| September 2007 |
All work
copyright the
owner. No
reproduction
without
consent.
copyright the
owner. No
reproduction
without
consent.
FICTION
Bad News
by Jack Swenson
"Well, I've got some good news and some bad news," the doctor said. "The good news is that your blood pressure is
fine. The bad news is that you've got a fatal disease."
"I thought this was supposed to be a routine checkup," I said. The doctor shrugged. "How long have I got?" I asked.
A year, the doctor said. Maybe more, maybe less.
My first thought, of course, was why me? My second thought was why not?
That disposed with, I went home and made a list of things I had to do before I croaked. I had to get my finances in
order, of course. I had a will; my wife and I had a trust, so that was all set. I had to tell my wife where things were.
Where all the records where. Where I hid the safe deposit key. (I had told her, but she might have forgotten.)
So I set to work. It didn't take me very long. I got it all on three typed pages.
Then I began the second and far more interesting list.
Should I go back to drinking alcohol or smoking cigarettes? I had been sober for almost twenty years. I hadn't had a
smoke in nearly five. I had no craving for booze, so I decided against that, but a smoke sounded pretty good. So I
went over to the nearest 7-11 and bought a couple of packs of cigarettes. The first one didn't taste very good, but the
second one did.
Then, of course, I had to consider what to do with the rest of my life. How would I spend my time? I could do good
works or pursue my darkest fantasy. I chose the latter. Let others help little old ladies across the street or butter
bread for the noontime meal at a homeless shelter. Boring.
So I made another list. Crimes to consider. Should I rob a bank and blow the money on a trip around the world? No,
I didn't like to travel. Rape? Ha! At my age? I'd only embarrass myself. How about revenge? Punish the neighbor
for not returning the hammer I lent him? Take a punch at the guy who lets his dog poop on my lawn? Kill the
mailman for putting our mail in the neighbor's box? I couldn't think of a single wrong worth righting. I couldn't call to
mind a single injury in my past for which I might demand an eye for an eye. I believed in letting bygones be bygones.
I was in a quandary. I couldn't think of a single thing to occupy my remaining time that I could get enthusiastic about.
I was going to die, and I didn't know how to live!
And then an idea occurred to me. I was watching and listening to Jack Cafferty rant on CNN one weekday, and the
scheme just popped into my head. Of course! What could be more nefarious, more dastardly, more evil? I was
elated. I was thrilled.
I kept my plan to myself. If I had told my wife what I intended to do, she would have had them put the net over me. I
didn't want to spend my last days on the flight deck at Napa. So I kept my scheme to myself.
I chuckled and rubbed my hands together in private. Clearly, this would be the worst thing that I had ever done.
Beelzebub would be proud of me. If at the moment of truth, I let the press in on it, surely I would have my fifteen
minutes of fame as well!
My only concern was would I last that long? What I planned to do could not be done for some months. I would have
to bide my time and hope for the best.
And so all through the following winter, spring, and fall, I lived life as it should be lived, enjoying each day, regarding it
as a gift, not regretting the past nor fearing the future. What will be, will be. I was going to die, but I wasn't dead yet.
And maybe, just maybe, I would live to see the appointed time arrive when I would do the deed, the dastardly action,
that would horrify millions.
Then the day came. It was a crisp day in November. I told my wife that I was going down to the school; I said I'd be
back soon. I parked on the street, followed the signs, and entered the room where I gave my name and address to
an official who carefully checked a ledger book, then handed me the card and an instruction book. I choose a booth,
and once inside, I pulled a lever and closed a curtain behind me. My heart was pounding in my chest and my cheeks
were flushed as I savored the moment that I had waited for so long. Then I put the card in the machine and began
making my selections.
"Guess what I just did," I said to my wife when I returned. "I voted!" She looked at me as if I had slipped a cog. She
arched an eyebrow. "So?" she said. "You'll never guess how I voted," I said. "How?" she asked. "Do you mean who
for?" "Yes," I said. "I know how you voted," she said. "The same way we always vote. For the good guys."
I shook my head. "No," I said. "This time I voted Republican. Across the board."
My wife fainted.
I got a non-alcoholic beer out of the refrigerator and sat down on the couch and drank it. It tasted good. I was
pleased with myself. Never in my life had I felt so dirty.
Bad News
by Jack Swenson
"Well, I've got some good news and some bad news," the doctor said. "The good news is that your blood pressure is
fine. The bad news is that you've got a fatal disease."
"I thought this was supposed to be a routine checkup," I said. The doctor shrugged. "How long have I got?" I asked.
A year, the doctor said. Maybe more, maybe less.
My first thought, of course, was why me? My second thought was why not?
That disposed with, I went home and made a list of things I had to do before I croaked. I had to get my finances in
order, of course. I had a will; my wife and I had a trust, so that was all set. I had to tell my wife where things were.
Where all the records where. Where I hid the safe deposit key. (I had told her, but she might have forgotten.)
So I set to work. It didn't take me very long. I got it all on three typed pages.
Then I began the second and far more interesting list.
Should I go back to drinking alcohol or smoking cigarettes? I had been sober for almost twenty years. I hadn't had a
smoke in nearly five. I had no craving for booze, so I decided against that, but a smoke sounded pretty good. So I
went over to the nearest 7-11 and bought a couple of packs of cigarettes. The first one didn't taste very good, but the
second one did.
Then, of course, I had to consider what to do with the rest of my life. How would I spend my time? I could do good
works or pursue my darkest fantasy. I chose the latter. Let others help little old ladies across the street or butter
bread for the noontime meal at a homeless shelter. Boring.
So I made another list. Crimes to consider. Should I rob a bank and blow the money on a trip around the world? No,
I didn't like to travel. Rape? Ha! At my age? I'd only embarrass myself. How about revenge? Punish the neighbor
for not returning the hammer I lent him? Take a punch at the guy who lets his dog poop on my lawn? Kill the
mailman for putting our mail in the neighbor's box? I couldn't think of a single wrong worth righting. I couldn't call to
mind a single injury in my past for which I might demand an eye for an eye. I believed in letting bygones be bygones.
I was in a quandary. I couldn't think of a single thing to occupy my remaining time that I could get enthusiastic about.
I was going to die, and I didn't know how to live!
And then an idea occurred to me. I was watching and listening to Jack Cafferty rant on CNN one weekday, and the
scheme just popped into my head. Of course! What could be more nefarious, more dastardly, more evil? I was
elated. I was thrilled.
I kept my plan to myself. If I had told my wife what I intended to do, she would have had them put the net over me. I
didn't want to spend my last days on the flight deck at Napa. So I kept my scheme to myself.
I chuckled and rubbed my hands together in private. Clearly, this would be the worst thing that I had ever done.
Beelzebub would be proud of me. If at the moment of truth, I let the press in on it, surely I would have my fifteen
minutes of fame as well!
My only concern was would I last that long? What I planned to do could not be done for some months. I would have
to bide my time and hope for the best.
And so all through the following winter, spring, and fall, I lived life as it should be lived, enjoying each day, regarding it
as a gift, not regretting the past nor fearing the future. What will be, will be. I was going to die, but I wasn't dead yet.
And maybe, just maybe, I would live to see the appointed time arrive when I would do the deed, the dastardly action,
that would horrify millions.
Then the day came. It was a crisp day in November. I told my wife that I was going down to the school; I said I'd be
back soon. I parked on the street, followed the signs, and entered the room where I gave my name and address to
an official who carefully checked a ledger book, then handed me the card and an instruction book. I choose a booth,
and once inside, I pulled a lever and closed a curtain behind me. My heart was pounding in my chest and my cheeks
were flushed as I savored the moment that I had waited for so long. Then I put the card in the machine and began
making my selections.
"Guess what I just did," I said to my wife when I returned. "I voted!" She looked at me as if I had slipped a cog. She
arched an eyebrow. "So?" she said. "You'll never guess how I voted," I said. "How?" she asked. "Do you mean who
for?" "Yes," I said. "I know how you voted," she said. "The same way we always vote. For the good guys."
I shook my head. "No," I said. "This time I voted Republican. Across the board."
My wife fainted.
I got a non-alcoholic beer out of the refrigerator and sat down on the couch and drank it. It tasted good. I was
pleased with myself. Never in my life had I felt so dirty.