Mister Blank Jones

When Mister Fred Jones turned 64, they told him he was going to retire. It didn’t matter, they told him, that he didn’t want to retire, because in the end he DID want to retire, no matter what he said. He just had to realize that. And even when he told the bastards every day for a month that he wanted to keep writing, they’d just sort of laugh at this old, wrinkled man with nothing but a halo of dark hair and pale blue eyes hidden behind think black glasses, and assure him that he’d have so much fun in retirement. He could do anything he wanted, they said — anything at all.

So on June 24, Fred Jones had his last article published in the Omaha Observer. The article, headlined “LOCAL SCHOOLBOARD DEBATES SECURITY POLICY” was the last in 25 years of weekly articles from a man who had started as a delivery boy and risen to managing editor. He was known for his brown suit and quiet grace, and there was a time, years ago, when he counted every writer in the office amongst his personal friends.

But on June 25, as he came into the offices for the very last time, it was with the knowledge that there was no one left who knew his first name, and that there would be a man here to take him downstairs. The women in the hallways reacted with this sort of funny insincere enthusiasm, telling him what fun he would have in his retirement, and asking if he would be going fishing. He coughed instead of laughed, and did his best to stride confidently and assuredly to his office door, where he only paused for a minute to note that they’d already removed his nameplate, before going inside and letting his shoulders slouch, and his back crack.

Most of his things were already in boxes. His journalism awards, his thank-you letters, his diplomas and a picture of himself when he was different all reminded of him that life had been good. He scanned his desk for anything that had been forgotten, but was startled by his phone ringing loudly.

He looked at the new multi-buttoned phone management had given him as part of the great modernization initiative. He didn’t really know how it worked, and didn’t want to have to ask one of the 22-years-olds with gelled hair to show him. He waited, almost hoping, for it to stop ringing, but it continued and when he picked it up it was with an ineffective throat-clearing cough that he said hello.

The voice was warm and friendly, and he felt instantly comfortable with whoever the man was on the other end of the line. They talked of simple things. They talked of the weather, and the Dodgers, and the government.

“By the way, Fred,” the voice said, and Mr. Jones was startled by his own name, “You left your jacket at the bar the other night.”

Mr. Jones went to cough but found he didn’t need to, and his wrinkled forehead grew furrowed as he tried to understand why this all seemed so weird, but instead he found himself saying, “I’ll pick it up later tonight. You still want to go out tonight?”

“Damn right, Freddy,” the voice said, and then laughed a little, “Did you see the way that black-haired girl was looking at me?” The black-haired girl. Mr. Jones knew the black-haired girl, and it seemed so natural, so right, to talk about her.

“No, she was looking at me,” he said quietly to the receiver.

There was more laughter, and the voice continued. “Her father was playing guitar. Did you see the way she danced? Dear God, I couldn’t even stand.” A smile crossed Mr. Jones lips as he remembered — he so remembered. That girl. She was suddenly beautiful.

“She was looking at me,” Mr. Jones said again, and his smile grew to the point where his face began to ache.

“You just want them all to yourself, don’t you? But I have to admit — she IS perfect for you. There’s got to be someone for me.”

Mr. Jones realized then that he didn’t know what else to say, but just as he realized it, he spoke, and it all made perfect sense. “Once we get the band going, there will be all sorts of girls.”

“Oh, I know it,” said the voice, who seemed to laugh amidst everything he said, “But I’m never going to get good at that guitar I bought if you keep passing me bottles all night. I couldn’t even practice today.”

It was Mr. Jones’ turn to laugh loudly, and he didn’t even think twice. “You never could handle your liquor,” he laughed, his head filled with thoughts of Spanish dancers, spotlights and beautiful beautiful colours.

“You’re one to talk,” came the reply, and then, “We’re going to practice on the weekend, right?”

Mr. Jones had blue eyes and a great smile. He ran his hands through his hair. “Absolutely,” he said, “you and me — we’re gonna be big stars.”

“Big big stars,” repeated the voice.

“Believe it,” he laughed, as the colours swirled around. They were all so meaningful, each symbolic, and so full of purpose and direction.

“Well, I should get going,” the voice said.

“Okay, I’ll see you tonight?”

“The New Amsterdam.”

“Sounds great,” Mr. Jones said, thinking of that black-haired girl and the way she danced while looking directly into his eyes.

“Okay, see you then,” the voice said.

Mr. Jones heartbeat sped up, and he got the sudden impression that all he was looking at was the bare grey wall in front of him.

“Wait,” he coughed feebly, but he had heard the click, and the ensuing sound of a long dial tone filled his ear.

“Hey,” came a voice from behind him, and Mr. Jones turned around too quickly and his side began to ache. “Is this all the stuff?”

Still holding the phone to his ear, Mr. Jones looked at a longhaired young man with way too many piercings and an untucked shirt. He watched as this guy sized up the boxes in the room, looking at them in terms of what they weighed, and not what they meant. Mr. Jones’ legs hurt, and he wanted to sit down.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I’m Eddie — I just started here. Mr. Fletcher wanted me to help you move the stuff out of here,” the young man said, the silver stud in his chin bobbing up and down as he talked, “Oh yeah, and he wanted me to tell you that they disconnected your phone this morning and if you had any important voicemail waiting, you have to talk to one of the receptionists.”

Mr. Jones coughed, and quietly set the phone back down on its receiver. He clutched his arms close to his body. “This is it,” he said quietly.

“What?” said Eddie.

“This is all the stuff. My car’s down in the parking lot.”

“Oh, right,” said the young man, “I guess it’s time then.”

As Mr. Jones walked to the elevator, he watched as the office moved about as it always had. No one really looked up as he walked past. All of these bastards had taken in his place, and none of them even so much bothered to learn his first name. In Mr. Jones’ head, a black-haired girl twirled with a carefree passion, radiating ageless warmth. Never had the elevator seemed to take so long.

When he arrived home that night, he parked his simple grey car in the parking garage of his building and walked the two-flights of stairs to his condo. He hoped no one saw when he stopped and leaned against the wall, holding his chest, and he hoped nobody heard his deep, anguished breathing as he turned his key in the lock before entering his small, dark apartment.

He stood in the centre of his kitchen, staring at the blank fridge and the mostly empty cupboards. His answering machine was not flashing. His mailbox was empty. He sighed, shifting his weight from one side of his body to the other, and his bones creaked.

Coughing, he walked over to the kitchen table, which had always had five chairs but only one placemat. The linoleum made a scratchy sound when he dragged one of the kitchen chairs across it, meaning to set it in front of a closet in the hallway leading to his bedroom. He stopped twice, sitting on the chair to rest, and coughing madly, and hoping his neighbours would not hear.

When it was finally in place, he opened the closet door, surprised by how much the hinges creaked. He fumbled for the light, but found it burnt out. He didn’t need it. He saw what he was looking for in the dark, there in the corner — the black case. He bent with the enthusiasm of a younger man, ignoring the sharp pain in his knees and the protests of his lungs. He dragged the guitar case out in front of the kitchen chair; it left a trail of dust.

“So,” he wheezed to himself, “this is it.” He unsnapped the guitar case, letting his eyes fall over the still shiny finish of the acoustic guitar inside. Pulling it out took all his strength, and underneath he found guitar picks, rose petals and bottle caps. They made him want to laugh. They made him want to cry.

His fingers glide across the strings soundlessly, as he remembers everything. The smell of bad liquor on tattered carpet, men vomiting in door less bathroom stalls, women who can’t remember their own names but can dance in ways that make hearts sing, and the sound of a guitar playing a tune that exists only in the mind of a man who hasn’t had enough sleep but has had more than enough of this.

The guitar pick strums against the strings. Mr. Jones’ fingers ache. It doesn’t sound right. Mr. Jones tries again, and the sharp pain grips his hand. He tries once more, and the guitar crashes to the ground with a musical clang. Mr. Jones yells out, as the pain grabs him, and immediately he begins to cough. He slumps back in the kitchen chair and stares at the darkness of his closet, and does everything in his power not to look down at that guitar case, filled with nothing but guitar picks, rose petals and bottle caps.

He sighs. The Spanish Dancer stops.