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The Pacing Man |
| Written by SDR | |
| Monday, 17 December 2007 | |
“Who do you think he is?” “I have no idea.” “I’ll bet he’s a government spy.” The others in the room let out a collective guffaw at Scott’s first impression of the mysterious stranger strolling on the ground outside of their second story window. The group stood huddled around the prison style window that let out towards the west of the school. “He’s probably just some freelance writer, he looks trendy” stated Richard. “What freelance writer lives in a house like that?” responded Hope. The bearded and sweatered figure paced back and forth across the lawn of his elaborate two story home on the corner of 42nd and Douglas with a cigarette in one hand.
“There’s no grass
at all in his yard, its just soil and a few strange plants. I think that he probably paces like this at
night, plotting revenge on someone who stole the fortunes he amassed captaining
a pirate ship in the “No John, that’s a valid point, but he walks outside of that front door everyday at 12:20, five minutes after this class begins. He always has one cigarette already lit in one hand and a ceramic coffee mug in the other, always filled with coffee. He paces seven times each direction, takes three sips of his coffee, then takes one last puff of his cigarette, throws it on the street, and glances up at this window one last time before walking back in,” said Scott. Scott sat in the back of the class next to the window and found himself bored in their assigned seats. Scott’s assigned seat partner was an empty chair. “Or that is the exact time his love left him forever ten years ago” said Patricia, always the romantic. “If he’s there on a Monday he obviously doesn’t have a real job. He must have won the lottery some years ago!” exclaimed Hope, proud to reach the first logical conclusion. The rest of the class standing cramped around the window seemed to agree, all but Scott. “The last one to sit back in their seat and focus fails this class” shouted their short tempered English teacher in a common bout of facetiousness and annoyance. The class hurriedly obeyed and the teacher soon regained order. “Do you think the Project really believes that” murmured the figure casually into his phony cigarette. His coffee mug then emitted a low static response, “There’s no way he can believe that for long, the teacher is one of ours.” Copyright 2007 SDR |
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