An Introduction (Many Meetings)

Sometimes, I wonder why I keep writing in this stupid thing. Every day, it's just kind of the same thing--"Oh, this morning I woke up, had my two boiled eggs for breakfast, and ran to class. But you know what? The strangest thing happened: I only dozed off during lecture twice. Pretty crazy, right?" 

Right.

Maybe I'm writing just because I've always written. And you know me--once I start, stopping is nothing short of a cardinal sin. A moral failure. A scarlet letter. Et cetera, et cetera, ad nauseam.

I'm starting a new paragraph now so it'll look like I've filled my Diary Line Quota for the day like the--what was it?--half-page we had to write every day in third grade. Or fourth grade. Something like that.

There.

More space.

That about does it. 

I'm tired. Good night.


Jack's eyes drifted shut, the pages of the book in his lap lazily fanning out in the warm glow of the floor lamp at his shoulder.

The doorbell chimed.

Eyes still closed, he reached out with a hand, twisting the light off with an irritable snap and plunging the room into cold moonlight.

The doorbell chimed again.

"I," he said, "am asleep."

He snapped his book shut emphatically.

The doorbell chimed.

It could be one of his clients. He hadn't so much as looked at his phone all day. Maybe it was an emergency. Active suicidal ideation or something. Or maybe it was the FBI or CIA or NSA or some other form of law enforcement after him about his jury summons, which he'd summarily shredded the day he'd found them on his doormat. That had been several months ago. Was shirking jury duty a felony? Well, too late for that now.

The doorbell chimed.

Maybe it was a bunch of Mormons. Maybe it was the UPS guy with a very important package from Cambridge. Maybe it was the ghost of his mother, trolling him from beyond the grave.

The doorbell chimed.

"Fine," he muttered.

Stiffly, he levered himself out of the armchair his father's father's father's father had had shipped from Ireland back when shipping had actually involved ships and picked his way through the files and reference volumes that formed a rather academically-inclined rug. He wrapped his bathrobe tightly around himself and hoped he looked more on the irritated side of murderous.

The doorbell chimed again just as he yanked the front door open with as much exasperated professionalism as he could muster.

"It's two-thirty in the morning," he said, blinking rapidly several times at the blur of streetlights before remembering he didn't have his glasses on and instead settling for squinting in a vaguely threatening manner.

"I know. I'm sorry."

Jack peered at the tall, thin man standing on his front stoop at two-thirty on a Saturday morning.

"Do I know you?" he demanded, suddenly realizing that opening one's door at two-thirty on a Saturday morning to find a strange, hooded man outside was probably not on the neighborhood watch's "List of Practical Procedures: Friendly Tips to Keep Our Neighborhood Safe!".

"Look," the man said impatiently, or aggressively, or desperately, "would you mind if we spoke inside?"

"Yes. Yes, I very much would mind if we spoke inside. I don't even know who you are--"

"Jack."

Jack leaned heavily against the half-closed door, eyes closed. He could not do this now. He really couldn't.

When it became clear that Jack wasn't going to speak, the hooded man shuffled back half a step, stuffing his hands into his pockets.

"Jack, I'm sorry," he said lowly, "But I really need to talk to you."

"Really."

The man winced, or at least Jack thought he did, looking away.

Jack ran a hand through his hair, wishing he'd thought to grab his glasses, which he'd left on top of the little spiral-bound notebook by his armchair.

Sometimes, I wonder why--

Wordlessly, he stepped back, opening the door. The man stepped inside. Jack shut the door. The foyer was dark. Jack snapped a light on.

"You have a lot of explaining to do," he said, "About eight years' worth."

The man slowly pushed his hood back, and Jack swallowed. He sat heavily at the bottom of the stairs and placed his head in his hands.

"Thanks," the man said, voice echoing from marble to granite to marble to resound painfully in Jack's ears, "I wasn't sure..." He trailed off.

Lacking the energy to do anything more substantive, Jack stared levelly at him.

"Eight years," he repeated.

"I'm sorry."

"Where's your chair?"

"It's a long story."

"Well, I'm sure." Jack snapped, "You're the one that wanted to talk, so you better start soon, or I'll succumb to my dark, repressed Freudian urges and deck you so hard you'll have your jaw wired shut for a month."

The man looked away again, hands restlessly moving. Thumb against forefinger. Thumb against forefinger.

"Lucas."

The man flinched. Slowly, wearily, he sat on the scuffed marble floor, legs spread out before him.

"The Event," he said.

Jack closed his eyes again.