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John Watson wanted a simple life. He always said he did. Nothing more than a nice house to call his own, a back yard for his dog, a blue blood border collie, Buddy, and a sweet woman at his side. She didn't even have to be beautiful, just sweet. But time was moving on and the sunset years were around the corner. At least they were the last time he looked. Was it his imagination? Were the days growing shorter? Nah...he was just growing older and spent a bit more time than he cared to in his hot tub drinking perfect martinis and savoring slices of French cheese, Beaufort d 'Alpage, of course. He was also what he considered to be a "Prestige des Grands Chefs" and had recorded all of Julia Child's programs, successfully preparing fifteen of her most delectable dishes.
Sylvia Hoffman, a very attractive widow living down the street, called him at least once a week to see how he was doing. She often took him to lunch or a movie. Wealthy and strong, Sylvia felt that she could have just about any man. She did, however, enjoy John's company very much. She found him sexy and intelligent and was continuously hinting how much she would adore it if, just once, he would initiate their dates. John did not feel this was necessary as, after all, she was not the sweet girl he had hoped for. Sylvia Hoffman was not the woman of his dreams.
John was a retired writer, if there was such a thing. He made a good income in his early years as a columnist for the Washington Post which was his claim to fame. Everyone knew John Watson as the writer for the Washington Post. What they did not know was that he had stepped on a few too many political egos and was involuntarily retired from his position at the age of forty. He was a damn good writer though and everyone knew it. John wanted to write a story. Not just any story, but something riveting that would put him back in the writer's circle. Something abundant with life's purpose that would bring his former colleagues back to his dinner table. On most nights he wandered into his cold and empty office, sat down beside his tiny computer screen, and let his fingers travel across the keyboard, hoping a story would miraculously appear before his eyes. Where was his muse? Why could he never find a really good story to sink his teeth into?
On a cold and dreary day with sleet permeating his light winter jacket, John decided to walk down to the 7-11 for a pack of Camels. Damn, the cold! Damn the habit! But there he was, stuck with both and attempting to make the most of it. Suddenly, he heard the screech of tires and the horrific scream of a young boy. Lying in the road ahead of him was his neighbor, Jimmy Talbot. His Bike was in pieces in the ditch . He had been hit and dragged up the road under a quickly moving Mercedes. Running to his side, he did what he could to keep the boy comfortable until the ambulance arrived. Jimmy lay semi-conscious and was gazing into John's eyes. When they took him away he was still wrapped in John's overcoat, bleeding through the thin material. He would check later that night to see if the boy had survived, call his parents, and would check in once a week just to make sure everyone was doing fine. Hell, he would buy the kid a new bike! He liked the boy. He knew him because he delivered his Sunday paper and was good with Buddy. Damn, he hoped he would be all right.
That night, John fixed dinner, wandered into his office and sat in front of his tiny computer screen. Nothing. It was always the same. There was just nothing. A former writer for the Washington Post, entering his sunset years, and he could not come up with a titillating story to save his life.
"John? Are you all right? What are you doing? I want to go shopping. Will you go along with me? It will get you out of the house. We can have lunch at the Flagship. You love that place; broiled scallops, your favorite! Maybe we can take a stroll up the Esplanade. The Cherry Blossoms will be out soon. You might run into some of your old cronies from the Post. Wouldn't that be fun?"
Having nothing else to do on this particular Saturday, John Watson agreed to go with Sylvia on her shopping trip. Store after store boasted end of winter sales and it was not until they had stopped into a quaint little woman's shop just off Pennsylvania, that he suddenly heard the sirens blare. Before he knew it, the doors to the shop had been barricaded closed. Standing near him was a tall man in a ski cap. He was hoisting a 12 gauge shotgun and pointed it directly at Sylvia's head.
"Don't make a move," he shouted. " Or she dies." From the back of the store, John could hear the faint whimpering of the store manager. She had fallen prone to the floor taking the sales girl down with her. "Get up, bitches!" shouted the masked man. "Get me everything you have in your cash drawer and anything you have in your safe in the back. If I go back there and you have forgotten even so much as a penny, you both die."
Herding everyone in to the corner of the store, the masked man began to pace. By now the police had arrived and were surrounding the store.
"Listen, guy," said John. " This is not going to be your day. The cops are here and, if you don't surrender, they will blow your head off."
"Shut up, Mr. Wise-guy, or I'll blow your head off." John felt this to be a fairly substantial threat so he made the very wise decision to join the sales girl and store manager in the corner of the store. By now, Sylvia was near collapse and it was all the gunman could do to hold her up. "You're more trouble than you're worth, Ma'am." And with this he pulled the trigger, sending Sylvia's body flying full force into the opposite wall. In the stunned silence of the store, John watched as his old friend's body slid down the blood spattered wall and twitched to the floor. Her once beautiful face was now mangled and mostly missing. At this point, the police broke down the door and nabbed the shooter. They cuffed him and took him off, leaving John and the rest of the survivors in shock. After several weeks of therapy, John was able to go to lunch and walk his dog. He missed Sylvia and her wonderful generosity. He now realized that her qualities were far more than he had ever realized. However, she hadn't been that sweet girl he was waiting for. Such a shame. Such a damned shame!
One Sunday morning, John found his newspaper laying on his door step, wrapped in plastic and bound with a rubber band. This was not Jimmy's style. It wasn't until he opened the page to the obits that he saw the picture of the young smiling boy he had tried to save. The Funeral had been held two weeks prior and donations were being taken to the MADD office on 5th Street. Fresh tears consumed John's face. So young, he thought. "It never should have happened, just so young! And Sylvia, in the prime of her life. How he missed her. If only she had been sweeter.
That night, John tried his hand at dish number sixteen, Marseillaise Monkfish and French Onion Soup. He was delighted at how it turned out. Turning up the heat on his hot tub and mixing a perfect martini, one shot of dry vermouth, two shots of lime twisted gin, slightly cooled, he sunk into the warmth of the swirling waters inhaling the thick steam, with Buddy looking on.
Just as he was slipping into a dazed reverie and humming the second chorus of Lerner's On a Clear Day, his phone rang. He never would have known except that Buddy gave up one small bark as was his custom when the phone rang. "Nah, we'll let it go this time, Buddy. They'll leave a message."
"Hello John, this is Sarah Winston, remember me? Your old copy liner? I just wanted to let you know that the President is getting together some old alumni from the WP and he has specifically asked for your attendance at a dinner at the White House on the second of next month. Let me know, black tie, of course. If I don't hear from you, we will scratch you off the list. Ciao."
John sighed, never wondering who had called. Nor did he seem to care. Well, perhaps tomorrow he would write that story. That was, if something other than his daily routine could inspire him. John Watson wanted a simple life. He always said he did. Nothing more than a nice house to call his own, a back yard for his dog, Buddy, and a sweet woman at his side.
Well, tomorrow he would begin his search for that sweet woman. Tomorrow he would write his catchy story He was an excellent writer, after all, he wrote for the Washington Post. He just needed some fodder. He simply needed to find his muse.
The End
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