It's a Story About a Guy Who... Read online

  It’s a Story About a Guy Who…

  Dean Wesley Smith

  Copyright © 2011 Dean Wesley Smith

  Published by WMG Publishing

  Cover photo G10ck33/Dreamstime

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  It’s a Story About a Guy Who…

  Dean Wesley Smith

  Mr. Harold Herman Screws sat silently in the crowded old train station, his back straight against the hard wooden bench.

  The sounds of fifty other people talking and a few children playing seemed to only bounce off Mr. Screws like raindrops off a yellow police slicker. The large room of the historical station seemed filled with life, the high ceiling and wooden rafters softened the sound, making even the loudest cry from a newborn baby seem like a distant sound of joy.

  Mr. Screws wanted no part of the life around him. His disdain for all other members of humanity radiated from him like a bad smell, keeping anyone from sitting within ten feet. He wore a dark brown suit with matching slacks, a white shirt, and a simple white bow tie. His brown hat sat on the bench beside him guarding his brown plaid suitcase on the floor beside him.

  His attire had clearly been chosen carefully to draw no undue attention and his five-foot-four-inch height also kept him well hidden in crowds.

  Yet Mr. Harold Herman Screws stood out, sitting along on the wooden bench, a sea of emptiness around him like there were walls holding back the rest of humanity.

  Mr. Screws did not notice the distance, but there was little doubt he secretly felt glad for it.

  Pretty much everyone else in the room noticed Mr. Screws, at least enough to hope that he would not sit beside them on the outgoing train from Boise, Idaho headed east.

  * * *

  I tucked the pen into the notebook I had been writing in and reread what I had written about the strange man sitting on the bench two rows in front and to the right of me. Even though I had no idea what his real name was, I liked the name I had called him. A distinctive name for a man that was impossible to miss in a crowd.

  The assignment for the creative writing class I was taking at Boise State University was to go to a public place, observe, and then write a character sketch about a person we saw there.

  Mrs. Wilson, my instructor and published author of six literary short stories in university presses, had told us we should try to get inside the heads of the person we were observing.

  I had no idea how to do that.

  Once again I reread what I had written. Damn. Not one word from inside the guy’s head. That wasn’t going to up my grade. And I needed to get the “B” I had at the moment up to an “A” if I had a decent chance at getting into a good law school in two years. Otherwise I would be stuck up in Northern Idaho going to law school there.

  And somehow I needed to get into the first part that the air in the terminal was cool compared to the unusually hot, sticky April day outside. Mrs. Wilson really liked setting and feeling details.

  I glanced over at the big board on the wall showing the arrival time for the train. It was fifteen minutes delayed and wouldn’t arrive for almost another forty-five minutes. I had time to get more from the guy.

  In an hour I had to be downtown to meet Barb, my girlfriend for dinner. Perfect.

  I took a deep breath and tried to get myself to relax.

  “Come on, Danny, this writing thing isn’t rocket science.”

  No one was close enough to me to hear me talking to myself in the noise of the train station.

  I stared around at the people in the terminal reading on their Kindles or trying to nap. A couple men to one side were actually reading paper newspapers just like this was 1960 or something.

  There was a dark area in one corner of the old terminal. I could make this character sketch into a Rod Serling description. Barb and I had done a marathon of old Twilight Zone episodes. That might work.

  I went back to writing in my notebook. I hated writing by hand, but Mrs. Wilson thought it would get us more in touch with what we were writing.

  * * *

  The short, handsome man with the cigarette stepped from the shadows into a spotlight as Mr. Harold Herman Screws sat staring ahead at the windows leading out to the train platform.

  “For your consideration,” the man said, his voice deep and distinctive, “one Mr. Harold Herman Screws. A man waiting calmly and patiently for a train to take him away from the body of the elderly mother he has just killed, the dull job at the accounting office, the daily ritual of sameness that can drive a man to the brink and beyond.”

  The handsome man half smiled, the smoke from his cigarette curling up around him.

  Then he went on. “But Mr. Harold Herman Screws isn’t just waiting to escape from his dull life and his recent crime. He is waiting for a train that will carry him, luggage and all, directly into…”

  (Pause, wait for it…)

  “…The Twilight Zone.”

  * * *

  I looked at what I had written and had no idea how I would include it in the assignment. And it still wouldn’t help. Once again it didn’t do what Mrs. Wilson wanted.

  She had said that if we couldn’t get into a person’s head by making it up, we might need to talk to them.

  I stared at the guy in the brown suit staring silently ahead at the windows. Why had I picked him, anyway? Of all the people in the train station to pick, he looked like the last guy who might want to talk to me.

  “You want the grade?” I asked myself. “And a good law school or you want to be stuck in northern Idaho for three years?”

  I took a deep breath and stood.

  “Good law school.”

  I headed over to the bench with the guy in the brown suit staring ahead at the windows. To one side a couple of kids played with a red rubber ball, kicking it back and forth, laughing.

  I could do this. Any kind of response from the guy with the bow tie would help me and I could make up the rest.

  I stopped a step from him and cleared my throat.

  He looked up at me, the dark, brown eyes boring through me like I was tissue.

  He said nothing.

  “I’m very sorry to bother you,” I said.

  He just stared at me and I could feel my heart beating like the first time I had kissed Barb. Or the first time I had tried to learn how to ski.

  Fear. Just plain old fear, like talking to a guy was going to kill me or something.

  Stupid.

  There was nothing to be afraid of. The guy could be rude, ignore me, and it would make no difference to me.

  “My name is Danny Evans,” I said to him and thankfully my voice didn’t crack. “I’m a student at Boise State and I have an assignment from one of my teachers to talk to a perfect stranger to help me learn how to write a story.”

  He kept staring at me.

  Then he blinked and a slight smile cracked the corners of his mouth like concrete being hammered into dust.

  Then he nodded and indicated I should sit on the bench beside him.

  “Thanks,” I said. “I won’t take up much of your time. This is only for a character sketch.”

  “It is no issue,” the man said, his voice high as I would have expected of a man wearing a bow
tie to ride a train. “I seem to have more time than I need.”

  I nodded, not really understanding that statement at all. But I could use it in the story.

  I flipped to a clean page in my notebook. “Would you mind telling me anything you would feel comfortable telling me about yourself?”

  He nodded. “I suppose I could do that.”

  “Good,” I said. “Are you from here in Boise?”

  He nodded. “Born and raised. Until today. Today I am moving on.”

  Then he seemed to pause and catch himself. “Please pardon my bad manners. I am preoccupied.”

  He stuck out his hand.

  I took it as he said, “My name is Harold Herman Screws. Former accountant.”

  Then he smiled.

  Not Possible!

  I wanted to pull away, but couldn’t.

  Around me the room seemed to darken.

  The voices of the other people in the room seemed to fade and just vanish.

  A short, well-dressed man in a gray suit stepped from the shadows in the corner of the station and into a spotlight that had not existed a moment before.

  The smoke from the man’s cigarette drifted up and around him in the bright light.

  I couldn’t move. It was as if my body was frozen in place.

  Frozen by fear, by disbelief of what I was seeing.

  The man started talking in that very familiar voice.

  “Meet one Danny Evans, student and hopeful law student, tasked with interviewing a character who has come a little too close to reality for comfort. Little does Danny know that with one stroke of the pen, a writer can open doors into new worlds of the imagination.”

  The man with the cigarette in the spotlight paused.

  Then he went on. “Danny Evans is about to step through one of those doors he has created. Only this door leads directly into…”

  The man paused.

  The smoke swirled in the spotlight.

  I shouted, “Don’t say it!”

  He didn’t hear me.

  ---

  Dean Wesley Smith is the bestselling writer of over a hundred novels and at least that many short stories. He has written thrillers, fantasy, and science fiction. For more about his work, please go to DeanWesleySmith.com

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  Smith, Dean Wesley, It's a Story About a Guy Who...

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