Week 26: Jan Bickel- Gonna Take the Chance, Not Gonna Wait

Full Prompt: (based on a poem she wrote ‘long ago’) “When I see you I anticipate. Gonna take the chance…not gonna wait!”

Story:

Buildings whirred by and slowed, whirred by and slowed, as they did every weekday morning. He enjoyed squinting his eyes against the racing and crawling, turning the buildings into something more interesting than what they were. Bart never sat on the el train even if the car was empty. He thought, inevitably, someone who needed- or sometimes demanded it- would come along and getting up was more awkward than just standing the whole time. His commute was long, but he had perfected a wide-gate, pigeon-footed stance which allowed him to look relatively normal, but maintain his composure no matter how quickly the train needed to start or stop. 

For a city so populated it was really easy to feel isolated, lonely even. But Bart was used to it. His development had been extremely accelerated in his adolescence. Reaching the height of six foot, four inches by the age of thirteen, he had literally stood out from an early age. He’d been plagued with acne, warts on his feet- which wouldn’t have been an issue, save for a school play in which everyone had to wear sandals on stage- and hyperhidrosis, which is the embarrassing phenomenon of constant underarm sweating. Finally, his hyper-quick growth had necessitated large quantities of food. At first this resulted in growth upward, but after reaching his peak height resulted in growth outward. Since that time he had to think of everything he put in his body, be it before, or regretfully after he ingested it. All in all Bart thought himself a well adjusted and fit adult- whatever the word “adult” meant.

Bart got along with most pleasantly enough. But those adolescent experiences had formed him into a quieter adult, usually refraining from saying what he’d like, when he’d like to. Occasionally that was a good thing, but most of the time it was at the expense of fully enjoying new experiences or speaking with new people. His job didn’t do anything to help the matter. At the moment he worked in the complaint department of a very large manufacturing company. Most of what this entailed was greeting a stranger on the phone and getting yelled at for several minutes. He found the disconnect of the phone to be a helpful buffer for his personal communication. Most calls his dialogue consisted of hello, the company name, I’m sorry, and let me direct you to the person who can answer your question. It wasn’t difficult work and it paid the bills for now. 

He walked the few city blocks home from the train station, his hands in his pockets, shoulders high, and his head pinned to his chest. He went over options for his weekend. He wanted to carve out some time to work on his long gestating screenplay, something he’d toiled with for the better part of six years. He would write and rewrite. Edit. He’d change character names. He wanted it to be perfect. He envisioned himself spending all of Saturday on it, knowing “all” meant about 2 hours in the afternoon. Then, that evening he had a party, which, dreading was the wrong word for… suddenly something shiny on the ground caught his eye. He veered toward the object and it seemed to glint of its own free will. Laying on the ground gathering light solely to bounce off of itself. He kicked at it. It was just a bottle cap. He didn’t recognize the logo and couldn’t read the name. He picked it up and rubbed it with his thumb. “Moxie.” “Hah,” he laughed to himself, “what a great word.” He put the bottle cap in his pocket. 

Saturday morning Bart sat down at his desk to start typing. He opened the window. He checked his phone. He drummed on the keyboard with two sunflower yellow, number two pencils. After which the screen read: “jfjdjdfjfjfjfurhvj.”

“We’re off to a good start.” He said to his plants. He got up to water them. Bart sat back down a half hour later after having also gone downstairs to check the mail and reorganizing his toiletries in the bathroom vanity. He stared at the blank screen. Then, the bottle cap caught his eye again from where he had tossed it down with the contents of his pocket. He picked it up. He twirled it between his thumb, index, and middle fingers. Three previously unnoticed words were written on the inside, but how they were written was of more intrigue. It appeared similar to pen, but they refused to smudge against the wiping of his thumb, at which point he also found them to be slightly raised. They said “do not wait.” And like a lightbulb being switched on he knew exactly what to write. For the next seven hours the words Bartholomew Birt had worked six years to come up with flowed effortlessly from his fingertips. He typed freely and quickly, each keystroke closing the gap between where he was and where he had longed to be. 

In utter dismay of what had just occurred, Bart typed “the end” and closed his laptop. He was filled with joy, pride, exuberance, energy, he felt as if he could run a marathon. He wanted to burst from the apartment and tell absolutely everyone about the thing he had just crafted. Suddenly, he remembered the party. Just yesterday he hadn’t been looking forward to it, but now he craved it. He checked his watch. The party started in an hour, just the right amount of time to ready himself and walk over. He dressed, did his hair, and headed out the door. 

He strode more confidently than ever toward the event. He put his hands in his pockets and felt something foreign to their usual contents; it was the bottle cap. He didn’t remember putting it in his pocket but dismissed it, thinking it must have been with the pile of change he’d scooped up in his rush out the door. 

Jeff, his coworker and host of the party was on his second floor patio with a few others. He spotted Bart and waved. Bart, still hands in his pockets, but within earshot of the small crowd blurted out a joke that had the whole patio laughing. Impressed with how quick witted he had been he entered the front door and walked the single flight of stairs up to the gathering. Everyone he had expected to be there was, as well as someone he’d hoped would. Cassandra. He nervously fumbled the change in his pocket, and with it the bottle cap. He knew exactly what he wanted to say to her. What he had always wished he’d been confident enough to say to her. He greeted several people as he walked directly toward her. “Hi Cassandra." 

Sunlight streamed through the small cracks in the blinds. Bart woke the morning after the party and recalled all that had happened the day before. In a single day he had finished his screenplay, been happy to go to a party, and not only spoke to Cassandra but ended the night talking alone with her on the stoop. He rolled his head toward his bedside table. The small scrap of paper she had written her number on laid there. He swiveled his feet toward the floor. What would happen this day, he thought to himself and smiled.