Godsmacked

walk.

CHAPTER 1

My father says that almost the whole world is asleep. Everybody you know. Everybody you see. Everybody you talk to. He says that only a few people are awake and they live in a state of constant total amazement.—Patricia Graynamore, Joe versus the Volcano

Charlie Abraham Ellison found himself in the middle of a beautiful azure sky. Unfortunately, he was literally in the middle of it, falling through it for a rather great distance. Naturally, this was rather disturbing to him. Not so much because he was afraid of heights (he was, in fact, incredibly acrophobic—at least when he found himself at a high altitude outside an airplane, which didn’t happen often, until now) but because when he looked down, he saw the ground approaching at a dreadfully worrisome speed.

This is going to HURT, he thought. After he finished this all-too-painfully obvious observation, he then moved on to wonder, Who the heck is screaming in my ear? It was then clear to him that he was the annoying screamer.

Just before what seemed to be an inevitable moment of impact, Charlie awoke, jumping bolt-upright in his bed. The room was dark, but to his great relief, he recognized it as his own. His breathing was taxed, palms sweaty and ears ringing, but he realized he was none the worse for wear. Just a dream, just a dream, he thought to himself as he flopped his grateful body back towards his pillow and immediately returned to a deep REM slumber.

The next morning, Charlie absentmindedly stirred circles in his coffee while perusing the morning paper. He had already forgotten the dream from last night. He was too distracted. He was always too distracted, about nothing in particular. As usual, he didn’t hear his charred toast pop up or the water boil over in the pot that he had (absentmindedly, of course) begun poaching his morning egg in about ten minutes ago. The noise of the water hitting the hot burner element finally roused Charlie from his ennui- induced trance and he sprang up from the kitchen table like a Chuck-in-the-box, front page billowing, curses hissing as much as the steaming water as he lunged for the stove for perhaps the nine-hundredth -odd time in his life.

Oh, bloody heck! In times of duress, Charlie often reverted to a British accent, a habit he inherited from his London-born father.

There was no one else in Charlie’s modest suburban New Jersey cottage to warn him of the daily déjà-vu breakfast disaster or even to nag him about learning from his mistakes because Charlie lived alone. Well, at least he was the only human in the house. If they could speak English, his house plant and tropical fish would probably, in a loving but exasperated way, scold Charlie to Be more careful next time. It was just as well for him that they did not have the gift of vocalization as Charlie would probably be quite disturbed by the notion that his Dieffenbachia and his Japanese Beta Fish were sentient beings.

Now noticing that he was late for the bus again for the nine-hundredth -odd time in his life, Charlie quickly buttled up the mess and bustled out the door, slurping coffee all the way. Charlie could easily drive his own car to work or carpool with others from his office, but he found the pressure of keeping up his end of the small talk with pool-mates nerve wracking, and he felt that commuting alone was not environmentally responsible.

Responsible was a descriptive adjective of which Charlie would probably approve. He would be less likely, however, to embrace such terms as safe, mundane, pedestrian, and the most succinct but stinging one, boring, and yet, that was his existence in a nutshell.

Boring. His route to work? Boring and dreary. His job at the insurance company? Boring. His love life? Mind-numbingly boring.

Now, as any middle-class head-of-household in the free world can tell you, insurance salesmen and correspondingly, insurance companies are gruesomely uninteresting; but Layman’s Fiduciary Trust was a true Bastion of Boredom that practiced institutional tediousness, the likes of which bordered on abuse. Had any suspected Al Qaida member been subjected to one of Layman’s stale-donut sprinkled staff meetings, they would have surely begged for water-boarding instead.

Not only was the industry-related subject matter boring, but the working environment was just as lackluster: a bullpen of dull partitions and furnishings devoid of any color save the gray tinge of actuary tables, the putty tint of file cabinet graveyards, and the inhuman-blue hue of spreadsheets flickering on computer monitors. This was all, of course, illuminated by the same type of flickering fluorescent glow that once drove a Tom Hanks’ movie character to throw himself headlong into the mouth of a volcano.

Beyond all this were the people who worked alongside Charlie. To call them drones would be an insult to industrious apian creatures everywhere. They all had similar duties which included shuffling papers, organizing them into heaps, and shuttling them from one cubicle farm to the next. This routine was only interrupted by the occasional answering of phones, but never before the eleventh ring. The indigenous inhabitants of the cubicle-farms instinctively learned long ago that most reasonable callers give up after ten.

Now, despite being surrounded by such demoralizing ordinariness the same way a fly can wind up encased in amber, Charlie was never bitter or impolite. He always maintained a vague unflappability about him even in the face of the clients’ unbridled, misguided anger, which made him ideal for the job of Customer Service Representative at Layman’s.

Like most insurance companies, Layman’s Fiduciary Trust, or LFT, as they are known on the New York Stock Exchange (inspiring the pejorative nickname LeFT, as in left behind, not the opposite of right ), did everything in its collective power to avoid ever having to pay on a claim, no matter how legitimate. Naturally, from time to time, this practice would incur the wrath of expectant customers. Sometimes this anger even emanated from the general public, because occasionally a savvy consumer would discover that Layman’s was owned by a big conglomerate that tended to diversify into such far-flung endeavors as a chemical company that accidently poisoned 4,000 people in Bangladesh last year and a Japanese tuna-fishing fleet that did not recognize dolphin-safe trolling practices. This factoid would, naturally, prompt an indignation-laced protest call or two.

So, from 9 a.m. to 5 p.m., EST, Charlie would field calls from irate policy holders, incensed next-of-kin, and infuriated environmentalists, and after serving as their human punching bag for seven and one-half minutes (an exact time arrived upon by a team of LFT efficiency experts), he would politely apologize to them for everything short of the Holocaust and the heartbreak of psoriasis, and asks them if they would like to speak to a supervisor. By this exact time, however, they were either too hoarse, too tired to complain anymore, or feeling too guilty for ragging on a completely innocent stranger that they invariably declined and thanked Charlie for being so patient with them.

For instance:

Layman’s Fiduciary Trust! How may I direct your call?

I want to speak to a manager! came the angry voice on the other end of the phone line.

Well, there are lots of managers here and you sound a little frazzled. I certainly don’t want to add to your frustration by sending you to the wrong department. Why don’t you tell me your problem and I’ll do my best to help.

Look, pal, I’m pissed at your stupid-ass company, and I’m done wasting my time with underlings giving me the runaround. I want to talk to someone in charge.

Wow, I’m sorry about that if we screwed up somehow. Confidentially, yes we can screw up. I admit it. Let me make it right for you if I can. Tell me all about it, and we can go from there.

Well it’s my insurance bill. Er, my wife’s bill actually … you see they keep on charging her uh, us, and …

Ah, I see. I can relate to that. You know, I spent two and a half hours last week on the phone with my cable company. They keep on charging me for a pay-per-view of a Justin Bieber concert, and I’m not a ten-year-old girl, you know what I mean? I don’t even like the kid.

"Ha-ha, yeah who does? Well that sucks …"

So you were saying about your bill? My name’s Charlie by the way, what’s your first name?

Um. Uh, Mike. Well you see Charlie, my wife, Barbara, passed away six months ago and I keep getting life insurance bills for her …

Oh, Mike, I’m deeply sorry for your loss! How are you coping?

Etc., etc.

Calls like this happened exactly sixty times per workday and Charlie never grumbled. Not because the pay was exceptional, because it wasn’t. Not because he received praise or recognition from his superiors, because he didn’t. Basically, Charlie didn’t complain about his tedious job because of the fantastic lunch benefits. No, LFT didn’t offer free hot lunches catered by a trendy, temperamental gourmet chef. Efficiency experts did away with the company dining room and cafeteria after the Internet insurance bubble burst several years ago. In fact, Charlie brown-bagged it every day; but instead of eating at his desk, as ordered by the efficiency experts, he went to the public park to eat his sandwich. Charlie got away with this transgression because he fibbed to his superiors about smoking; not that he lied about smoking, he lied about not smoking. Lunch breaks outside may not be acceptable to most insurance company efficiency experts but half-hour cigarette breaks could be, at least to those employed by insurance companies owned by conglomerates that also own tobacco plantations.

Every day at noon, Charlie found an empty bench at the crossroads in the middle of the park and ate his very pedestrian lunchmeat sandwich. He simply liked people-watching, well, girl-watching specifically, and Tolkien Park was the Grand Central Station of nubile female pulchritude. Today was an especially good day as it was Friday.

Allo, Chahleey!

Lo, Da’!

On Fridays, Charlie’s father would meet him at the park to share a brown-bag lunch.

Ah, Chahleey, ya picked yeself a right prime spot, ya did! As much due to his easy charm as his accent, Chick Ellison often reminded people of Michael Caine. Or the GEICO gecko.

‘Ow’s ‘at Da’? Besides times of duress, Charlie often slipped into Cockney when casually conversing with his dad. He long ago discovered that it relaxed his father the same way his demeanor soothed his phone customers at LFT. He also believed that it somehow strengthened their bond.

Well, oyve been lookin’ ‘round here at the sights, ya know? Cor! This is food for the soul, son! It’s what a Vegas all-you-can-eat buffet must look loyke to a starving, ‘omeless fellow, heh-heh.

Charlie looked around. There was the typical daily parade of beauty: tall girls, petite girls, willowy ones, buxom ones; harried young, mini-skirted sales executives bustling by with wireless phones plastered to their ears; coquettish secretaries with high-flung hair and low-slung shopping bags from Bergdorf’s tottering by on too-high heels; long-haired, blue-jeaned art students meandering past wistfully. Charlie appreciated them all.

Yeah,… Charlie smiled sheepishly at his dad.

Unfortunately, that was usually the limit of the excitement for him. Charlie was almost painfully shy around the opposite sex and, as most men know, attractive women rarely need to make the first move. On occasion, he would muster his courage and score a date from an eligible clerk-typist, but the polite demeanor that served him so well in his career was also his downfall in the realm of romance. For it is true that many women, especially stunning ones, really do go for the bad boys, and Charlie was much too nice to ever achieve such a roguish reputation. If women kept a book on single men similar to the one pitchers keep on National League batters, there would be a very short entry for him: Charlie Ellison: mostly harmless.

It was not that Charlie was unattractive. At six foot one with brown hair and very dark brown eyes, he was above-average in every way: height, looks, and physique. However, his very being reeked of a desperation which drove away most women more effectively than shark repellent on a Great White.

While it might be argued that Charlie, being responsible, and nice, would logically seek out someone, well, less flashy or shallow in a mate, this was the one life exception that he had. He never played it safe with women, even if that type of woman considered him, nice, but boring. He preferred to hold out for the unattainable and continually face rejection rather than settle for an average-looking woman with substantial character.

Perhaps, if only subconsciously, Charlie knew how pedestrian his life actually was and he secretly hoped that if he could somehow convince a supermodel to date him, it would be his escape to a more exotic existence. Thus he sat daily at this spot watching in rapt attention, for this was one of the only activities that Charlie did not partake in absentmindedly. He would watch, and sigh contentedly, but most of all, he smiled. He smiled a smile akin to one that Chuck Jones would characteristically assign to one of his cartoon creations, all curly in the corners. On some days, like today, it would be the only time he genuinely felt good.

Ah Chal, this place reminds me of your mum. As much as this is a feast for these ol’ peepers, she is still the most beyutiful bird I ever laid eyes on. One of a koynd, she was.

Crike, Da’ you make it sound like she’s dead! She just ran off with a travel agent from Medford …

… and let tha’ be a lesson to ya, son. I don’t blame her all tha’ much. It’s her bohemian blood that she couldn’t deny. She sough’ out the travel and a-venture Oy couldn’t give ‘er.

What adventure Da’? It’s not like she’s zip-linin’ in the Congo! She’s a glorified den mother for cruise passengers in Fort Lauderdale.

"My point exactly son! You got that same Greek blood of ‘ers coursin’ through your veins. One day, mind you, you’ll wake up with an appetite for a-venture, too. You’ve got to account for that, Chahl. Get it out of your system before ya ‘ook your tender to one of these fit stunners." Charlie’s father leered ever so slightly as he pointed his chin at the beauties before him.

Get it out, Chahleey, before you break a girl’s heart like mine wuz broke …

Eventually, Charlie bade farewell to his father, abandoned his coveted (or covetous?) vantage point, and strolled back to work to answer his quota of thirty afternoon calls.

Typically for Charlie, Friday night’s itinerary included Happy Hour at a pub close to home replete with body-numbing libations to match Charlie’s anesthetized mental state. This was usually followed by sleeping in late Saturday morning.

That evening, Charlie did indeed retire to his usual haunt, a local watering hole called Omicron’s.

Now, despite the ancient Aegean name, the décor at The O, as the locals called it, was straight out of the Ruby-Mc-TGI-Friday’s school of interior design, and this suited Charlie just fine. The collection of junk and bric-a-brac screwed/nailed/glued to the walls had long ago ceased to fascinate him, which meant that he could concentrate fully on people-watching, anesthetizing a few brain cells, and waiting hopefully for friendly conversation.

Unfortunately on this night, none of his usual acquaintances made the scene and none of the people that did seemed interesting, affable, or even approachable. Perhaps no one interested Charlie because his father’s words continued to ring in his head.

Greek blood … get it out, before you break a girl’s heart …

Charlie sat, sipped, and half-smiled vacantly amid the din of strangers inanely conversing and laughing around him.

Eventually, Charlie decided to stumble home because he thought that he caught a young, shaggy, bearded man staring at him from across the bar several times and it made him feel uneasy. Not creeped-out, just … strange, like the man was staring into his soul. He seemed to watch no one but Charlie, and no one seemed to be watching either one of them. In fact, everyone appeared to be oblivious to both of them, but they sure were aware of each other.

Weird. Very Weird.

And then Saturday dawned, uneventful, of course. Charlie set about his weekly house-repair routine. His New England-style cottage was fairly old as it was an inheritance from his grandfather and needed constant, monotonous upkeep. The home was the fourth legacy that Charlie’d had passed down to him from his Grampa Carl. The first being his name Charlie, a derivation of Carl; the second was the aforementioned occasional slip into the Cockney brogue that made him popular with classmates when it was time was ripe for a Monty Python imitation; the third birthright was the ‘nice guy’ personality, a tradition among the Ellis men, apparently, as Charlie’s father had been bequeathed this