Another whole bunch of words today!

       I'm not sure how I got away from this for so long but I think 2,000 words a day oughta do it.  I'm going to go get my Masters starting this fall!  Yippee.  Then I probably won't be able to do this again.  No!  Or atleast I'll do it every day until then, huh!

        

        “Nobody knows, nobody knows.”  Mr. Matilda flashes a smile at the kid, and as he enters through the back his face turns back into an exasperated look.

            The man leads Mr. Matilda inside a waiting room where he gestures to have a seat.  The walls are decked out with prints of italian opera posters.   Businessmen looking types sit on phones at their desks, not looking up as Mr. Matilda enters.  A few black and white pictures depict enormous families, from a distance it looks like an impressionistic painting of a skyline.  The Mount Rushmore of families.  A man is pushed out of the office on the far wall and a goon throws his powdered box at him, and he looks like he is going to say something but then shrugs it off and leaves, the box still sitting in the middle of the floor.  It looks just like Mr. Matilda’s box.  A secretary disposes of it.

Mr. Matilda sits in one of the two red foam chairs against the wall.  There are windows across from him, and he holds the box in his lap.  Mr. Matilda looks down at his watch and it says “3:15” and then he looks at a sheet that says “Be there at 3:15 exactly.”  He let’s out a sigh and relaxes in the chair, then checks out the magazine selection. He spins the magazine easel twice, finding nothing that interests him. It’s mostly old Sports Illustrated for Kids.  An old man who is leaving puts a Wallstreet Journal on the table and Mr. Matilda starts reading it, peeking over to look around the room.  Suddenly his stomach rumbles and he remembers the restaurant around the corner.  He gets up to leave and the man, whom some call “Martin”, attempts to take the powdery box from him.

            “You couldn’t possibly take this box into the restaurant, sir.”

            “It’s coming with me wherever I go, tough guy.”

            “I’ll take it for you.”

            “Fat chance, rascal.”

            Mr. Matilda’s voice is high pitched and squeeky, like Abraham Lincoln actually sounded.  The similarities end there.

            He sits back with his arms crossed.  Time passes quickly, the clock spins.  A secretary admits people over the intercom.  The blinds on the opposite side of the window open a crack and a set of eyes looks past the index finger which is holding it open.  The walls in the room are painted dark red, as opposed to the peeling powdery blue of the waiting room office. 

            Flashback to the night before.  Mr. Matilda is holding the box up to a fluorescent light with one hand, the other hand holding a flashlight for additional visibility.  He’s standing on a chair.  A face walks by in the window, which he does not notice.  No luck, there’s nothing new to find on the box.  He looks down at the box that it came in, which is open and spewing packing peanuts indiscriminately.  It’s got the watermark of “Cool Breeze & Company”, he sighs and looks at the UPS switchblade he got from his previous job.

            A knock on the door.  He looks through the peephole and sees Martin, an overweight ex business partner.

            “Come on, Herman, I know you’re in there.  It’s not too late to back out, you don’t have to do this.” 

            Herman tells him to “fuck off” in so many words.  He sits in front of the TV, not bothering to close the blinds or pretend he isn’t there.

           

            The phone rings and he jumps.  We’re back in current time.  A head pops up from behind the window on the outside, it’s the same guy from the flashback.  Roger wears suspenders and glasses with thick black frames, pants that are too long but the correct width.  Roger waves through the window and Mr. Matilda covers his face and attempts to hide behind the Wallstreet Journal.  Roger is unphased and he walks in, Martin intercepting him and telling him that Mr. Matilda is a very important client.

            “Herman!”  The man calls, struggling against Martin like a dolphin in a net.  “Herman, this brute is manhandling me!”  His glasses fall off and he starts hyperventilating, Martin not budging. 

            “Do you know this man?”  Martin asks.

            “No.  I have never seen him before in my life.”

            Martin uses an eyeball to get a sensor to open the door.  A dog comes running out when it opens.

            “Peter, would you fetch my pouch?  Peter, my pouch is gone.”

            Peter is asleep at a little table and a man who resembles Marlon Brando after he got fat pesters him for a second before prodding him with a stick.

            “Ah!  And you are… Mr. Matilda!  And you have my box!  Unbelievable, it must be my lucky day!”

            The room is furnished with large wooden block furniture.   The fat man sits behind a round desk varnished with gold along the outside.  A grandfather clock ticks with an echo throughout the room, and the view overlooks a fountain and sprinklers orchestrating a dance like an Esther Williams routine.

            “You have been smoking again, I can smell it on you.  And you’re wearing THAT shirt. My fathers shirt.”  Herman looked down momentarily at her fathers red and blue aloha shirt, stained and unwashed.  He shrugged defiantly. Petuna stood, shaking her head.  Herman attempts to crane around her to see their son Abner sitting in the front seat of the car.  “He doesn’t want to see you.  Herman, you are a bad influence.”

            “Why did you bring him with?  You are just here to antagonize me?”

            “The car, Herman, this is about the car.  If you had just kept your old job…”

            “I gave my life to that place.”  Just then, Herman noticed a homeless looking man exiting the backseat of the old red Corolla.  He tried to walk past Petuna, pulling his shoulders in, like a kid trying to get behind the refridgerator.  She stopped him, horrified and overreacting, with a flattened hand.  He touches her hand on accident and withdrawals, and she blushes and takes a step backwards.

            “Hey you!”  Herman regains his composure and yells at the man by the red Corolla, who runs off into the night.

            Petuna hands a letter to Herman and gives him a quick stink eye, departing.  She answers a cellphone call as she sits in the front of her little sedan, Abner waving at Herman from the window.