A Day for Mr Smith

Mr Smith wakes up in the morning and wonders where his wife is. On the other side of the bed lies a note: “I’ve decided to leave you for Mike. He’s tall, handsome, funny: everything you’re not. Divorce paperwork on the way. By the way, do NOT bother trying to contact me. Love, Samantha”. After ripping the note apart, he goes downstairs to make himself breakfast. He opens the refrigerator to a foul stench; everything has spoiled overnight. Going grocery shopping is not an option, as he overslept and has only ten minutes before his shift at Smith & Johnson Law begins, so he resigns to leaving on an empty stomach.

He returns to his bedroom and opens his wardrobe to pick out a suit for today: all his clothes are riddled with holes. A moth-eaten suit it is, then, he supposes. When he puts on his left shoe, something wet soaks through his sock, prompting him to take both articles off; a big, fat roach splattered all over the insole. He sucks it up, scrapes the dead insect out, and goes out to the driveway. His car won't start, but he distrusts public transportation and does not have time to take it to a mechanic. His office is only thirty minutes away by foot, so he decides to walk.

Halfway through the commute, a drunkard brandishing a knife grabs his arm. "Give me all your money!"

Mr Smith hands his wallet over. The drunkard flips through it, and, unsatisfied by the amount of cash in it, punches him in the face. Mr Smith continues on his commute. His law firm comes into sight, though it's on the other side of the street. He crosses without seeing a bus hurtling toward him. The vehicle stops, but not in time to avoid running over his foot.

The driver flips the bird. “Watch where you’re going, you f***ing c**t!”

Mr Smith finishes crossing and hobbles into the office, allowing the bus to resume driving. In the building, Mr Johnson and Mr Richards (his business partner and accountant, respectively) stand waiting.

“We have important news for you, Mr Smith,” says Mr Richards.

Mr Johnson continues Richards’ sentiment: “I’ve made friends with a man named Mr Whiting. Whiting, Richards and I have agreed to split the company amongst ourselves and rename it to Johnson & Whiting.”

“Now get out,” says Mr Richards. He shoves Mr. Smith out of the door, causing him to fall and hit his head against the concrete stairsteps. Mr Smith gets up, sees a cop at a nearby intersection, and approaches him.

“What is the problem?” says the officer.

“My accountant just sacked me and gave me a concussion.”

“F*** off.” The officer swings his baton into Mr Smith’s crotch.

Mr Smith doubles over and screams. From the distance of the nearby skate park, a group of teenage boys gawk at him and laugh maniacally. One of them is holding open a Home Depot sack of rocks: the others begin picking stones out of the bag and pitching them at him. When a large one strikes his head he blacks out.

He wakes, still wearing his mothy suit, in a hospital room, which is vacant except for him. A doctor, with a clipboard in one hand and a pen in the other, enters.

“Good afternoon, Mr Smith. You were taken by ambulance to this hospital, St George Hospital, after suffering a traumatic brain injury. The combined cost of the ambulance ride, the sutures, and the room will be $6,658,593. Do you have insurance?”

“No.”

The doctor leaves the room and shouts to someone outside, “This man can’t pay for his own treatment. He needs to be removed, as his condition is non-urgent.”

An orderly comes in and rolls Mr Smith’s bed out of the hospital. She leaves him at the entrance and walks back into the facility. Mr Smith stands up on shaky feet(his right one’s sore), whereupon he maneuvers between parked cars to escape the lot. After making it to the sidewalk, he faces the road and sticks his thumb out. A car comes to a stop in front of him. A click sounds as its driver unlocks the doors. Mr Smith climbs into the passenger seat.

The driver says, “Where do you want to go?”

“82 Bernard Boulevard.”

The man starts the car and resumes driving, though his hands are off the steering wheel. He reaches over to the glove compartment, out of which he pulls a pistol. With his foot still on the gas(the speedometer read 90 miles per hour), he aims the gun at Mr Smith.

“Have any cash on you?”

“No, I was mugged earlier.”

Mr Smith falls against the driver’s side, and the driver drops his pistol out the windshield (shattering the glass) as he clutches the steering wheel. The car has fallen upside-down into a ditch. When Mr Smith unbuckles his seatbelt he rolls onto the car’s ceiling, whereafter he opens the door and pulls himself out into the ditch. He climbs up onto the flat land above and beside the ditch, and cranes his neck to read the street sign: he is close to Bernard Boulevard. Since he has long memorised the layout of his neighbourhood, he takes the familiar route. Where for years stood his house currently lies a pile of rubble, atop which stands a man in a yellow hard hat and a high-visibility vest.

The man says, “Are you Mr Smith?” When Mr Smith nods, he continues, “As you can see, your house has been demolished. The HOA and the town council unanimously decided to condemn it immediately, earlier this afternoon.”