“It’s a rare condition,” Doctor Burger
told the fifty-five-year-old Tanner. “Your heart rate became too regular, and the blood flow rubbed
tiny ruts into your brain.”
Tanner nodded thoughtfully. “I
understand.” He didn’t.
Burger placed a hand on Tanner’s
shoulder, squeezed. “You have a week to live.”
“Oh.” Tanner digested this. “Should I
change my diet?”
“It wouldn’t matter.”
“Good. I hate change.” Tanner’s fingers
drummed against his sides. “Is that all, then? I have to get to work.”
Burger’s eyes widened. “Work? Did you
hear what I said? You’ve a week to live. You need to get your affairs in
order.”
“They’re quite orderly,” Tanner said with
a touch of pride.
Tanner grabbed his coat, turned towards
the door, and remembered something. “I think that, the last time I came here, I
accidently tossed a receipt from Radio Shack into one of your trashcans. Is
there any chance you haven’t changed
the garbage since then?”
Burger blinked several times. “I’m
certain we’ve emptied the garbage cans since Thursday.”
Tanner frowned. “I needed that receipt to
complete a two-dollar mail-in rebate.”
* * *
The sales associate at Radio Shack told
Tanner to wait in line. He waited close to twenty minutes, obtained a
replacement receipt, and headed to work.
He never enjoyed his job at Joe’s Bean
Counting and Canning, where he counted (and occasionally canned) beans.
However, the job provided him with a steady, predictable paycheck. Tanner
preferred steady and predictable things.
Tanner always spent his paychecks wisely,
saved as much as possible. He never vacationed, never bought things he didn’t
need. His weekly visit to his local pub provided his only indulgence.
Rosy worked at the pub. She wore a fiery
mane of bright red hair. Tanner often fantasized that he might ask Rosy out,
but the proper time for the proposal never arrived.
* * *
Tanner took his lunch break after his
first four hours of bean counting. He walked towards the usual food truck. He
always ordered a turkey sandwich with yellow mustard and white bread.
He watched his co-workers head towards
the new, Mexican restaurant across the street. The fools risked their money,
health, and time on food they never before tried. What if they didn’t like it?
Tanner approached the food truck, placed
his order.
“That’ll be five-thirty-five, sir,” said
the pimply, young man inside the truck.
Tanner balked violently. “Where did the
extra thirty-five cents come from?”
“We had to raise our prices,” said
Pimples.
Tanner drew himself to full height. “Now
see here, young man. I’ve paid exactly five dollars for the same turkey
sandwich for years.”
Pimples sighed. “Sir . . . it’s only
thirty-five cents.”
“It’s the principle,” Tanner explained, index finger in mid-wag. “I’m going
to complain about your prices, though I know you have no control over them.
Then, I’ll buy the sandwich regardless, only to realize that I haven’t enough time
left to actually eat it.”
Pimples stared at him. “Why?”
* * *
Tanner set his unwrapped sandwich next to
his desk. He ignored both it and his noisy stomach. He counted beans for the
next four hours.
His mind drifted towards his friend,
James Scarlet, who often demonstrated inconceivable recklessness. James kept
only the loosest grip over his fickle career interests. James would quit anything
the second it bored him.
James had gone skydiving, mountain
climbing, and even broken his arm in a motorcycle accident.
James lost a small fortune in Vegas. He had
nearly earned his law degree, before he decided, at the last minute, to quit
and become a beekeeper.
James had, in the course of a week, met,
married, and divorced a deaf midget.
* * *
A yard sale captured Tanner’s attention during
his drive home from work. He pulled over and inspected the goods for sale. He
discovered a stamp book, half filled. He haggled with the homeowner, talked her
down from five dollars to four.
He arrived home, clipped coupons, and
watched reruns of an old sitcom.
His telephone rang with devastating news.
. . .
* * *
Tanner rushed to the hospital as quickly
as the speed limits allowed.
A doctor led him towards the room in
which James rested. James had, the doctor explained, ingested some rare form of
food poisoning, which had evolved, over the last week, from stomach cramps to
catastrophic liver failure.
James (who would die within the next few
hours) rested—bone-thin and ghost-white—across his hospital bed.
“Oh, James,” Tanner moaned. He approached
the other man. “What happened?”
James laughed. “I sold my house and car
and quit my job.”
“You did? When?”
“Two months ago.”
“Where have you been living?”
James laughed harder. “Wherever I wanted.
I bought a membership to a twenty-four-hour gym. Some nights, I slept in the
hot tub. The other nights, I attended singles groups and let a new friend take
me home with her.
“I spent a week in Asia,” James continued.
“I lived on the beaches of Vietnam and Cambodia. An American dollar takes you far,
over there.” His laughter turned to a dark chuckle. “Guess I ate something
rotten along the way.”
“That something will kill you.” Tanner
shook his head. “I always knew
something terrible would happen to you.”
“My only regret,” James said, “is how much
heaven will bore me.”
* * *
The next morning, Tanner wrote a letter
to the local homeowners’ association. One of his neighbors had allowed her
grass to grow two inches too tall.
Tanner mailed his letter, headed to work,
counted beans, and went to the pub.
He watched Rosy, tried to gauge if he
ought to test his luck with her tonight.
No. Tonight didn’t provide the proper
conditions. She looked too tired to accept a dinner proposal.
He would try his luck another day. He had
all the time in the world. Another six days that would do anything but fly past
him.
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