MODERN TIMES - PART III

         His head was propped by the large, flat maroon pillow in back of which was a smaller, firmer cushion. He was on his back on the couch, the afghan covering his legs. The newspaper was on the floor next to him while his glasses rested on his chest. The light was far enough behind him not to shine directly in his eyes, which were closed in a deep slumber.

         The large white Samoyed walked up to him and began to lick his face. His hand reflexively went to the dog’s nose. He lifted his head a little and opened his eyes. “Hey, what’s this? TIMMY! What are you doing here?” He took his glasses out of harm’s way, put them on and read the tag on the dog’s collar. “IT IS Timmy, and under your name it says you are a spirit. You must be. You would be almost as old as me.”

         The dog put his forelegs on the couch and continued to lick Sprague’s face. Sprague staggered up, looked at the clock on the bookcase and mumbled “One o’clock? Just like Elaine promised.” Timmy stood wagging his tail and nudging Sprague toward the door. “Timmy, I have to go to the bathroom. I’ll be right back.” He put on his slippers and clomped up the steps. In less than two minutes he came down to find Timmy pawing at the front door.

         “Do you want to go out, Timmy? Be patient, I want to get my coat.” He threw a hooded sweatshirt over himself and opened both the inner and outer door. Timmy was off in a flash, running down the steps and turning left, headlong down the street. Sprague took one step outside and found a sheet of ice, but he did not fall. He began to glide over the ice after Timmy. The dog ran to the next block where he ran up the steps of 242 and right through the door that did not have to open. Sprague followed up the steps, but could not stop when he got to the doorway. To his amazement, his body passed through the solid wood.

         Timmy was standing in a corner, pointing with his paw to the people near the Christmas Tree. ‘It’s Dad and Mom and there’s Jill; she must be ten and there I am, all of twelve. Boy I was funny looking then. I’ll bet Dennis is upstairs sleeping. He was always either working or sleeping.

         ‘Dad’s trying to put the lights on the tree while Mom’s in a hurry to decorate it. That must have been the last year he used the bubble lights. “Save a penny, Benny,” we called him. Here goes his first try; he’s plugging them in, and THEY DON’T WORK. Now he’s checking each one but nothing is wrong, so he’ll take them down and carry them down the cellar to test them again. Listen to him.’

         “Damn things were working in the cellar. You probably jostled them putting those balls on the tree.”

         “I didn’t do anything. I didn’t come anywhere near them.”

         ‘Every Christmas we’d hear this. Wait until she drowns the tree in tinsel then he’ll go off again, but she’ll get him back. She’ll find a hole and make him turn the tree to cover it up. Peace and goodwill to all mankind. When they finished, Dennis would rouse himself and take photos, blinding everyone with his flash bulbs.

         ‘Jill and I would get up early Christmas morning. Mom would be awake anyway and Dad would usually work the night shift and come home by eight so in theory, we were ready to open gifts, but Dennis could never get up until ten or later. At age ten Jill had already started wrapping up the same pair of pajamas for him every year, so I guess he saw no rush to come downstairs.

         ‘I do remember this year. It was the year I wanted a new baseball glove, but Dad had never played baseball in his life and had no idea what to do so I received some kind of model.

         ‘Were you happy Timmy? You were probably out in the back yard barking your fool head off. Where are you going? Aren’t we going to stay until Dad shorts out all the power in the house? Okay, I’m coming, wait for me.’

         Once out on the street, Timmy legs began to pump so hard that soon he was airborne, as was his master. They flew through the night sky descending on a small wooden structure on a street lined with military barracks. In the door they flew. A single soldier sat behind a desk; through grates a fire could be seen burning in a chuck stove. A single day calendar on the wall showed the date to be the 24th.

         ‘There I am, Timmy. Specialist Fourth Class John Sprague, pulling Charge of Quarters duty at my company headquarters on Christmas Eve at Fort Jackson in 1967. I remember that. I could have taken leave on Christmas or New Years and I chose New Years because Betty Cleary and I were to go to a party for New Year’s Eve. There was nothing to do there that night but just sit and read or watch television. At times I would doze off from the heat of the stove.

         ‘But wait, I remember that night. The phone is going to ring right about now. There, see I am picking it up.’

         “Betty, what are you doing calling me here. How did you get my number?”

         “I see, someone at the barracks said I was here and gave it to you. Merry Christmas, Betty.”

         “What’s that? You want to break our date next week. Joey Cianfrani and you are going to New York. This is hard to believe.”

         “No, I can’t stop you, it’s just I was counting so much on”

         “I see, I am not around anymore. I can’t help it, Uncle Sam has plans for me.”

         “Look, Betty. Stop beating the horse. You and Joey have a good time. I’ll watch Guy Lombardo with Mom and Dad. Okay?”

         The soldier put the phone back on the hook. He took the magazine he was reading and threw it in the chuck stove. He returned to his chair and put his head down on his desk.

         ‘Why did we come here Timmy? Are we leaving? Don’t leave me here. So far you’ve shown me two crummy Christmases, what more can you do?’

         They flew to an office building in a large city and walked through the revolving doors. No one seemed to mind as the dog and the man in sandals with no socks, sweat pants and sweat shirt rode the elevator to the fourteenth floor. The door at the end of the hall had a sign telling all that it was the offices of Cox & Dubinsky. Timmy did not bother to open the door.

         Instead of the expected hush, the sound of music and loud voices was heard. A Christmas tree that sat in the reception area was tilted to the right while the rug was covered with popcorn. The firm’s library to the left of the reception area contained a number of revelers, while the processing room and typing pool held other parties. Timmy was interested in none of these. He led Sprague down the hall to the sixth office on the right past the library. The door was closed. Timmy and Sprague were about to pass through.

         ‘My office! Oh, lord I half remember that day. That was when I did not mind having a drink to be sociable. Mr. Cox, Andy Seagraves, Paul Corr and good old Elaine kept pouring them down me while they matched me. Seagraves and Corr brought the typing pool into the library and I remember thinking that people were pairing off, but my memory grew hazy. The last thing I remembered clearly was Elaine asking me about some case we were working on together and us going off to my office.’

         Timmy passed through the closed door. So did Sprague though he covered his eyes. He could feel Timmy’s paws pulling on his hands. He took them away from his face and saw himself on top of his desk, on his back, his pants and shorts down at his ankles. Astride him was Elaine, her skirt pulled up and her pantyhose and panties on the floor. From where he and Timmy stood, he could only see her from her most unflattering side, but that was enough. He turned to Timmy and said, ‘So that’s what happened. Enough, Timmy.’

         Timmy stopped licking his face. Sprague lay back on the pillow on the couch and was asleep again after five minutes. The clock read 1:15.

******

TO: "MODERN TIMES - PART IV"