“THE THINGS THEY COLLECTED"
A
short story written by Mark S. R. Peterson
Tim
can’t believe his luck. He steps off the
subway and there, lying along the concrete wall amidst a thin film of dirt, is
a broken wrench.
It’s
a 3/8” open-end. He has another 3/8” back
at his apartment—that one is a combination-style, unbroken of course. This one is broken right down the middle at a
slight angle. If it’s a twin of the
other or a true open-end, he isn’t able to tell.
He
pockets the find and moves on through the weary, late evening crowd
“Evening,
Mr. Scudder,” the proprietor of the magazine kiosk says. He tips his New England City Yankees baseball
cap. “Got your new Time and
People.” The kid who runs the kiosk—who isn’t really a
kid, for he must be edging thirty—reaches under the counter, and ever-so gently
lifts out a small stack of magazines. “As
requested, two each, one wrapped in cellophane.”
Tim
hands over his financial card, and thirty-two dollars and fifty-five cents are
electronically transferred out of his bank account.
“You
know,” the kid says, “if you ever want an e-reader, I can get you a deal on
one. Then you wouldn’t have to carry
around all these magazines.”
“No,
I could never do that,” Tim says. Inside
his coat are three newspapers. He slips
the new magazines in next to them. “I
know it’s the wave of the future and all, but I just like to hold the real
thing. Besides, I wouldn’t want you to
go out of business.”
“Oh,
you don’t have to worry about that, Mr. Scudder,” the kid says. “I still get paid when I set up others on subscriptions. Awful nice of you to think of me
though.” He motions to an enclosed case
behind him. “If you ever change your
mind, I have plenty to choose from.”
In
the display are rows upon rows of e-readers, several smaller than the size of
his hand. They also come in a variety of
colors, from drab black and white to hot pink and shiny chrome.
“These
can hold up to five hundred thousand books and magazines,” the kid says. “And they say in about a year or so, there’ll
be ones that can hold over a million.
Christ, no one can even read that many.”
Tim
is about to walk away when he sees a magazine next to the readers. “What’s that?” he asks, pointing at it. The cover is all black with white striking
letters near the top that read The End.
“Oh,
that’s a new magazine that just came out,” the kid says. “The premiere issue. The e-version is available too, but everyone
says you have to get the real thing. Got
a box of fifty just a few hours ago and I have only three left.”
“Premiere
issue, huh? Never had a premiere issue of
anything before.” Tim rubs his chin. “You have three left?”
A
lady wearing a purple shawl jogs up to the kiosk and asks for an issue of The End.
“Evening,
Mrs. Williams, here you go.”
She
shoves her financial card into the kid’s hand.
Once he scans it, she scurries away, holding the magazine tight against
her chest.
“Thanks,
Mrs. Williams,” the kid says. He turns
back to Tim. “Two, now.”
Tim
adjusts his coat and thinks about his own collection. “I . . . I’ll have to think about it. You can’t save them for me, can you?”
This
time, the kid’s smile fades. “Sorry, Mr.
Scudder,” he says. “I can’t.”
* * *
Tim’s
apartment is three blocks from the kiosk. He typically walks quite briskly when he has new
pieces to add to his collection. This
time, however, his pace is more reserved, for every other person he meets is
reading a copy of The End.
Aside
from the usual streetlight LEDs blazing the way, traffic overhead is unusually
heavy. The screaming whine of fusion
engines gnaws at his mind.
Trailing
up behind him are three teens zooming back and forth on electric scooters. One hops onto a nearby polymer bench and
rides along the back of it.
Once
they pass by him, Tim steps up to his apartment complex. A datapad lights up to an iridescent blue.
Instead
of placing his palm on it, he steps back, gazing in the direction of the
magazine kiosk.
“No,
I’ll make room.”
He
comes off the step and freezes. Next to
the building is a line of old bottles.
But it’s not the bottles that draw his attention, it’s the deck of cards
behind them.
Well, if today isn’t my lucky day.
A
police cruiser zooms by directly overhead, red and blue strobes flashing madly. A spotlight shines down onto nearby rooftops.
Tim
reaches down and plucks the deck out from behind the bottles. He thumbs through them. Fifty-two regulars and two jokers.
“Perfect
for my collection.”
He
walks back to the kiosk with such swiftness that the newspapers and magazines
nearly bounce out of his pockets. But as
he rounds the corner, he stops.
A
FedEx postal cruiser hovers beside a nearby café, the driver chatting excitedly
with the chef.
Typically,
when kiosks are packed up for the night, there’s at least some trace of them left
behind, like a torn magazine page or even a placard stating BE BACK IN 12
HOURS. SORRY FOR THE INCONVENIENCE. But in this case, there’s nothing. It’s completely disappeared.
A
white-haired gentleman in a black fedora saunters on by, an issue of The End
rolled up in his fists.
“Excuse
me, sir,” Tim says. “Where did you get
that?”
“Kiosk
down the way,” the man says, cocking a finger behind him. “But he’s out. I got the last one.”
“Could
I buy that from you? I’ll pay triple
what you paid for it,” Tim says, despite his lack of knowledge as to the
original price.
“No
way!” the man exclaims, stuffing it inside his coat and hurrying away.
“Quadruple,
then.”
“I
said no! Beat it!”
* * *
He
hits up seven other people on his way back to the apartment. None are willing to give up their premiere
issue of The End for any amount of money.
His
neighbor, Stephanie, is waiting inside for the hyperlift, black metallic
briefcase in hand.
“Any
new additions to your collection, Tim?”
He
pats the sides of his coat. “A new Time and
People. I even found a deck of playing cards outside. With
the jokers.”
Her
eyes grow wide. “Oh, wow, you’re so
lucky. I don’t care for Time myself
but I did pick up my People and Reader’s
Digest.” She
glances around. “And I picked up
these.” She opens her briefcase and
shows him the very familiar black cover of The
End. “Premiere
issue. I got the last two.”
“Can
I buy one?” asks Tim.
She
slaps her briefcase shut, the sharp bang resonating throughout the
hallway. The hyperlift doors open.
“Please,”
he says, holding out his financial card.
“I don’t care how much. Please.” His other hand is in an inside pocket,
gripping the broken 3/8” wrench.
She
clears the combination display on the briefcase, and tucks it under her arm.
He
releases his grip on the wrench. There
must be thousands upon thousands of combinations to choose from, so his chances
of gaining possession of the magazines now, even by nefarious means, are nil.
“Sorry,”
he says, stepping onto the hyperlift. He
pushes the button for the eleventh floor.
“Coming?”
She
edges into the far corner, keeping the briefcase as far away from him as
possible.
“Awful
busy outside, huh?” he asks.
“What?”
“Outside. Seems busier than usual.”
“You
don’t know?”
He
glances over at her. She grips the
briefcase with both arms now. “Am I
missing something?”
The
doors soon open.
Stephanie
bolts out down the hall. She fumbles
with her keypad, and as soon as the apartment door slides open she slips
inside.
Tim’s
apartment is on the end—he actually rents two units in order to house his vast ever-growing
collection. He enters his code on the
keypad, and the door slides open a few inches then stalls, hypergears whirling,
growing higher and higher in pitch. He
gives it a hefty shove and it finally slides free, an avalanche of newspapers
and magazines spilling out into the hallway.
A
stale sulfuric odor wafts out. He breathes
in and smiles.
“I’m
home.”
* * *
Tim
sits in his brown leather recliner, wedged amongst heaping mountains of
newspapers and magazines. He cleans out
his coat pockets, laying the new additions on his lap.
That’s
when he spies something—a magazine with an ominous black cover—stuck between
the two still wrapped in cellophane.
“What
did that boy do?”
A
note pasted on the front reads:
My
compliments from years of business.
Kevin
Tim
tosses the new Time and People
onto one of the mounds, the top now starting to
teeter, and opens The End.
* * *
Butch
Dice secures the breathing apparatus, completely engulfing his head.
“How
long has he been in there?” his assistant Cheryl asks.
“The
neighbor said she spoke to him about two weeks ago. Remember when that weird magazine came
out? The
End? That was
when. He was asking about her copies of
it, and looked to be real desperate.”
“Did
you ever read it?”
“That
magazine? No. My wife did.
She said it was the biggest waste.
All hype. Made some rich guy even
richer, that’s for sure.” He points at
the door. “Ready?”
He
punches in the code given to them by the building manager. The door starts to slide, ever-so slowly, the
hypergears groaning. When it finally opens,
magazines and newspapers pour out into the hallway. Inside, along the wall to their right, are
six tall tool chests. Stacked on top of
these are several piles of playing cards, many touching the ceiling.
They
wade through the mess to where the officers found Mr. Tim Scudder crushed to
death beneath layers of magazines, The
End clutched tightly in his hands.
“We’ll
need eight dumpsters,” Butch says.
“But
he had two living units.”
“Then
we’ll need sixteen, just to be safe.”
As
Cheryl starts cleaning debris away from the door, she spies a broken wrench. She picks it up.
It’s
a broken 3/8” open-end. She pockets it.
“That’ll
go great with my collection.”
(If you liked this story, be sure to check out the If Walls Could Talk short story collection. Please click on the link for all available retailers).
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