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At ninety four, Otis Winchell was able to watch the world pass with no pangs of regret, and he watched it closely from the wicker chair which snuggled gently in the angled recess of the bay window. The panes of glass, nine per window, were dirty now, splashed by the spring rains, streaked on the inside by condensation and the smoke from hundreds of rank, black cigars smoked in apprehension and anticipation of that day when his lungs would no longer expand or contract, his fingers, stiff with rigor mortis would no longer be able to strike a match or flip the rough wheel of the lighter – which was so often out of fluid these days.2
The chair groaned lightly in its squeaky voice as Otis reached for his cigar. In the street outside two small boys were playing tag, chasing each other around the trees now filled with springtime birds and sap, like flowing thick blood smelling of maple, coursing slowly, not clogged with corpuscles red or white, yet giving a life of its own, expanding, growing, giving existence. The boys shouted and ran, darting in and out among the young leaves and tender green branches and the work-a-day birds. Otis had raised two of his own children and had two grandchildren, all dead now, of old age and heart attack. Now he trod the thin edge of the page, partly in yesterday, leaning toward tomorrow, but balanced inexorably on today. Today – wide as an avenue for the sane, narrow and undefined for those whose mind had drifted. Otis tended to hang his leg backward onto the pages finished, like a man afraid to complete the best novel he had ever read.3
Otis puffed contentedly on the cigar, watching the gray smoke curl against the windowpanes and the rise to the ceiling where suddenly, as if by some stroke of magic or wizardry, it disappeared. He rolled the textured black cylinder between his mottled fingers, the skin worn thin by the years of work and pleasure. He closed his eyes, the aroma of the fresh tobacco strong in his nostrils. He often marveled that he had not lost his sense of smell as so many of his friends had. He could feel the tiny hairs twitching as the smoke passed through, striving as they had for years to keep the smoke out, but finding the job impossible.4
He could vaguely hear the two boys yelling as they ran through the yards, occasionally crossing the corner of Otis’ grass. He enjoyed having them play in the yard, not only because they could occupy his eyes, but even more because they prodded his brain into those days when he ran through yards and climbed trees and threw rocks at birds and swam rivers and played hooky from school to try to catch that two foot long catfish in Tuttle Creek. There was a time, now far gone, when he had been ten years old. There was no "time" then, only joy or pain. 5
Time only began when his own children were born. It was then that he became aware of the past – in order to plan for the future. And suddenly, like some long absent presence, the present struck like a huge pendulum and Otis was aware of time, the minutes and the seconds, that super-saturated mixture of nebulous and substance, efflorescing into his existence like the exaggerated flare of a bomb in a nightmare. He had watched his own children playing tag and blind man’s bluff, unaware of the constant ticking that resounded so resolutely in his ears. It was impossible to avoid the thumping, pulsating rhythm. It was eternally with him, like some middle-age birthmark, absurd, yet a physical reality. His ears throbbed day and night as his children grew older – and then they died and their grandchildren after them and then Otis noticed that the drumming was not so loud, as if the parade was moving off down the street leaving him behind with the discarded candy wrappers and the dust and the trampled grass. Now, tucked into this window, the noise was almost gone, carried off by the smoke and the years.6
He flipped the long, conical ash from the cigar into the ashtray with almost a flourish and with a look of pride on his face in the dexterity and accuracy of the movement. The house was neat, not cluttered like the houses of some his age. Only the windows to the outside were dirty and clouded. Like life, the difference between inside and out, the conscious the glass, clouding one from the other, translucent and mysterious, like watching a woman shower through a fogged plastic curtain. Too much was left to the imagination, neither side quite sure of the other, ashamed and afraid to draw away the screen. 7
Otis closed his eyes, the lids heavy from holding them open all these years. He drew on the cigar, then exhaled the smoke against the windows. He opened his eyes to watch it disappear against the ceiling. Then he watched one of the boys chase the ball they were playing with up close to the house. Their eyes met quickly, the old man’s and the boy’s, through the nicotine film, their vision dimmed by the dirt of the years, split sharply by the strips of wood. Otis watched the boy run back to the sidewalk and talk furtively with his companion. Then the old man looked away to the west where the storm clouds were building.8
Author notes
Wrote this story about 45 years ago as best I can tell. It will be posted in several segments since it's probably 6,000 words long. It's interesting to see how my style and thoughts have changed - and in some ways stayed very much the same.
Let me know what you think as the subject is very different that what I write now.
What did you think? Please comment!
Comments
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I've gotten behind on reading your posts... you'd think with being sick I'd take advantage of having so much free time lying in bed and I'd read more! I'll slowly make up for lost time though, don't worry.
I think this is relatively similar to what you write now.. style-wise it still flows well and carries many ideas throughout that leave lots of questions to be answered. At the same time, there's something a little different about this style.. not exactly sure what it is, though. There seems to be an entirely different element woven in here - not sure if it's so much a more detailed glimpse into the life of a character, or if it's something else... still trying to figure it out, myself.
One thing has stayed the same though - you've introduced yet another complex and interesting character and I look forward to seeing where you take this.
Becca
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haaaaaaaaaaah!
huh. and just think, it took a while for me to read this. I enjoyed tha story though its not a childerns story. I like tha plot and settin of tha story and im going to read tha next story later and this is a good story. Thx for sharin -
Woot Woot!
My, my - the years have changed you Prowley. This sounds much more like something I would write..hmmm...now that makes you think, doesn't it? I enjoyed this very, very much. Your use of vocabulary, metaphor and imagery is brilliant. I have one issue...early on:
"that day when his lungs would no longer be able to strike a match or flip the rough wheel of the lighter"
This didn't fit to me - his lungs wouldn't be striking the match...his hands would.
Ok, I fibbed, I have two issues:
"flowing thick blood smelling of maple, coursing slowly, not clogged with corpuscles red or white, yet giving"
I really like this but to me (to me) it would sound better as either "like flowing" or "flowing thick like blood" - it brings it together more.
But - it's your story and my dear old man, it is a remarkable one!
Job well done!
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Hmmm, very interesting piece Daddy. I can't say that it's much different from what you write now; it seems to still be you writing this and the mood is relatively the same and I think that your style has changed in ways, but mostly stayed the same. I guess I would have to sit with something new and this for hours to really give you a good answer to this.
All in all, I enjoyed this piece; made me think of my Grandpa. Though one was an old cuss and griped about everything, the other was a gentle old man who would practically beg the neighbor kids to come over and read to him, play in his yard or whatever. No, he wasn't an old perve; he just enjoyed the memories the kids roused in him. You did a very good job with this Daddy; obviously you had a nature talent for writing.
Great job!
Much love
Jess
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