had millions I think. Maybe even billions, if you factor in his portfolio... He kicked me out of his house when I was 25. And from then on, we never talked. it's a long story that I don't want to get into. Anyway, his money, his house, his books, everything he left behind, is yours - he left it all to you. The documents are all in a safety deposit box at the Bank Newhaven downtown. it's in your name. Use the enclosed key to open it. I'm sorry I hid it from you. If you think less of me, I guess that's to be expected. I did what I did. I loved you in my own way. Take that as you will.
Papa
P.S. Don't forget to feed the cat. You always forget.
There was in fact $875,345,623.23 in the account. Just sitting there. Untouched for so long. When you added that to the stocks, bonds, real estate, the house and everything in it - Perry's net worth was over $2.7 billion, and he had no idea what to spend it on. He was thirty-eight now and he had spent very little of his new fortune mainly because he suffered from a chronic and constant ambivalence that made it almost impossible for him to make a clear decision. Though, sometimes he could be extremely decisive, when decisiveness came over him, but mostly he had no idea. He was, as a result, pretty frugal. He had also grown up with simple tastes and simple was what he enjoyed. The notion of spending extravagantly he also considered to be bad luck, and made him very anxious. Probably something that his father had "taught" him. Incidentally, Perry did in fact forget to feed the cat, which ran away suddenly when he moved to his grandfather's house, but Perry hadn't noticed.
Perry was hungry and he ended up going to the Sub Shack. He was disappointed to find that there was no one waiting in line; there would be pressure to go ahead and order. He rubbed the bridge of his nose and shut his eyes tight so that he could decide what he wanted. Salami, provolone, and black olives. Or smoked turkey, cheddar, onions. No onions. No pickles. No, pickles are good as long as they were dill. A number 12 - meatball and mozzarella. "That sounds good. But do I really want that? Will I be satisfied or wish I got the salami?" Six inch? Lettuce? Hot? Cold? Or would pizza be better? Perry considered getting his scratchpad out to jot down some options, perhaps a pro and con list, but he felt embarrassed about looking so studious. Then it happened, the image thing - he was struck with a vision of Allen Strenton, the electrician with amnesia that had stumbled across an intricate, conspiratorial puzzle hidden within the electrical currents traveling through the power lines. Allen would write down in a little notebook - similar to Perry's - the fragments of messages he would find in the currents in people's houses. "The passageway in the post office is open again." Allen wrote down, and decided to go there next. - Perry stared at the menu, no longer thinking of sandwiches. A woman that had come in after Perry and had been waiting on him to order lost her patience and went ahead of him to order. She ordered a #5 - All Veggie on rye. Na, that didn't sound good. Now he was up.
"Um..." Perry said.
"Come on Perry. We got a line forming behind ya now. Just choose something already," the guy behind the counter said. Larry. He wore a hair net - though he had more hair on his arms than on his head.
"Well, all right Harry, uh, Larry, um, What did that lady order?"
"A #5 - Perry, come on - this is the busiest time of day" said Larry.
I guess I'll have a #5. That sounds fine I guess." Perry said, and immediately regretted it. And he felt more and more uncertain about his decision as he watched the sandwich being compiled. Why did I choose #5? I really wanted something with meat, he thought.
"You want everything on that?" Larry said, squirting the salad dressing up and down one of the sub halves.
"Uh, sure..." What was everything? Did that include onions? This was turning out to be a big mistake, Perry thought, and the idea of getting a pizza instead was looking very appealing.
As he waited and mulled over his poor sandwich choice, he was distracted by a song that was playing through the speakers sitting on the fountain drink dispenser. Who sings this song? He couldn't remember, but he knew that he hated it. It was pop radio. He didn't have a favorite kind of music, but he disliked a lot. And Pop music was his absolutely least favorite, especially if it was on radio. What was with those lyrics? "Hey baby - Ooo Baby, Let's Go Baby." If he had to choose a favorite genre, though, he didn't mind oldies music (as long as it wasn't Elvis, no).
"Ok, Perry. That will be 9 dollars."
"9 dollars?! Are you kidding me? For a veggie sub?" Larry glared at Perry and held out his hand, waiting for the payment. The regret that had been building finally brimmed over and he reluctantly handed his credit card over with a sigh.
"Thanks, Perry, take it easy," Larry said.
"Yeah, you too," Perry said. He signed the receipt and left with his sandwich.