As promised, here's that short story. It tells the tale of Doug, the man who has everything... but at the same time, the man who has nothing.
Right, that's enough of that mysterious oxymoron bollocks; here it is. Let me know what you think; I don't know, facebook me or something.
DOUG
Meet Doug. Doug is a powerful man. Shiny shoes, silk tie, sharp suit.
He owns this place. All of it. This megastructure of glass and steel – the result of hard work and dedication. The company that inhabits these walls, the employees, they all answer to him. Varnished oak desk, brass plaque stamped with his name. Monogrammed handkerchief to dab the sweat from his brow. Top-end smart phone, anodised aluminium and glass.
Doug has no family. Oh, his cheeky smile and charisma parted many a pair of pretty legs back in the day, but he worked so hard to get where he is now, things like a wife, children... slipped by the wayside.
In the evenings he sits alone, in the glow of his wood fire, glass of whiskey in hand. Expensive. It reminds him of the days in the trailer parks of Detroit when the power went out. Doug remembers...
He wasn't always like this. No, Doug is a rags to riches man. When he was young, there was no wood fire and expensive whiskey; there was a leaky gas heater that sucked more heat out of the room than it put in, and a glass of water with fuck-knows-what floating about inside it. It had this weird after taste but it quenched his thirst. Doug remembers.
Back at his desk. Doug sips a glass of ice cold purified water. Refreshing. No aftertaste.
He's worked hard for this, to get here.
But something isn't right.
Doug is a powerful man. He has more time and more money than most people. But deep down, something isn't right.
He feels a yearning for that aftertaste. Like iron filings, something metallic. His life is directed by the next profit-spinning technology, ideas, the rise and fall of stocks and shares.
He has no control. The markets and advisers control him.
He wants control back. That aftertaste, the memory is strong. That metallic sensation tickles the back of his throat.
He's taking back control. His legs pick him up from his desk, his mouth tells his secretary he's going for a walk, his hands put down the glass of repulsively clean, fresh water. He doesn't want it anymore. He's taking back control.
His heart pounds as he climbs the stairs of the fire escape. This isn't his territory; CEO's don't normally creep about in the walls. But Doug doesn't want to be a CEO anymore. He doesn't want any of it.
Bright light, his pupils contract, as he steps through the roof door. Cold wind whips him in the face, the icy fingers of a New York winter invade his silk suit. He's taking back control. He steps to the edge.
Rush hour traffic, the sound drifts up to him – shrieking of horns, wailing of sirens. They look like toys from way up here. He's taking back control.
He takes another step. Closer to the edge. He's taking back control. A few deep breaths of the cold morning air. Don't look down Doug. Just keep walking.
He's taking back control. He takes another step, the snow crunches under his shiny patent leather shoes. His heart pounds in his chest. The first time in 27 years that he's felt this alive.
He spreads his arms wide, takes a final step, into air, over the edge. He closes his eyes, and smiles. He's taking back control.
He's flying.
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This here story be copyright property of Pat "Padfoot" Lee-Delisle (2012). Reproduction of this story is forbidden without written permission from me, and if I catch ye stealing this here text, then you'll surely be keelhauled, ya filthy brute.
- Padfoot
