Chapter 9

It was ten minutes before eleven o’clock in the morning and the sun was shining as hard as it could upon the green fields below. Witticker squinted against the brightness as he walked down a dirt road that split the field in twain. He hadn’t been fully exposed to sunlight for the past twenty years and it seemed inevitable that the day he would choose to leave would be a bright one. He found, through necessity, that if he closed his eyes just to the point of blindness he could still make out the shape and curve of the road enough to maneuver along. There was also an old wooden fence lining the length of the road and he let it guide him as he squinted his way forward. He imagined he would have been embarrassed if anyone else came down the road and saw him hobbling along, a grown man clutching a suitcase and clinging to a rickety fence, but there didn’t seem to be anyone or anything for miles.

* ~~ *

Around one o’clock Witticker determined that it was high time for a spot of lunch and he left the road to make for a lone tree he had spotted in the middle of a field of tall grass. He stamped down a circle of grass under the tree and opened up his suitcase. He removed a plastic bag and began to unload its contents, egg salad and an English muffin, onto the flattened grass in front of him. As he picked away at the egg salad he began to examine the remaining contents of his suitcase. Aside from the obligatory toiletries and a few days food Witticker had chosen a scant few things to bring along on his journey into the world.
It is at this point in the story that a fundamental difference need be noted between Witticker and anyone else found in this position. Many people, having lived in solitude for twenty-five years and embarking into the world for their first time, would be expected to bring items with them that, if being filed, might be placed under headings such as “Life-sustaining” or “Necessities”. These things, like tools, or a tent, or clothes, are part of an unwritten checklist that most people run through before heading out their front door on a journey of indeterminable length. Witticker had, after much reflection, brought none of these things. His priorities were in a different place and the inside of his suitcase reflected a different criterion for survival. His collection began with several sheets of paper bound together in a leather binder and a beaten lead pencil. He intended to keep a journal, but, as his past attempts would indicate had they been watched, it was very unlikely that the paper or pencil would ever see the light of day. Second, he brought a pair of small black binoculars with which to observe a person from very far away before having to approach them face to face. Finally, he kept a small bamboo plant shoot wrapped in two cotton handkerchiefs. This shoot was cut from a much larger plant that remained behind and that Witticker had tended to from the age of four when it was given to him as a gift. These were the only objects he measured having any utility or worth and, as he had no real destination in mind, they seemed the most pertinent for his survival.

* ~~ *

As he polished off the last of his lunch Witticker leaned back under the shade of the lonely tree he had come to visit. He panned across the field, watching the grass bob and weave with the whim of the wind as the sun danced across the green surfaces. The breeze was warm and quick, bathing the fresh traveler in refreshing waves. His head bobbed as he began to fall into what he knew from his restless night prior would be a very long nap. He leaned his head against the shady tree and peeked out from beneath his eyelids for a last glimpse of the picturesque afternoon when he noticed something moving down the road towards him.
In the distance a dust cloud, which appeared to be intermixed with splotches of blue, would move, stop for a moment, and then move again with renewed vigor. As the cloud drew closer Witticker realized that the cloud was not a cloud at all, but actually a man in a blue bathrobe clutching a black briefcase kicking dust in every direction as he ran furiously down the road. The man would run down the road for several minutes at a time, stop and rest on the nearest fence post, and then continue his racing speed. As the man drew nearer to the spot in the road where Witticker was camped his spurts became shorter and less energetic. Just as he was in the point of the road closest to Witticker the man drew a large gasp and collapsed against a fence post.
Witticker, worried that he may have witnessed a man’s death, jumped up and began to run through the tall grass towards the road. As he hopped over the fence and drew closer to the man he realized that this was the first person he had been in physical proximity to in twenty-five years. The thought alone stopped him in his tracks and he stood frozen as the man slowly rose to his feet. The man looked to be in his sixties with wisps of black hair clinging to the sides of his bald head and a thin black mustache resting lazily on his upper lip. He was about five feet tall with a pot belly and, from what could be discerned from his current state, a poor respiratory condition. Upon reaching his feet the bald man quickly supported himself on the nearest fence post and immediately began gesturing towards Witticker.
“Are…Are…Are you…,” he wheezed. “Hold on.”
The bald man pulled out a pack of cigarettes and a silver lighter from the inside of his bathrobe. He put the cigarette in his mouth and began to fiddle with the silver fire box. His hands shook to the extent that it seemed difficult to catch a flame and after a moment he gave up, throwing the lighter to the ground in frustration. After a shared silence the man, realizing the cigarette was worthless without a starter, picked the lighter back up and motioned for Witticker to come closer. After a brief hesitation, Witticker began to shuffle towards him. When Witticker was within reaching distance he stopped and waited for the bald man to communicate further instructions. The man, apparently not satisfied with the distance, motioned for Witticker to come even closer and seemed to be gesturing that he wanted Witticker to light the cigarette for him. Witticker, after deciphering the intricate gestures, resolved that this was as close as he was going to come to a man who couldn’t even be troubled to properly introduce himself before asking for favors. He began to wave his arms back and forth towards the bald man hoping that it would translate to, “Sorry, ‘fraid not.” Apparently it communicated on some level as the man waved him off, took a few minutes to catch his breath, and lit the cigarette himself.
After the bald man had taken a few quick drags and regained a bit of his composure he turned to Witticker and began.
“Sorry about that. Been meanin’ to get in shape for all this, but I’ve been busy, you know? Or maybe you don’t know. Probably don’t. Anyway, you Witticker?”
At the mention of his name Witticker’s heart stopped. He was not aware that anyone even knew who he was and, from what he could tell, this man not only knew that much, but was out here on business concerning him in particular.
“Maybe I am. Who are you?”
The bald man began to chuckle which resulted in another round of coughing fits. He took a drag off his cigarette between coughs and leaned his briefcase against the fence.
“Yeah, it’s you. Give me just a second.” The man opened his briefcase, pulled a few pages from it, and then straightened himself up as if he were trying to look taller than he actually was. He held the pages up to eye level and squinted at their contents as he began to read.
“Here it goes. Dear Witticker. If you are hearing this then you must have finally decided to leave the house. Good for you. You have succeeded where I failed. I hope this letter finds you in good health and if not you may blame the man that stands before you.” Upon saying this, the bald man pointed to himself as if to substantiate his own existence.
“The purpose of this letter,” he continued, “is to help you with your first foray into the world. In the briefcase that held this letter I have included a number of items that should be helpful if you choose to journey out into the world. The first, and most important item, is the H-card. Remove H-card from briefcase now and show…Oh!” The bald man quickly bent over and reached into the briefcase.
“I’m supposed to do the stuff in italics, I guess.”
His hand emerged from the briefcase with an orange plastic card and he held it up towards Witticker as he continued reading the letter.
“This card will be your means of resource if you need anything during your journey. These cards are the last version of formal exchange in the world at the writing of this letter and they contain all of your personal and financial records. If any changes have been made since the writing of this letter, my correspondent will tell you now.”
The bald man looked up from the letter. “This’ll do.”
“To protect your unique identity I have imprinted your DNA on this card, but have substituted your personal information with mine. This brings us to our next item.” The bald man dropped the card back into the briefcase, reached in, and promptly pulled out a small leather-bound handbook.
“This is a record of all the personal information contained on the card. You may read through it at your leisure, but you should have a working knowledge of most of its contents as your new identity is dependent upon it. On a brief side-note, your name, according to the card, is now Brisby Jacobs.”
Witticker vacantly nodded at the information being spit out at him.
“The next item is one that you probably won’t be familiar with, but which is a fairly common device in the modern world and will be of great use to you in any way you choose to use it.”
The bald man reached in and brought out a flat, white, rectangular box no larger than a slice of bread.
“This is a white box and is so named for its appearance. It is a memory tool that will allow you to record anything you wish. It is extremely easy to use and extremely hard to break.”
Upon saying this, the bald man raised the white box above his head and sent it crashing to the ground. They both stared at the device for a moment and, after enough time had passed to confirm that the box would not fall apart, the bald man picked it up, showcased its intact state to his one-man audience, and continued.
“I have already recorded a few items inside of it for you based upon what I thought your interests might be.”
The bald man looked up from the letter at this point to take a drag on the slowly-dwindling cigarette he had been neglecting. As he exhaled the cloud of smoke he looked towards Witticker who had barely moved since the letter had begun.
“What a know-it-all, huh?
Witticker wasn’t sure how the bald man wanted him to respond, so he bit his lip and continued to nod.
“Sorry this is so long, but it’s important and I have to read it all. I promised him. Almost done anyway.”
The bald man put the white box back in the briefcase and brought out a small item that looked very much like a pen. Witticker felt some of the blood return to his face upon the sight of such a familiar object.
“The final item I have left for you is another tool that you’re most likely not familiar with. It is called a surface pen and the man before you will demonstrate its function now.”
The bald man looked down at the pen and clicked the end of it three times. The pen emitted a slight hum for a brief moment and then went quiet. After the pen was completely silent the bald man touched the tip of it to the side of his bathrobe. Almost instantaneously, the bathrobe shifted itself around on the bald man until it became what looked like a set of dusty denim overalls.
During this transformation Witticker had begun to subconsciously step away from the bald man who, with his previous action, had begun to frighten him. He wanted to yell and scream at the impossibility of the moment, but his vocabulary had escaped and all he could conjure was, “That just won’t do. That just won’t do at all.”
The bald man started to walk towards Witticker saying, “Now wait just a second, I can see that you’re not takin’ to this too well, but if you’ll…”
Upon the loss of his words Witticker had launched an all-out search for them in every division of his brain. All of his energies were spent looking for the lost speech members and the detectives assigned to the task seemed to be hot on their trail.
“You don’t…I haven’t…That just won’t do.”
The search had been narrowed down to either the frontal or the temporal lobe and the proper authorities were closing in.
“Do you any idea have…Why would you do something even like…That just won’t do.”
At this point Witticker had backed up into a part of the fence and was pushing dirt up in front of him. Meanwhile, the words had been detained in the frontal lobe and were being sent to the temporal lobe for immediate departure. All at once there was too much to say and the light began to fade. He looked at the bald man as the figure rushed towards him. Every sound became muted and faint. The blue sky passed overhead, punctuated with majestic white clouds.
THUD.