Short Story / Cleaning Quarters
He had a curious and clever obsession with cleaning quarters, though few knew why. It should be mentioned now that he was not miserly nor avaricious. He wasn’t primarily concerned with his own financial means but rather comfortable with his simple and, as some might say, austere living. He had a small, elegant three room house in which he kept as few material possessions as possible—with the significant exception of quarters, as he was rather infatuated with them. He piled these in neat, clean, shiny stacks of ten about the place. Since he was a notoriously compulsive cleaner, copious amounts of alcohol, drinking and rubbing, were kept in several cupboards throughout his dwelling, as readily available weapons to annihilate soil, grime, dirt, lint, and dust particles. Filth disgusted him. This was a very important part of his character.
It should also be mentioned that he had once been a man of great science. Brimming with theorems, hypotheses, forces and laws, he had once been well-known for sharing his precise and controlled opinions about everything and anything. Growing up, he had won several science fairs and had been acclaimed at his university by his professors as a man of extraordinary genius and insight. He had done some post-grad work and discovered a great deal of things which were hailed in the science world, yet largely ignored by the average populace. Therefore, he was not a very famous scientist, but those who had known him were keenly aware of his talents. Unfortunately, it was these which had led to his demise.
Few knew what went on in his house. In fact, he lived a carefully secluded life. The mail was delivered through a slot in his door, his groceries were delivered directly to him, and he generally did not receive personal calls. Well wishers who had once come to greet him when he first moved to the neighborhood now avoided him and did not speak of him. The day he had arrived they had brought food and warmth to their new neighbor, yet he had responded to this strangely. When he saw their figures approaching his house, he had closed the blinds, locked his door, and immediately turned on the sprinklers, drenching those who had come to welcome him. After that, little was known of the man in the house and very few cared to know. For all intended purposes, he was a nobody.
On one particular evening, as he sat down to his supper alone and silent, he saw a peculiar object sweep its way across the spotless tile floor. This object, having been taken up by the draft of gusty, hot air coming out of the floor vent, presented itself neatly at the diner’s feet, almost as if it were a guest patiently awaiting his host to greet and invite him in. Presently, he gingerly took up the object in his pale, spindly fingers and turned it towards him. Immediately upon viewing what it had to impart, he shrieked in the way one does when he is alone: a small, startled, high-pitched sound shot up his vocal chords and out of his mouth for but a split second. Again he was quiet and alone.
But now he no longer ate. He instead removed himself from the kitchen and went into his living room, where he commenced to remove several bottles of alcohol from his cabinets and mix them in a small bowl. He spent the night obsessively cleaning two stacks of quarters and muttering to himself to fill the loud, dull roar of the silence which encroached upon him. He tried his hardest to forget the image and the memories it inspired.
That night he slept and dreamt. To be more specific, he had a nightmare. His dream was not quite enough in the element of fantasy to be a complete dream, so it was more like a total recall. Events from his life spilled across the inside of his eyelids, lurid and fast paced, skipping only to the parts he hated most, to the parts that made him cringe in his sleep as he thought of them. He hated to remember his life and wasn’t sure, when he awoke later, tired and feeling as if he hasn’t slept at all, exactly why his brain had chose to reveal his past at that time. Or maybe he did.
What he had seen the night before had merely been a photo. Yet, while this object- this photo- may bear no meaning for you or I, or even for his neighbor across the street, who had seen the same photo several years ago on a television news bulletin, it certainly held grave implication for him. In fact, the photo was a psychological torture: seeing it gave him a feeling akin to opening the lid on the Pandora’s Box of his memory; one glance and all the evils of his world were unleashed rapidly and did not cease.
But just who, or what, was in this photo, pray tell? The picture was nothing short of ordinary, in the very least. It held a portrait of a man in his early twenties- the prime of his life- and in drab business attire. A dull gray suit jacket paired with a starched and pressed button-up undershirt- gleamingly white- and, for a bit of fashion, a black and white checked tie. The picture itself was in black and white, but this made no difference whatsoever, as the focus of the photograph was not the clothes but rather the man within the frame.
The man, as aforementioned, was in his early twenties. He was clean-shaven, square of jaw, unsmiling, and had a rather large nose. However, the most keen characteristic was his eyes, which expressed a sort of naughtiness and mischief characterized in men his age; he had a clever brow and seemed to look at you as if to communicate his troublemaking intent- in secret, of course. He was handsomish, with dark hair slicked down at the part. He was famous.
Through the early morning hours the man attempted to eradicate the form of the photograph from his mind through cleaning his quarters. He carefully swiped Washington’s prominent nose, his tailed wig, the embossed letters written to the left of his profile: “IN GOD WE TRUST.” Still, conversations long past saturated his empty house:
“Hey, Peter, nice to see you again.”
“What do you want, Michael?”
“Whoa, let’s not be so hasty, brother dear. I have a proposition.”
He continued his painstaking work with more energy now, with quickness and deftness and lightness of fingers. He began with the “L” on “LIBERTY.”
A scene flashed across the glossy, reflected light of the quarter he was cleaning, like film. Someone threw his three-year-old self out of the way of a speeding car. He promptly threw the quarter across the room.
But the enlivened memories would not stop there. He was not free in his sleep, nor in the waking world. He would have to bear it. As he began a second quarter from his pile, exchanges echoed off the walls.
“You can do this. You owe me. You know you do.”
“Yeah, but can’t I do something else? Something less…illegal?”
“This is all I ask of you. Please. Then you can go on living your life, and you’ll have paid your debt to me. Look, I know we don’t talk much, but I’m your brother and you know I would never ask you to do anything for me unless I knew it required your brains…”
“All right, all right, I get your point. I…I think I know of a way that would work. It requires no skill with a weapon—as you previously stipulated, correct? You would just need to lure him to a specific location. Can you do that for me?”
“Sure, yes, anything. I just need to get this job done. I’ll be so glad when this is all over. Thanks pal, you’re a lifesaver.”
“I’m not even going to delve into the irony of that statement. Just go to where I tell you and bring him there. The rest I’ll take care of.”
“You know, I never really…”
“Just go now. Please.”
“All right. Adios, hermano. See you when the time comes.”
His knuckle had begun to bleed from the vigor of his work. The quarter was as clean and shiny as it was going to get. Blood trickled onto the disinterested face of Washington. The man screeched and stood up.
“What do you want from me?” he cried to the empty house. To the spirits that perhaps were torturing him so. Or perhaps not.
The final act—the quarter slipped from his fingers and he watched it fall to the floor, simultaneously hushed on the still carpet and in his mind’s eye bursting the skull of a man whom he did not know, would never know, and whose spirit plagued him. His existence was tireless, tireless, endless. He moved silently across the carpet and into his bedroom.
In his bedroom he sat silently and ill-at-ease until he felt quiet and alone again. His knuckles had dried up. He got up, commenced to remove several bottles of alcohol from his cabinets and mix them in a small bowl, and chose a stack of quarters he hadn’t cleaned in a while. He sat obsessively cleaning these until day broke.
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I like the underlying concept of this story very much. I also like the main character--his compulsions are believable yet intriguing. (But) the language-style choices you make trouble me. The narration sounds 19th century--a combination of word choice and phrasing, especially parenthetical phrasing. Yet, the remembered dialog between the main and his brother is much more modern. I found the change startling. I had convinced myself before the dialog began that the setting was 19th century and then felt I had to readjust when the dialog came along. My suggestion? Put everything into modern dialect. Trim your words down to make a tighter, less cluttered prose.
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When I first read your title thought `quarters’ referred to `living quarters’, but you meant 25c coins. Though I can see it may have some application as in `cleaning house’, or removing unwanted memories. There seemed to be an intent lurking in the story, which to me, didn’t get to the surface. Largely, the old man is described well, his brilliant yet lack lustre past as a scientist, and his lonely obsessive small life. His rejection of approaches and retreat from society. There is the photograph to sponsor memory of his brother (who it is mentioned saved him) – and the brother want’s him to do something (murder?) to someone (but vague – details known to character) – but we don’t get specifics or who etc. Just felt there was something more I need to know, to round out understanding and the story. One man is famous, but don’t know why? Men seem to have had some rivalry in past – as brothers/scientists but this is only hinted at – never pinned down what is going on, or expected etc.
Thought there was a tendency to over-write, and suggest you par it down to avoid repeating essentially same things to simple statements eg `He had done some post-grad… Therefore, he was not … his talents.’ and you interpret for the reader `This was a very important part of his character.’ – this is `telling’, and you should try and minimize. Let the characters description and action inform the reader. It is important you say, and given the time spent on his scientific background, that it might be too, but don’t seem to play a part in story’s resolution.
`…had once been a man…’ & next sentence `had once been well-known’ & next sentence `had been’ – `had’ indicates passive voice, and suggest there are places where you could eliminate and/or replace with active verbs eg `…up, he (had) won several science fairs and (had been) acclaimed (by his university professors),…’ It’s something I’ve been guilty of, and I check for it now. eg `day he (had) arrived’ – already in past tense so why need `had’.
In several places you seem to prevaricate eg ` slept and dreamt. To be more specific, he had a nightmare’ and `at that time. Or maybe he did’ Suggest be clear, as frustrates reader.
`…all intended purposes…’ – `intents and purposes’
`…these which had led to his demise…’ – does this mean he is actually dead, a ghost or are you referring to `death of his career’?
Keeping the object `secret’ from reader though character can see it is photo seemed contrived mystery. Suggest be open about it.
The story has been framed and paced well, and the character is quirky, and evokes a `Silas Marner’ type of feel. Think if you can refine it down, and give reader a few more hints into internal state of mind (reason behind madness/relationship with other man) this will be really good. Good luck with this.
Dud I am loving this piece. I am a fan of the Poe man and his ability to tell a scary story before King and all those special effect wizards in Hollywood. The man across the street must have been scary. Dude, I love the piece and your character development and how the story unfolds. You have major talent to tell a story. Thank you.
This was a very interesting piece. Personally (key word—don’t have to listen to any of these), I was wondering what presented itself to him via the draft of air (was it the picture? if so, ignore this)? Also, odd how he chooses to polish quarters that remind him of the ‘liberty’ he took from this innocent party.
Ah, it’s got great imagery, well written there. Though the dialogue is kind of strange, it feels like everything goes black and there are just voices. You should add more tag lines or more content between them so we know who is talking, maybe some actions so we can picture them talking. But for the most part it was creepy, although I didn’t really know them well. You could develop the characters more so we can care about them. I wasn’t really sure what the ending was about? A guy who cleans quarters… ? I feel like it was a rushed end to it all just to end it. Or do you plan on making it longer?
Overall I wasn’t sure what it was about other than his obsession with quarters. Which is amusing, I have a friend who does the same thing but not to seuch a degree. Although it’s easy to picture him old and hunched over cleaning quarters with alcohol.
Amusing and creepy, keep writing, good stuff here.
I can see the Poe influence here. But while you’ve got some of the form down, the story doesn’t hold together well enough to fulfill the function. There are too many things here that are told and not shown. The backstory is a little weird, and doesn’t seem to fit in with the rest of the story. Suffice it to say that he had been accomplished once, and move on-this seems to be too much. On the other hand, the flashback seems too austere, and cries out for more description, more dialogue (this is the shortest conversation arranging a man’s death that I’ve ever read), more meat. Finally, there are a few points where the style is a bit inconsistent-a common failing in trying to write along a historical example-but nothing a strong edit wouldn’t cure. In all, an interesting work, in the manner of one of the great American writers.
I enjoyed reading this. Your imagination works really well uncovering the life of a quirky recluse.
I know writers are fond of telling us snippets and allowing our own imagination to conjure up the right answers, but this line needs further information – Unfortunately, it was these which had led to his demise. We get that something sinister occurred between him and his brother. Forgive me if this story is not complete as I am basing my comments on how it stands.
“Sure, yes, anything. I just need to get this job done. I’ll be so glad when this is all over. Thanks pal, you’re a lifesaver.” I think this seems out of place, he is not happy with his brother’s suggestion to lure this man to him and yet he sounds chirpy and happy with his brother. Also you should add a sentence to add the transition from being three years old to the day his brother calls in the debt.
Your descriptive terms are very well done and unique, you have an impressive style all of your own which really works. You give the reader a clear multi-dimensional picture of your character and his world.
First line would be stronger if you cut “but few knew why”. That last phrase cuts into a strong statement and pacifies an interesting opening. Also, it’s a cliche saying.
Get rid of “several” when talking about the alcohol cupboards, it is an unnecessary detail that does not add anything to the prose either.
Some general notes: Cut as many unnecessary words as possible. This will not only tighten the piece, but strengthen it as well. Example: ”...carefully secluded life” does not need “carefully”, don’t feel that every important detail needs three to four adjectives for validation. One will do, and a comparison would do better at times.
A good concept to work with, there is potential in this story. You just need to edit and strengthen the material.
it’s a very mature story to be told to your classmates. I love the darkness into of it, the lonliness. I do in fact, like that Edgar Allen Poe has inspired you to write something like this. In the beginning it almost read like one of his stories which I can’t recall at the moment where it leaves you curious at the end
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