25 Hour Watch

      It was a cold day in the nation’s capital; cold, gray and bitter. A thick layer of uninterrupted clouds hung in the air, low enough to scrape past the tallest buildings in the city and filtering the sun’s light into a dreary dull hue. A steady brisk breeze pushed the icy air through the busy streets, forcing pedestrians to bury themselves deep into their thick coats. The cars and trucks that crawled along the roads belched out thick white plumes of exhaust.

      The mass of people that crowded the sidewalks walked with hurried intent, rushing to return to work after their lunch or make a meeting or just find a warm building to escape this wicked cold snap that had enveloped the city. They shuffled about, eyes downcast, their minds barely concious of their surroundings and concentrating simply to get to their individual destinations. Had the weather been but a trifle warmer or the general mood not as pressured, perhaps someone may have noticed the old man sharing the sidewalk with them, moving along at a laggardly pace. Perhaps someone may have noticed that, unlike his fellow pedestrians all dressed in their fullest coats, wool scarves and knit caps, he wore only a conservative light brown tweed suite, seemingly oblivious to the anger of Old Man Winter. And perhaps someone may, just may, have noticed that his mouth failed to produce the tell-tale misty puff of breath.

       Charlie walked slowly along the avenue, hands in his pockets, his eyes watching the pavement scroll by. In his mind, the old man was going through the events of the past twelve weeks, recalling those haggaring events which had brought him over a thousand miles from his home to this place in a last ditch and desperate effort to settle this matter once and for all. Over the past three months, he had seen a multitude of educated and influential people from his home state and none of them, not a one, had been able to help him with his condition. A dozen doctors, a couple of coroners, a plethora of professors, the city administrators, councilmen, county clerks, even an assistant to the governor. The only thing Charlie took away from these people was a sad head shake, an apology and a list of names of other professionals who might be able to help him. He had felt like a ping-pong ball being played around with by a few dozen players, batted from one person to the next and back again.

      Not even Merlin the Psychic, whose advertisement Charlie caught on television late one night, could offer anything to end this nightmare. During that hour long phone call, all Merlin the Magical (as he liked to call himself, along with several other monikers) could advise was, as Charlie was a Virgo, he would come into good financial fortune once Jupiter and Saturn were properly aligned. Charlie sneered at this, recalling how a week afterwards, the same day these two planets were “properly” aligned, he received his phone bill with three hundred and fifty dollars owed to Merlin.

      Charlie paused as he noticed a troop of dried brown leaves, urged on by a gust of wind he could not register, tumbled along the sidewalk towards him. Upon reaching his feet, they seemed to break from their determined forward direction and began to dance around him in a tight circle. Suddenly, a flash of images arched across his memory. As the leaves spun around him, he had the sudden recollection of being eight or nine years old at Manning Park in the town of his childhood. His two older sisters, Nora and Colette, both now gone, had him on the merry-go-round, spinning him around and around as fast as they could push the giant wheel. Charlie had been terrified he might go flying off, was in pain as his own body weight was pushed against him, laboring his breathing, and was sure that at any moment, mother’s lunch of grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup would be spun out of his stomach. And the young Charlie was laughing, laughing as hard as a child could. The sight of the world going by in a blurred panorama of color and the intense giddiness in his head and the sound of his sisters’ own fits of laughter at the torment of their little brother. The boy had still been laughing as he lost his lunch once his sisters had stopped him. And he had not stopped until they made it back home, Charlie staggering the whole way.

       The leaves broke away and dissipated, each one going in another direction. If he had been able feel such, Charlie was sure he would have been disappointed at this abandonment. Instead he only felt that ringing numbness which had occupied his body since waking up that morning over three months ago. His moment with the leaves now past, he looked around, surveying the area to get his bearings. Then, to his surprise, he realized he was now standing in front of the very building he had spent a good portion of the morning looking for.

      Not ten feet away from him stood a large granite sign set into the ground, looking for all the world like a massive tombstone. In large, gold embossed letters were the words “FEDERAL RECORDS BUILDING.” Charlie looked up at the massive building that the sign was presenting. He was not impressed.

    The building was a gaudy monstrosity of dingy limestone, outlined in a tacky gold relief. It was if some failed architect had made a heroic attempt of matching his creation against the other, more grandiose and prestigious Romanesque style buildings down the street, tried to amplify that design and then fail completely. The brochure of local landmarks that Charlie had been using as a guide to find his way here mentioned that the Federal Records Building was “unique in appearance” but who ever had written it had obviously never seen it personally.

      This building was hideous.

      Despite Charlie’s reservations concerning the taste or even sanity of the building’s designer, this was where he needed to be. Somewhere in this architectural horror Charlie hoped to find the evidence he needed, the proof required to finally end his dilemma. This was his last and only hope.

      Charlie took a deep breath, patted down what little hair remained on his head and brushed the little creases in his suit out with his hands. Forcing a smile onto his lips and straightening his back, he walked up the many steps leading to the front doors and entered.

What terrible plight has befallen poor Charlie? Has the old man found a solution? Tune in next Sunday for Part Two of The Life of Charlie Marley, D.O.A.!