Neurotica

by Cameron A. Straughan

“I have a package for you to sign for,” the messenger announced, pen and clipboard outstretched.

  “Hmm?” Joseph mumbled.

  “I said: I have a package for you. You must sign for it.”

  “A package?”

  “Yes, a package,” the messenger set his pen and clipboard on the bed, so he could shine his gold buttons. “I just need your signature, then I'll be going. I have many other deliveries to make this morning. I'm always very busy this time of year.”

  Head still resting on the pillow, Joseph turned slowly and saw the dark silhouette of the messenger, standing over him, pen and clipboard poised. He could not see the messenger's face; the street lights seeping through the single window offered little illumination. But the buttons on the uniform shined like beacons, assuring him that a messenger was, in fact, before him. Only then did he catch a glimpse of the alarm clock.

  “Does that say 3:00 am?” he asked excitedly, stirring in his bed. His irritation was obvious.

  “Yes, of course it does,” the messenger replied impatiently. “I keep odd hours. It's all part and parcel of the job. Please now,” he reached over the bed and shook Joseph gently, “sign for the package, so I can be going.”

  “What is this package you keep going on about?” Joseph propped himself up, rubbing his eyes. “Are you sure you have the right apartment?”

  “I never make mistakes,” the messenger pushed the pen and clipboard against Joseph's chest. “If there ever is a mistake, it is the fault of the person receiving, not the person delivering.”

  “Well, if you’ll leave me in peace,” Joseph scratched down his signature, his head falling back down to the pillow. “Good night now,” he pulled the covers up around himself.

  “The package is on your desk,” the messenger moved towards the open window. “The sooner you open it the better.”

  Out of curiosity, Joseph glanced at the desk. There was a rather large square package resting there. It was covered in an attractive silver wrap that, surprisingly, reflected the entire room around it. However, he was much too stubborn, and too upset at being inconvenienced at such an hour, to let on he had any genuine interest in it.

  “Are you still awake over there?” the messenger suddenly interrupted his thoughts.

  Joseph twisted around, seeing only the top of the messenger's head through the open window.

  “You should open that package immediately,” the messenger warned him, clutching the window sill to maintain his position, “and you should remember to keep this window closed; this time of year, you'll get a terrible draft - it'll make you sick!”

  “I'll get right on it,” Joseph twisted back, pulling on his covers. “Good night now.”

  Joseph heard a stirring in his landlady's apartment, next door. No doubt, she had an ear pressed against the wall. She was overly nosey, and the slightest hint of a stranger in anyone's apartment, especially at such an early hour, caused her great alarm. Tomorrow morning, she would probably threaten to raise his rent, on the account that his open window allowed heat to escape. With that in mind, and to prevent the arrival of another messenger, he threw back the covers, leaped up, ran over, and closed the window securely.

  Climbing back into bed, pulling up the covers, he was confident there would be no further disturbances. He sighed deeply. There was so much on his mind, all relating to various aspects of work. However, the package also weighed heavy on his thoughts. He had to force himself not to look at it. The mere thought of it kept him awake. But his contempt for the messenger - for being awakened at such an hour - was so strong he steadfastly refused to accept both his advice and the package.

  Joseph allowed facts and figures to swirl around in his head. The dizzying array lulled him to sleep, preparing him to dream up another idea to improve sales, an idea to make note of in the morning. Just as a profit margin appeared before him, he thought he heard someone knocking, but he couldn't be sure. The door to his apartment opened into the living room, which was separated from the bedroom by a thick wall and a heavy oak door. Thus, when in bed, he rarely heard callers. It was easy enough to pretend he heard nothing at all; that's how he'd approach the situation, considering he was perturbed at losing his train of thought. Besides, it was probably only his landlady, who felt obliged to deal with the issue of the open window immediately, rather than wait for a proper hour.

  Sighing deeply, he pulled his covers up tight. He was slowly forgetting about the package, and the knocking, when he heard a terrible racket, just beyond his bedroom door. Sitting up in bed, clenching his blankets, he listened carefully. Could he be mistaken? Was his tired mind playing tricks on him? But the sound was unmistakable - repeated banging, splintering wood. The racket stopped, followed by the sound of several heavy footsteps rushing across the living room floor, approaching his bedroom door. He brought the covers up to his face. Where could he hide? There was no escape. The telephone was in the other room. He was completely helpless. These intruders - whoever they were, whatever they wanted - armed with axes, rushing towards his room, would have no contest. His bedroom door didn’t even have a lock, to at least inconvenience their terrible mission - not that they bothered trying the door.

  He jumped up three feet when the first blow struck, the axe blade stabbing right through the door. Blow after blow, splinters flew up. He could smell the oak, as the door disintegrated. He sat in awe - petrified by fear and helplessness. Surely his landlady would hear this and see fit to call the police, he thought - he hoped. He wished he was on better terms with her.

  The door was reduced to a mere splintered frame of wood, almost off its hinges. The first figure rushed in, followed by three others. Joseph could not see them well, in the dim light and in his state of panic, but they all appeared to be wearing large hats and matching attire. He closed his eyes and prayed - something he rarely, if ever, did. The light on his desk clicked on. There was silence, but he knew they were all gathered around him, perhaps poised for the kill. He remained motionless, holding his breath, hoping they couldn’t sense his fear. But nothing happened - no movement, no sound. Slowly, reluctantly, he opened his eyes. There were four firemen gathered around his bed.

  “So there you are,” one with a clipboard smiled, seating himself right next to Joseph. “You're in bed.”

  “Yes,” Joseph replied, still shaken, “that's where I can be found at 3 o'clock in the morning.”

  “What an effort,” another fireman sighed, setting down his axe. The other two, at the foot of the bed with their axes, nodded in agreement. “We had some trouble getting through to you,” he continued, wiping his brow. “Not that this place is too big - far from it - but those doors presented a problem initially, especially the heavy oak one.”

  “It's all part of your job,” the one with the clipboard began, shining his badge, as if to remind everyone he was the chief. “You can expect a lot of this kind of thing, during this time of year. Now, go see what he has in the refrigerator.”

  The two firemen at the foot of the bed set down their axes and ran to inspect the kitchen. The other seated himself at the desk and, noticing the package sitting there, immediately informed the chief.

  “So,” the fire chief slapped Joseph on the knee, “I see you've got your package.”

  “Yes, it's true,” Joseph replied.

  “You don't seem too excited,” the fire chief looked at him curiously. “That's a bad sign.”

  “How can I be excited about anything right now?” Joseph suddenly burst. “This is the second interruption I've had this evening! I'm beginning to wonder if I'll ever be allowed to sleep in peace!”

  “My friend,” the fire chief began in defence, “keep in mind the time of year, and the importance of your package. Notice how the package reflects everything around you. It's special, and it was delivered to you for a reason. It is of the utmost significance because ...”

  “No,” Joseph snapped, not allowing him to continue, “I won't listen. I've got work to keep in mind, duties to perfo
rm and promises to keep. I need a good night's sleep to accomplish these things, unlike you bunch, who seem to shirk your proper responsibilities so you can go visiting people at odd hours. Why aren't you out fighting fires?” he sat up, emphasizing his displeasure. “Surely with all the lights and ornaments the entire city should be ablaze!”

  The fire chief shook his head.

  “Isn’t it worth your time to look at it?” he leaned in towards Joseph. “Don't you want to find out what's inside?”

  “I couldn't care less,” Joseph threw his arms up. “I've already explained my situation, and I think I've been more than patient throughout all of this. Just count yourself lucky I'm not on the telephone pressing charges against all of you! Now please, I'm only going to say this once more, leave me alone so I can sleep!”

  The two firemen returned from inspecting the kitchen.

  “He's got next to nothing in his refrigerator,” one announced, as if surprised.

  “He doesn't even have coffee made,” the other complained.

  The fire chief turned to Joseph, looking him up and down.

  “You're not much of a host.”

  He got up from the bed and led the other three firemen out the door.

  Joseph let out yet another sigh - something he was getting good at. He was glad to finally see them go, since they made such a nuisance of themselves, and the fire chief was sitting on his leg. As the firemen made their way out, he heard them stop in the hallway to talk to his landlady, who was probably listening all along. With no doors to conceal secrets, he could hear everything being said.

  “Is he dead?” the landlady asked.

  Joseph could hardly keep himself from laughing out loud at her odd question.

  “Stupid old woman,” he thought, smiling, “so paranoid and nosey. Always having to know who was coming and going. Always having to know which tenants were dead and which ones were alive!”

  “Well,” the fire chief paused. Joseph found this curious. He listened carefully; it seemed the fire chief was actually taking her question seriously!

  “He is, isn't he?” the landlady pressed on.

  “In a manner of speaking, yes.”

  Joseph listened to footsteps disappearing down the hallway. Now that he was completely alone, he did not know what to think about the exchange between the fire chief and the landlady; he certainly didn't find it at all amusing. He found himself thinking up convenient excuses. Perhaps he was too tired, and did not hear their conversation correctly. Perhaps they rehearsed the entire incident - messenger, package, firemen and all - in an effort to scare him, to make him more agreeable about the management of the apartment building. At any rate, it made no difference to him. There was too much else on his mind. He simply had to get some sleep, if he was going to complete the various work-related tasks coursing through his head. More importantly, he would never agree with the management of the apartment building. He actually considered ways to manage it more efficiently with fewer costs - should he ever have control of it.

  Satisfied with his own understanding of things, and convinced he could not be defeated, he prepared for sleep. He caught a brief glimpse of the square package, still on his desk, untouched, its silver packaging reflecting everything around him. It would remain there forever, he thought, until the landlady, or whoever else was responsible, finally gave in, admitted it was all just a prank, and took the accursed thing away. The thought that someone else was responsible, other than the landlady, greatly appealed to him. It made good sense; he was very successful at work and he often thought the other workers were jealous of him. It wouldn't take much effort to arrange the entire charade - hire a messenger, call the fire department - in an attempt at tiring him out, so he wasn't as productive. Then again, maybe they just wanted to discredit him altogether. Regardless, it would never work. He would never fall prey to such underhanded tactics. Comfortable with these thoughts, sleep came quickly.

  Visions of facts and figures once again filled his head. He always had such neatly organized and well-presented dreams. Everything appeared in brilliantly coloured pie charts and easily interpreted tables. The statistics were indisputable. A spreadsheet of future forecasts was about to come off the printer, when he was rudely awakened. It took him awhile to realize his blankets had been pulled away. The desk lamp was on, blinding his tired eyes. Squinting, he saw the maid folding up his blankets.

  “What are you up to?” he demanded to know, “Can't this wait until I've left for work, or at least gotten out of bed?”

  “The landlady sent me up,” she replied, in her usual stoic manner. “She wants all your linen changed. Besides,” she pulled the pillow out from beneath him, causing his head to strike the wooden headboard, “you left your door open.”

  “Door?” Joseph rubbed his head. “What door? There are no doors to speak of! I’m beginning to think I'm better off sleeping in a barn full of animals!”

  “It's a real shock to everyone in the building,” she said, quite out of the blue, folding his pillowcase.

  “What's that?” Joseph looked at her with amazement now.

  “That you're dead. Some people were actually rather fond of you.”

  “That's it,” he leaped out of bed, just as she was trying to pull the bedspread out from beneath him, “I've really had enough of this craziness. I've finally had it.” He bolted to his closet, pulling his trench coat over his pyjamas. “Since I'm not permitted to sleep, due to either unrelated circumstances conspiring against me or a genuine set up, I'm going for a walk - with all the other dead people in the city! When I get back,” he whipped on some socks and shoes, “I expect everything to be in order, including the mess that was made of my doors. And I demand I be allowed to sleep for at least a few hours before work!”

  “Don't forget your package,” the maid neatly folded his bedspread, as he made his way towards the bedroom door. “It's the most valuable thing you possess. It shouldn’t leave your sight.”

  “Good night,” he growled, tired of hearing about the package. However, he could not help looking at it as he went by, briefly catching a glimpse of himself in it. He almost stopped, somewhat fascinated, although he would not admit to it - that would be admitting defeat. Besides, why should he follow the advice of a common worker who doesn't even have enough sense to wait for a person to leave his bed before changing the linen?

  Leaving the apartment, heading down the hall, his curiosity about the package somewhat diminished his feelings of anger. Now that he was practically wide awake, he gained a new perspective on the subject. It struck him that the package, and the events surrounding its arrival, seemed too complex to be a mere prank. Too many people were involved, from maids to firemen. It didn't make sense: why would someone go through all that trouble just to get at him? There was now, he believed, no convenient excuse for the evening's events. He would have to take everything at face value; in which case, he had to deny his own curiosity, because the package already consumed too much of his time and energy. Regardless, he would not admit defeat. His position remained firm. His refusal to open the package, or pay any real attention to it, was both an affirmation that he was better off without it and a highly significant gesture of passive aggression to all those who interfered with his morning.

  Joseph passed through the front doors of the apartment building. His eyes remained fixed on the sidewalk unfolding beneath his steps. The cool air was a welcome change. It cleared his head of all the nonsense, allowing concentration on more important business-related matters. Sleep was pretty much out of the question. He now considered a brief walk before preparing to leave for work - earlier than usual. It would be beneficial to arrive early. He could make use of various facilities that were normally booked solid for the day - providing anyone else would actually show up during the holidays. Confident with this new plan of action, he felt that the package, and all events related to it, could hardly faze him at all. Smiling to himself, he looked up from the sidewalk. He stopped dead in his tracks. At
that moment, all thoughts escaped him. Fear flooded in, filling the void. Fear: the first reaction when the senses dull and one can no longer find his way. But when the senses adjust, quite quickly in some cases, ignorance recedes, understanding begins, and the lightness in the stomach disappears.

  Briefly, he floundered in a sea of churning gray. It drowned the night air, taking everything else down with it. Calming himself, he felt stupid for having known nothing about it. Yet it was, after all, highly uncommon for that time of year. It was undoubtedly the sort of thing keeping families indoors, gathered around their trees; keeping carollers practicing in well-lit churches, rather than venturing to doorsteps. It was only the speed he immersed himself that caught him off guard. It was perhaps more distressing that all things familiar disappeared. Although he was directly in front of the apartment building, there were no lights. Blinded, he stumbled into something. But he had yet to move from his spot. Something had stumbled into him.

  Joseph apologized. The person said nothing. Somehow, Joseph did not hear him approaching, causing him some embarrassment. Perhaps he was just too distracted by it all - not to mention too tired. The person kept on walking - just another restless soul on an early morning walk, trapped in the fog, just like Joseph. It was obviously a ridiculous idea - walking in such weather. The fog seemed to be thickening; he didn't know how anyone else could tolerate it. Turning to head back into the apartment building, considering breakfast before leaving for work, he had to restrain himself from crying out.

  “My God,” he gasped, laughing nervously, “You nearly scared me to death!”

  The man said nothing. Joseph had no idea the man was behind him; he could have been there all along. Regardless, now they were face to face. The man had pale, expressionless features. His hands sank deep into the pockets of his dark trench coat. Without a sound, no acknowledgment whatsoever, he walked away, disappearing into the fog. Joseph shook his head. Such a strange morning, and it was beginning to take its toll on him. He could not wait to get back to his apartment, surely a mere ten paces away - easily accomplished, even in such dense fog. He returned to contemplating the best possible breakfast. But the firemen were right: there was next to nothing in his refrigerator.

  Moving towards the front doors, he caught himself thinking of the package. His curiosity was still quite great. Figuring that the maid was finished in his apartment, he made up his mind to open it. No one would see him do it, so he wouldn't be openly admitting to any kind of weakness. Perhaps more importantly, he wouldn’t have to respect poor advice given by suspicious early morning visitors. It would be simple: if the contents proved to be useless, or a prank, he'd throw it all out. After all, if it remained unopened on his desk, it would only distract him from his work, which may be the intentions of all those conspiring against him.

  Satisfied with his plan, and allowing himself to be distracted by various other thoughts, he continued towards the front doors. He could not recall venturing quite so far away from them. Walking a few more paces, he reached out, expecting to touch some of the ornamental shrubs decorating the front. He found nothing. Was he still too far off? It was not possible, he thought. Even if he had not turned straight towards the doors, surely he should run into a neighbouring railing, shrubbery, or wall. He silently cursed his virtual blindness. He felt more frustrated than afraid. How could he get lost right outside his own apartment building?

  “Oh,” he blurted, turning his head. Someone brushed against him. “Sorry, but I'm a bit disorientated,” he laughed nervously; “could you direct me towards my apartment building - it's the Johnston Building, 3201 Maple Street.”

  The stranger, oblivious to Joseph's request, disappeared into the fog. The stranger looked, and acted, much like the others. Joseph wondered if he was running into the exact same person each time. However, that seemed improbable. A group of three such men, all walking close together, shoulders touching, brushed by him. He saw the same pale, expressionless faces, and the same dark trench coats. Being an organized, reasonable type, he wouldn’t let it get the best of him; but he was genuinely worried. Right within his own city, he felt very alone and uncomfortable. He picked up the pace. He was at a complete loss to find his apartment building, let alone any building at all.

  “Where are they coming from?” he wondered aloud.

  He could hardly avoid bumping into them. Who were they and what was their excuse for being out in such weather? It was useless to question them. They were completely unaware of everything around them. He panicked. He would have knocked a few of them over, if they weren't so stiff, almost immovable. Where was he running? Where could he go? To run face first into a building - anything other than them - would be a relief.

  “There you are!” a strangely familiar voice called out.

  Joseph tried to catch his breath. He was desperate to talk, to say anything to this welcome passer-by. The shock and excitement at hearing a voice - a familiar one, at that - was too much for him to bare.

  “I didn't think I'd ever find you at your new address,” the voice drew closer, “but then again, regardless of the weather, it's all part and parcel of the job.”

  Joseph recognized the voice. Seeing the silhouette, the shining gold buttons, he immediately knew who was approaching.

  “The messenger?” he gasped, hands on knees, still trying to recover.

  “You left this back at your apartment,” the messenger remained somewhat hidden in the fog. “I see you didn't open it. That's a bad sign. But then again, it's no fault of mine. If there is ever a mistake, it is the fault of the person receiving, not the person delivering.”

  The messenger stood silently, with the silver package resting in his outstretched hands.

  “Why is this package so important?” Joseph wiped his brow. “What's in it that's so valuable that my entire morning has been compromised because of it? What's in it that causes you more concern than my being trapped in this terrible fog?”

  “It's not that simple,” the messenger explained. “You're the only one who knows what the package contains. The package is meant for you alone. It is of significance to you alone. In a manner of speaking, it contains everything that you truly are, or truly could be, instead of that which you appear to be.”

  The messenger pushed the package against Joseph's chest.

  “Sorry to be impatient,” the messenger smiled, “but I have many other deliveries to make this morning. I'm always very busy this time of year.”

  Joseph grasped the package.

  “There's no need for you to sign for it now,” the messenger said.

  The messenger vanished into the fog. Joseph was alone with his package. The messenger’s abrupt, seemingly uncaring manner, made him somewhat upset. His attention quickly turned to what was at hand. The package, its surface still shimmering, seemed unable to catch his reflection, no matter how close he pressed his face to it. It was a disturbing effect, probably caused by the dense fog, he thought. Without further hesitation, or any better plan of action, he tore open the silver wrap. He peered inside the box and shook it. Looking up, he hoped to speak to the messenger about the mistake. He shook the box again, feeling its inside corners. As a final test, he turned it upside down. A joke, he thought - undoubtedly. Throwing the remains of the package to the ground, he continued walking in no particular direction, with no particular destination in mind.

  About the Author

  Cameron A. Straughan is a Canadian writer, photographer, film maker, and teacher of science. His writing has appeared in several popular publications including ‘Satire: The Journal of Contemporary Satire’, ‘The Dream People Online Literary Journal’ and ‘Black Cat 115’. He has performed his short stories at several open-mike events; including readings in Windsor, Ontario, and throughout Vancouver, BC. His award-winning humorous films have appeared in many festivals around the world. He currently resides in the Dickensian splendour of Rochester, UK.

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