This is a short piece I wrote at a writing workshop in Johnson City back in June, 2009. The characters are interesting to me: Michael in his personality contrasts, such as wanting to be rid of the old man but having enough compassion to help him with a problem; and Leon Jarvis because of the comparison made to Michael’s father.

The exercise was twofold: In the first section, we were given a picture from which to springboard a story. My picture was of a young white man in a business suit standing at the hospital bedside of an elderly black man. I changed the roles and put the elderly white man in the bed and made the young African-American the visitor. The racial delineation is not present in the story at this point, but it was when I dreamed it up. The second portion of the exercise was to give depth to the character by describing items that would be present in a carry-all that was on the person, such as a purse or, in Michael Knight’s case, a briefcase. This is the inkling of story that emerged from those exercises.

I think it has the potential to turn into a pretty good story one day, but for now it is only this small piece.

Please take a moment to read it, and let me know what you think! You can leave comments by clicking on “Write comment” at the bottom of this post.

I look forward to hearing from you, Dear Reader!

———

“I feel horrible,” says Michael Knight.

“As you should, son,” the old man shoots back. “I’ve been crossing that street for thirty years, and you come barreling down the road, paying no mind, and nearly knock my block off! It’s a good thing all you caught was my cane; that can be replaced!”

Jarvis pushed the intravenous lines away from himself for the sixth time since Michael arrived in his room.

“Mr. Jarvis, please accept my apology.” Michael looks at Leon Jarvis, laying in bed doing nothing but growing older and crankier before the world’s eyes, and a sneer grows in his mind. Once I’m out of here, I’ll never have to deal with you again, old man. The thought festers in his mind until it leaks out onto his face. This fact is not lost on Leon Jarvis, and wouldn’t have been whether he was in a hospital bed after being thrown to the ground when Michael’s Porsche ripped his cane away from him in the crosswalk on 49th at Town Street or not. This “old man” is still mentally as sharp as he was thirty years ago, when he moved to this neighborhood fresh out of the Air Force, with a pretty little hotheaded wife in tow and a youngster nipping at the heels of life. Michael Knight knows none of this, suspects nothing except that the old man is a crotchety excuse for his wasted day. Michael supposes that being fifteen minutes early to the office to put a few more moves over on the new receptionist at the front desk wasn’t worth nearly killing a man, but dismisses it as run-of-the-mill bad luck.

Now he’s stuck, babysitting this old man. Well, truthfully, there is nothing keeping Michael from marching on out the door, so why not just leave? In about seven-point-five minutes from the time he jumped into his Carrera and started the engine roaring, he would be smooth talking Talia at the office, making her swoon a little by adding a little more low-end to his baritone voice.

So why not walk out the door? He’s not paying the bill, and he’s certainly not family.

But the way this man talks reminds him so much of his father. The dialect is different, but the anger, the bitterness, the frustration is all the same. Tanner Knight had been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer three years ago. The doctor who caught it said that it had been causing the pains Tanner had been experiencing in his right side for several years prior, and that the cancer was so far advanced that not much could be done but to enjoy life.

Michael was certain that his father was not taking the doc’s advice, because Tanner Knight had been an angry, mean old man until the day he died.

But that afternoon, the day the Dark Boatman lay claim to his next passenger, Tanner had said to his son, “Boy, I wish God have given me the patience to learn from you.”

Michael lifted his briefcase and said, “I have just the thing, Mr. Jarvis. Hold on a sec’.” He placed his black, Italian leather case across his lap, popped the latches, and lifted the lid. He took out the financial reports and lay them at the foot of Leon’s bed, pushed aside an unopened box of Nicorette and a half-empty pack of Camel cigarettes, and pulled out a tab of twist-ties, the kind that come with the Hefty garbage bags he bought over at the Five & Dime. He pulled one of the ties free from the rest, then replaced the items in his briefcase methodically, making certain that everything was in its place, and closed the lid.

“These ought to hold that line back a little better,” Michael said.

Leon Jarvis sat looking utterly shocked, wondering what other items this young punk kid, who had just proved that he was far less punk than Jarvis first supposed, might be carrying around.

———

fin, for now