The Appendix

Sometimes, within the brain's old ghostly house,

I hear, far off, at some forgotten door,

A music and an eerie faint carouse,

And stir of echoes down the creaking floor.

Archibald MacLeish

Chambers of Imagery

My father’s tombstone cost $123,000.

Even in death, his hubris knows no bounds. I hang up the phone and rub my eyes. It’s exceptionally dark outside for 6 pm, and snow is covering everything, a very white, boundless sheet bathed in the cheap yellow glow of lowest-bidder street lighting. I set the phone down on table and lean back slowly into the couch and close my eyes.

Awake. Three raps on the front door. They used the knocker. No one does that.

I open the door and shiver in the cold. A very thin, very gaunt man, all in black with a stovepipe hat (really?) turns toward me and grins. He looks like every man, I’ve ever seen. Does that make sense?

“Thomas Jameson, how are you this on this fine winter evening?” No one calls me Thomas. His voice is soothing, soft, almost falling me back asleep.

“What do you want?” I say tiredly, angrily, both? “Whatever you’re selling, I’m not buying today.”

He points to a black Miller-Meteor in front of the house, in exceptional condition. On and idling.

“I have room for one more.” I stare blankly. “I joke,” he says. “Not one to appreciate the old shorts, I see. Won’t you invite me in? I need only a moment of your time, Thomas.”

He pushes past me, and I don’t stop him. He inventories the room, moving slowly, stopping only once to look at two pictures on the mantle. He looks at me, then sits in the black bergère, in the corner, the one from my aunt, the one she didn’t want, the one she said was always too uncomfortable.

The Man removes a small, black, frayed leather book from an inner pocket, followed with a black pen. Never takes his eyes off me as he does this, but he sets both so perfectly together. So perfectly they should never move. Grins, gestures for me to sit back on the couch exactly where I was, in front of the book.

I sit. What am I doing? “What … do you want?”

“A moment of your time, Thomas. I already told you that.” His face goes stern at the end, then quickly back to grin. He leans back, putting both hands together, fingers symmetrical. I stare. “Why am I here? That’s the question for which you are looking.” Pauses. “I’ll proffer the answer.”

“I don’t have a moment of time here. I have –“

“Father’s funeral tomorrow? I’m very aware. A dead man’s party. Who could ask for me?” I stiffen and can feel anger begin to mold my face. “Thomas, again, I only joke. You really do not have an appreciation for popular culture do you?” Grins, “I enjoy it. The funeral, part of the reason I’m here. Now, I ask that you open that book, and please feel free to examine whilst I explain.”

I don’t move. “Go on,” he says, grin disappearing again. I do this, and again why

“Because, this is an interesting proposition,” The Man says, “that I have brought you here tonight.”

I start going through the book. The pages are identical: A hand-drawn table of six squares. Top three: Name, Desire, Signature. Bottom three: Empty. Three-quarters through, just the same page, I snap the book closed, the pen moving slightly as I do.

“Now, I shall make this incredibly simple for you, Thomas. All you have to do is write the name of a person, a desire you have, then sign on that line. That’s all. Done and over.”

“I don’t understand.” Very tired.

“Thomas, I can it explain again, but it shall not change. Name, desire, signature. As asked and as written.” He points his symmetrical hands toward the book.

“Why would I do anything you’re saying? Who are you?”

“Why wouldn’t you? Three short scribblings. You have no reason to not perform as asked. Right? So why wouldn’t you?”

What he says makes no sense. What he says makes all the sense in the world. Why did I let him in? Is it still snowing?

“Thomas. May I call you Tom? No, I like Thomas. Thomas, I just request you provide me with these three items. Whoever and whatever you would like to write. And I shall be on my way.”

I lean forward. What is happening? I think, say, “Who would I write?” I say it, and I just wanted to think it.

The Man pulls in air through his mouth, a long, deep breathe, and leans slightly forward, so quickly I pull back, “Whoever – you – like. Borrow a moment. What person from your present, or perhaps the past, would, or would not, would you like to be see in that box? Take your time. I have plenty.”

I start thinking, of all the people I have known, all the people to wash over my life. All of them. The girlfriends in college. My friend, Kyle. The Kyle I met in the seventh grade. The one who disappeared one day. My little brother, who I never see, who will be at the funeral, who will come over and make small talk, who will say it’s been too long, who says how much he’ll miss dad. He won’t miss him. I won’t miss.

My father, who everyone knew and no one knew. Who even in death, his hubris –

My girlfriends in college. Is it still snowing? My girlfriend in high school, Liz. Then Justin Richardson. I haven’t thought of him in ten years. A decade. Fat, miserable, five kids between two wives. Managing a chain neighborhood restaurant. The kind that were popular in the 90s. The ones always empty today.

Justin … Richardson. Every day, listening to him. Like my father. So amazing. Telling the world so they all knew. Listening to him. Like my father. Everyone. I hated him. And Justin Richardson. Five fat kids at a chain restaurant.

I write his name.

“Go on.” says The Man. Desire? What do I want? What do I want? I want what my father had. I want that. To silence rooms. To be asked questions about everything. I want to have what he had. What he took for granted. What pushed down on all of us. That’s what I want.

I write it down.

At a whisper: “Go on.” Signed. Signed like my father would have. Decisive. Dignified.

“And we are done,” says The Man. He motions, hands still together toward the black book. “But first, and this is my favorite part. Check The Appendix.” He drops to a whisper, “No one ever does.” I stare at him.

I flip to the last page, always to the last page at the end of a book (don’t you?). And there are pages of six-square tables. Just boxes and boxes. Like the put Justin Richardson in. Last entry.

Quentin Jameson | My time back | Edwin Leblanc

I remember Edwin. My father hated Edwin Leblanc. I remember Edwin Leblanc.

“Why is my father’s name here?”

“Why indeed. People just always go there. Except Annette Cohan. She wrote her town butcher. I never understood that one.”

He reaches out with those hands. They look old, much older than The Man. How can hands look so old?

“Done. And that concludes our business,” as he grabs the little black book. Back into his coat, with the pen. “Vanity. Definitely my favorite sin.” I stare. “No? Really?” He looks a mixture of smug and startled. I don’t like it. “I’ll show myself out.”

He meets Lisa at the foot of the stairs, in front of the door. Why did I let him through the front door? Why is it so cold? Is it still snowing?

“Lisa,” The Man says, stopping abruptly. “You look fantastic.” I stand up off the couch.

“And you are?” Lisa says, coming off the final stair.

“Leaving,” says The Man. A grin. Another grin.

“Lisa, this is a business partner.” I’m moving toward them, between them.

“Yes,” He says. “Partners. We have an agreement,” patting his coat. Then at the open door. Between them.

“But wait,” I say, searching, what else?

“Thomas, as I said, ‘They almost never read the appendix.’” It’s very cold. The Man, looking at Lisa. Looking back at me, “You just never know.” And he’s gone, toward the Miller-Meteor. The one outside idling. The one in amazing condition.

Lisa yells, always so well intentioned, “Please visit again.”

The Man stops, nearly inside, rises, “I think I most definitely shall, Lisa.” And he pulls away, moving under the cheap, dim, yellow lowest-bidder street lighting.

It is still snowing.