A Short Story written in 2008

One State and Another Dimension

It started out as a simple Sunday afternoon poker game.

I was born a proud American Christian on August 2, 1914 in a small town called Maple Hills. I was named after the famous composer of music, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart. I kept that name until I was 26 when I renamed myself Jack and have kept that name ever since. My mother died of lung cancer when I was only 19. My father died of old age when I was 43. I never got married. I didn’t want to when I was young. That was my life mistake.

Harold, Jerry, Phillip, and I were playing a nice, relaxing game of poker. Harold, the oldest of us, was winning. He always won. Harold was mentally retarded yet he knew how to play poker, and he was quite the jokester.

Harold and I have been friends since elementary school. All his life he talked about his one dream; to visit every state in the United States. So far, he had only managed to get to one; our home state of Vermont. Travel was hard in the early 1900’s, and he is too old and disabled to attempt that now.

Our cigars were the only aroma in the room. The windows were shut, the blinds were closed, and the door was locked. The only light was coming from the single light bulb hanging above the table. The game was just about over when Harold began to cough. It started out as a weak wheezing sound, and then got louder and stronger by the second.

“Harold, do you need a glass of water?” asked Phillip. Harold couldn’t answer. His face quickly turned bright red and his eyes began to tear. Concerned, Phillip rushed to fetch a glass of water from the kitchen. Then the room became silent and Harold’s head was lying on top of his hand. His cards were still in his hand and, ironically, I noticed a royal flush. Phillip had just returned with the water but it was too late.

“Harold?” I said slowly. “Harold? Harold!” I put my middle and index fingers together and placed them on his neck to feel his pulse. “Oh, my word! He’s dead!”

On that afternoon his life was taken away. I blamed myself for his death. I don’t know why, but I did.

I attended Harold’s funeral on that Thursday. The wind ruffled my hair and chilled my spine but I did not care. Harold was the only thing on my mind. Phillip, Jerry, and I were the only people there. We were the only friends he had. I considered us family.

I read aloud the words we had chosen for his tombstone: “’Here lies Harold A. Montgomery. 1909-2002. Beloved friend, amazing poker player, and the only one with a dream to live for’…It’s my fault! It’s my fault he’s dead!” I cried loudly.

“No it is not,” said Jerry comfortingly. “It’s nobody’s fault.”

“Nobody but mine!” I yelled. “What am I to do?”

“There’s nothing you can do. Now, let’s head home for lunch.”

We sobbed into our handkerchiefs. We each laid down a bouquet of flowers, a deck of cards, and a map of the United States and left.

We walked away, Phillip’s arm around my shoulders. Harold’s death haunted me through the night. I could not sleep. My eyes were still open as my clock struck 8:30. Ghostly images of Harold swam in the pitch black depths of my dilated pupils. I sat at my kitchen table, a plate of food in front of me. It was hard to eat. I tried to dull my mind by watching T.V.

All I could think about was Harold, Harold, Harold…

Soon after, I decided to call Phillip.

“Phillip? Hello, Phillip. It’s Jack. I have a-“

“Jack?! How are you feeling? Did you sleep well? “

“Listen, what is the most reputable airline you know of?”

Phillip was an airplane expert. He knew every name of every model of aircraft made by man. He had been fascinated by them since he was eight and even kept his model airplanes from his youth. He was the right person to call.

“Why do you ask? Is this another one of those crazy schemes of yours? If it is I don’t want anything to-“

“I’m doing something for Harold.”

“What do you mean… for Harold? Harold’s dead.”

“I mean, something to clear my conscience. After all, it’s my fault he is dead.”

“And just why would that be? Harold died because of his addiction to cigars. It was his fault for smoking.”

“He was retarded! How could he know right from wrong? I should have helped him, you know, lead him in the right direction!”

“You’re crazy! You’re crazy and you know it.”

“Some friend you are!”

I hung up. I realized what I had said. I sobbed. I sobbed thinking about Harold, and thinking that maybe I really was crazy. I contemplated. What was I thinking; wanting to travel all the states?

Harold, Harold, Harold…

“For Harold I will do it.” I hadn’t realized I was talking to myself. It wasn’t until just then that I remembered that my question had never been answered. I still didn’t know which airline was the most reputable.

Airplanes are way too expensive. I decided to take a bus.

I told no one about my leaving. I was surprised that Phillip didn’t call back to settle our argument. But then, maybe I should have called him.

I sat at the Maple Hills gas station, waiting for the scheduled 12:00 A.M. bus. I was asleep when the bus pulled up. Its lights shone dimly through the heavy rain. Behind the two large window panes in front of the bus sat a heavy-set black woman. Above those windows was a sign that read Errol City, New Hampshire. I was entering the correct bus. I didn’t know when I was scheduled to arrive at Errol City. As long as I got there in one piece; that’s all I cared about.

I climbed aboard. Only about a fourth of the bus was occupied with people. It was toasty warm inside. What a pleasure it was. I worked my way to the center of the bus and sat down to my right. The seats were comfortable. There were two seats in one row; one taken up by me and the other by a young man in his mid-thirties. He wore a slick suit, and a brief case rested at his feet. His head was leaning against the window. His eyes were shut and a faint snore breezed from his nose.

He awoke from his doze as I sat down. We had a lovely conversation, just the two of us, for about 10 minutes. Then I got too tired to talk and dozed off. I deserved to sleep.

The bus’s breaks squealed to a halt.

“Oh, finally,” said the young fellow sitting next to me. He started getting up.

“I didn’t catch your name. What is it?” I asked.

“I’m Tim. Tim Montgomery.” ‘Here lies Harold A. Montgomery.’

The realization struck me with a jolt.

“Is there anybody in your family named Harold?” It was a one in a million chance that he was actually related, but I asked anyway.

“Yes. Yes there is. Harold Albert Montgomery. He’s my grandfather.” I took in a lung full of air. I just picked a blue marble out of 999,999 red ones.

“Oh,” I said. Tim sat back down.

He must have noticed the groan in my voice because he asked me what the matter was.

“Nothing. I’m still tired, that’s all.” I replied.

“How did you know that there is a Harold in my family?”

Did he know Harold was dead? I wondered.

“Oh, um, well…, it’s a common name, and I-,” I let out a large breath. “He’s-how do I put this?-um, no longer living.”

“I know, I’m taking this bus to the bus stop around the corner from his house. I’ll be staying there for a while. I have to figure out how I’m going to sell his house. I’m meeting my twin brother down there.”

“I am-I was his friend.”

“Are you Jack?!” I sensed amazement in his voice.

“Yes, I am.”

“He always talked about you…” His voice turned suddenly tragic and serious. “By the way, thank you for being a true friend to Harold. He was mentally challenged and-you know- he needed a good friend. “

I didn’t know what to say, so I didn’t say anything.

“Nice talking with you,” he said as he stood up again and hurried off of the bus.

Ten hours later I arrived at the Errol City local bus station. It was a grueling ten hours, but I made it. As I stumbled out of the bus, I asked around about the closest hotel. The most popular choice around was the Hotel Rotel. Luckily, it was right around the block.

I was in a huge city with towering brick skyscrapers along every street. It was so different from Maple Hills which is plentiful of long stretches of grass and shady trees and the occasional breeze that sent their leaves fluttering gently to the ground. I could definitely say that I missed my house and my friends back home.

I found the hotel easily. It had a narrow overhang stretching out from the building. A young man ushered me inside and lead me to the front desk.

“Welcome to Hotel Rotel. Would you like to rent a room?” asked the lady behind the desk sweetly.

“Yes, please. Single bed.”

“Okay. You’re on level four, room number six zero two. Would you like an employee to take your luggage to your room?”

“No thank you. They have wheels. No need for the trouble.”

“Oh, it’s no trouble at all sir. I can call one right now if you like.”

“No, I really don’t need one.”

“Okay. Have a nice stay!”

I made my way over to the elevator. The silver doors opened and I stepped inside. There was a young man standing in there. He wore a suit with a black tie. His black hair was slicked back and he wore a broad smile across his face.

“Good afternoon,” I said.

“Good day,” he said back. “What floor?”

“Fourth.” Then he pressed the button. We stood there in silence for several seconds. I glanced at his name tag fastened on his brown suitcase. It read: Montgomery, Harold. My stomach tingled.

“So, where are you from?” I asked him.

“I’m from New York. How about you?”

“Vermont.”

“Vermont? That’s where I’m heading. I’m meeting up with my twin brother, Tim, at my grandfather’s house. My grandpa just passed away and we have to sell his house…I was named after my grandfather, you know.”

I knew he was talking about Harold but I didn’t want to explain the story again, nor did I want to think about him at the moment. Instead, I pretended I never knew.

“I’m so sorry,” I said compassionately.

“Yeah, well. Death happens.”

“It sure does, it sure does.” I looked off into space and tried to imagine Harold deep in the havens of the heavens. I missed him.

That night Jack tossed and turned with dreams. He dreamt of Harold, of death, of heaven, of everything that mattered to him. These dreams were powerful; in some ways good and in some ways evil. These dreams rattled his mind incredibly. Then, his life left him. His dreams of Harold, of death, of heaven, of everything that mattered to him suddenly left him. They swirled away down a dark tunnel of his mind that he had never encountered before. This tunnel was like a black hole; sucking in everything, every last memory, every last living spark of hope, every last detail of life and vanquishing it. The black tunnel ended and became pure white, whiter than anything imaginable.

But where did the tunnel vanquish his dreams to? Why, it lay right there at the furthest possible end of the black hole. It lay right there in this pure white world. It lay right there in another dimension. And there stood Harold, wearing the same clothes he had been wearing during the poker game and a hand of cards (with a royal flush) between his fingers. There he stood; his arms open wide.