Writer Blog: entry 002

Long shadows from the oak tree in front of his apartment danced across the glass. Jake shifted in his bed to face the window. Maybe he had something here. If hiring a hit man was too complicated then perhaps an accident could be arranged. Yes, an 'on-purpose' accident would be an excellent idea. His mind raced through possible scenarios: falling off the platform into an oncoming train, being poisoned at a restaurant, plummeting forty floors off a roof to the pavement below. One-by-one he analyzed them and quickly crossed them off his mental list. He was making this too complicated. It would require more thought and his mind raced.

"Damn, "he cursed to himself. "I had too much coffee and I’ll never get to sleep." He mulled over more options in his head. Not being able to identify the perfect way for Fredricks to die, he at least managed to identify over fifty ways that wouldn’t work. When he thought about this he was surprisingly satisfied with himself. Satisfied that he would soon take action. A clever plot would present itself and then he could take matters into his own hands.

Time, after all, was on his side. Revenge is a dish best served cold. That was the phrase wasn’t it? Shakespeare or Socrates he thought or maybe Sinatra had penned that wonderful phrase. It really didn’t matter how soon it took place, he said to himself. But it most certainly would. The undertaker should start measuring Fredricks for his pine box. Yes- an accident would most definitely be in Sammy boy's future. With that problem solved he drifted off to enjoy a rare good night’s sleep.

* * *

The next day was a Saturday and Jake woke to sunshine and birds. He’d slept in and wasn’t surprised that the clock said nine thirty. It was beginning to warm up as he stretched and looked out his bedroom window. On the streets below, the city was basking in the morning sunshine. Young families played in the park and a chubby hot dog vendor unfolded his cart. Jake watched as the man raised the wooden awnings and fired up his grill. A hot dog and soda would make an excellent lunch he thought as he turned from the window.

But first he would go for his daily run in the park. As he walked into the bathroom, his reflection in the mirror caught his attention. He wasn’t much to look at. At 27 years of age, Jake Smith was Noah Webster’s definition of average. His hair was brown and he kept it closely cut and parted on the left side. As he peered into the mirror his brown eyes caught sight of a new zit on his left eyebrow. He quickly popped it and washed his face with the blue washcloth. He walked into the kitchen as he brushed his teeth and returned to swish the fluoride mouth rinse for one minute as his dentist had recommended. He stood five feet nine inches tall and checked his weight on the bathroom scale: 175 pounds. Yes on every day and in every way he was the average American male.

He donned his running shirt and shorts and laced up his shoes. From his desk he picked up his charged I-pod, strapping it to his bicep and popped the ear buds into his ears. He deftly turned it on and selected his workout playlist... Blink 1982... ahhh. He stopped and took one more look at himself in the mirror near the door. His day old beard looked back at him, giving his face a dirty and unwashed look.

‘Oh hell,’ he thought, as he moved towards the door, ‘I’ll shave when I get back. If I run into Jessica Simpson in the park I’m sure she’ll understand.’ He slipped five bucks into his shoe for the hot dog vendor took one last look around, then locked the door behind him.