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Novel Treatments / Chapter 2 (The Great Being)
The Tinsley Apartment building stood eight floors high, the brick walls worn from age.
Conrad Fox—with Indicott Norrington at lead—went through the hall and to an old elevator. Conrad noticed the musty smell of the building, and associated it with the age, mixed with moisture, which seeped into the building from the week long rain currently holding Asbrey City in a melancholy state.
There was something about not seeing the sun, the blue sky, that depressed Conrad—input a desire to look at it all much more carefully when it returned.
The elevator squeaked up to the fifth floor of the aged building, then came to a painstaking stop to empty it’s cargo. Conrad could have sworn he heard it groan as the doors slid closed behind him, the elevator moving back down to continue its never ending task.
Inside Indicott Norrington’s apartment—Conrad could tell two things about the man.
One, he enjoyed onions.
Two, Indicott Norrington was, contrary to his appearance, the most organized man he had ever seen.
A book shelf, centered perfectly against the wall facing the door, held many books—all grouped according to size. Folded perfectly inside of plastic bins, placed with the same care as the books, were clothes—presumably Indicott’s. Conrad went further into the apartment. Nothing glamorous. The room was as aged as the rest of the building.
Indicott moved with grace into the section laid out as the kitchen.
“Can I get you something to drink, Doctor Fox?” he asked.
“No thanks, I would like to see the visions you’ve written though, if I may.”
Indicott, nodding his head, opened a cabinet—revealing one shelf of alphabetized canned goods, and another with several bags of onions. He then pulled a can opener from the drawer and opened a can of lima beans. With a curious look, Conrad watched as Indicott poured the sickly green beans into a small dish and placed it on the floor.
Responding to the bowls clink, a shabby cat came jogging from what Conrad guessed was the bathroom, and began to devour the food. For whatever reason, Conrad could not remove his gaze from the small feline. So much so, that he didn’t notice Indicott walk past him, and pull two clear bins from under the bed, located only a few paces from the kitchen.
Conrad’s attention returned at the snap of a lid. In perfect bundles, bound with paper clips, were yellow sheets from a legal pad. Conrad could discern pages full of hand scribbled recollections. Indicott seated himself on the second bin—filled in equal proportion to the first—and pulled a stack from the very bottom.
“These are the first I wrote down, starting with number sixty-six,” he said.
Taking the stack, Conrad pulled off the clip.
He began to read.
I woke this morning with another vision complete. My head is filled already with sixty-five of them. So I am going to write them from now on. To relieve my brain from the burden. Here it goes:
I entered the world of sleep, and as always I was taken from it to someplace else. This time the place was cold, frozen, at least it looked that way. I could feel nothing. It was like seeing something through a window, knowing how it must feel, but protected from it.
Anyway…I was lying in the snow, looking up at the flakes falling, when a man appeared over me.
He told me “Indicott, you’ve got to start writing these things down, or you’ll forget them.”
I asked him who he was, and he smiled a big smile, his teeth were very clean, and said to me, “That don’t matter, who I am, what matters is who you are.”
It was a very unusual question for him to ask, because I knew who I was. “I know who I am,” I told him. And he just kept smiling, then he put his hand out and I reached for it. After I was standing, I could see the vast arctic around us. “How did you get here?” I asked him.
His smile faded some, then he said, “Same way as you I suppose.”
I didn’t know what that meant, so I asked him the next logical question. “Where are we?”
I regretted asking as soon as his big smile returned. It wasn’t a friendly smile, a smile that says lets chat. It was a smile that said “I know something you don’t, and I’m not telling.” He looked at me with that smile and gave me a punch on the shoulder, like were were buddies. Maybe we were.
“You know you’re not to ask questions Indicott, you’re going to go and get me in trouble,” He said.
I didn’t know it, but I didn’t want to get him in trouble either, so I let him lead. He started walking, and I followed. It didn’t seem to matter which direction we went. Each one had the same emptiness.
We walked for an hour I estimated, then he stopped. It didn’t look like we had gone anywhere, and I told him that, and he gave me the smile. I didn’t feel too good about it. He pointed his finger towards the area in front of us and said, “You have to cross, you have to get to the mountains.” I could see no mountain range in the distance. “What’s at the mountains?” I asked him. The smile again. “You’re just out to get me in trouble you are,” He said. “If I told you that it’d be pointless wouldn’t it? What good’s it all if there’s no point?” He pulled something out of his pocket and handed it to me. It was a pair of glasses. He told me that I could use them if I wanted to talk to him, he said to put them on and I could see him, but sometimes not. How fickle, I thought. He gave me the buddy punch again and wished me luck. “Your going on something special, yes indeed,” He said.
I took his word for it. He stood still and expectantly, so I turned to go, and he yelled at me, his voice was muffled through the wind, which came out of nowhere.
“Now don’t you forget to write this all down Indicott!” The minute I turned away from him I woke. It was early, six hours had passed. So I opened my drawer and pulled out this note pad. And here I am writing on it, about writing on it.
I think I’ll keep doing it.
It is important to establish that the previous sixty-five visions never entailed the man—or the task given to Indicott. The previous sixty-five visions were a series of predictions. Most of them were meaningless to Indicott—such as the particular meal a family would eat for dinner or the route a person would take on a particular day. What was meaningful is that each prediction became true—and that Indicott Norrington knew it.
Conrad pulled his eyes from the yellow paper. Indicott remained on one of the other bins. A clanking signified the cat had finished its meal.
Placing the stack of papers down, Conrad turned to face Indicott.
“The rest of your visions, what happened in them?” he asked.
Indicott’s gaze remained on the cat, cleaning itself.
“I don’t remember them all, though some were quite dull,” he said. “Some I recall were of me just walking across deserted snow.”
He pulled several stacks of yellow sheets which had a single line, written in large handwriting across the middle.
I was walking.
“What about the others?” asked Conrad.
“Those are the ones I’ve forgotten. Most of them, anyway. That’s why I recorded them,” Indicott replied.
Conrad watched as the shabby cat ran to Indicott’s feet, purring softly as it rubbed against him.
Conrad said, “Do you mind if I take some of these stacks and read through them?”
“I don’t imagine I do,” Indicott replied, stroking the cat.
“Maybe we can put them in the paper,” he said. “Warn everyone about the impending doom.”
Conrad glanced up from sorting through the sheets—he had forgotten about Indicott’s mad claim.
“You mean about the bananas?”
Indicott’s expression turned grim. He nodded.
“Just read my visions. You’ll be in the fold.”
A bundle of paper sat in the rear seat of Conrad’s Ford Explorer—all documented visions by Indicott Norrington. Indicott Norrington himself sat in the passenger seat.
The city of Asbrey, in its melancholy state, remained much happier than any other city on the planet. In a poll issued by the city council, seventy-six percent of the residents voted that their lives were “Pretty Darn Good!” The other twenty-four percent thought the mailed ballot was an advertisement and threw it away.
Conrad and Indicott were right in the heart of the city. The shining skyscrapers placed them at the foot of a canyon of silver and glass. Building tops were rendered invisible by the fog, which had swallowed the city.
Conrad stopped the vehicle at the signal of a red light.
“Can I call you Conrad?” Indicott asked.
“If you want to,” Conrad replied.
“Conrad, are you married?”
“No.”
“Why?” asked Indicott.
Hands disconnecting with the wheel, Conrad turned to his passenger.
“I don’t know, I suppose I haven’t met the right person,” he said.
“What if you did?”
“What?”
“What if you met that person? What if they stepped in front of you right now? Would you know it? Would you do something?”
“Well…I…I, That’s very unlikely Indicott,” Conrad stammered.
He was becoming uncomfortable.
He always played the role of “questioner,” due to his profession. In fact—Conrad Fox had never been asked about anything, besides the status of his patients. His parents had died when he was a boy. He was seven at the time—and nobody asks a seven year old boy why he’s not married, or why he has chosen to live a certain way. He grew up in a group home, friendless. He was schooled there. His college years had proven no more interesting than childhood.
Conrad Fox was a man of acquaintances.
He was never approached by a stranger—he never received a friendly smile.
What Conrad meant when he said he hadn’t met the right person, was that he didn’t know what it meant to meet the right person. In all honesty, he wouldn’t know what to do.
“I don’t know about that.” Indicott said
“You don—”
Conrad was cut off by the scream of a horn.
The light had turned green, and the people behind wouldn’t accept hesitation.
He pushed the accelerator and brought the vehicle to speed.
The two sat in silence, rounding another city block—when Conrad finally broke the quiet.
“How about you Indicott? Are you married,” he asked.
Indicott’s head was turned away from the drivers seat. He was looking at the river of people flowing about on the walkways.
“No,” he said.
Conrad—not wanting to end the possibly revealing conversation, asked, “What about family? Anyone in the city?”
“The people at the hospital already asked me that,” Indicott said. “Nobody in the city.”
Gripping the wheel more firmly, Conrad persisted.
“Outside of the city then? You must have family somewhere.”
Indicott leaned back in his seat.
“I don’t really know anyone outside of the city,” Indicott said.
“You’re saying you have absolutely no connections at all?” Conrad asked.
“Do you?” replied Indicott.
The moment Conrad turned his head to look at Indicott, something large slammed into the SUV from the right side. The force of the impact took the Explorer from the busy street and pushed it into the oncoming lane. The crash had enough force to cause the airbags to deploy, forcing Conrad into the back of the seat.
Conrad felt warmth under his nose and knew it must be bleeding. He looked over to Indicott, who was unhurt—and smiling.
“That was more fun than I thought it would be,” he said.
“Fu . . . Fun? We’re lucky to be alive!” Conrad coughed.
Indicott’s smile grew wider. “Funny thing to say.”
Giving a confused look, Conrad pushed his door open to escape the wreckage.
Conrad saw a tractor-trailer, and a burly man rounding the front of the Explorer.
“Sorry about that buddy. I just really love that song. Gets me riled up every time. Forgot where I was,” he said.
Conrad, his hand covering his nose, looked past the driver, at Indicott—who was standing right behind the burly man.
“It’s quite alright, what a ride it was!” he said, still smiling.
People exited their vehicles to look at the wreckage.
The driver of the tractor-trailer, startled by Indicott’s closeness said, “Well hello there buddy, what’re you smiling about?”
“Because that was more fun than I thought it would be,” Indicott repeated.
The driver surveyed Indicott with a curious look.
“Fun? You must be from the crazy house or something.”
“Yes, I am,” Indicott replied, getting a meaningful nod from the driver.
“What’s your name fella?” the truck driver asked.
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“Fun? You must be from the crazy house or something.”-LOL
This chapter makes me want to go back and read the opening chapter, just for I can clearly understand the the mystery going on. I wasnt really into the flash back, but I enjoyed the car scene. Like Indicott’s made me want to know what he knew and what point we would find out. Grammar wise I didnt spot anything. I would read more of this.
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