The Deliverer (segment)
#1 of Ideas
I got this idea for a story the other day and this is the content of the first two pages. I have a general outline down, but it's gotten a lot longer (20 pages now) than I wanted it to getting where it is going, so I'm trying to decide if I should shelf it for now (since I'm working on a novel) or finish it. What do you think?
Jeremy Kohl's life in Little Bethel was completely ordinary. It's a shame that he liked it that way, especially for Natty Harris, but it didn't matter on Monday. That was garbage day.
"Tomorrow's the big day, huh," Mr. Teeter waved and shouted, his opposite hand still resting on the battered green rollcart he'd just delivered to the curb. The white sidewalk gleamed in the late summer morning sun. Jeremy was halfway down his concrete driveway with his cart, number 149244, which he remembered indelibly because the number surprisingly gave him a great deal of comfort. He never stopped to question why -- he rarely did -- but if he had, he would have concluded that it was likely due to the fact that the number was a disappointment. There was nothing particularly special about it at all. Every way he looked at it, seeking some kind of significant pattern or meaning, it failed to deliver, and that total insignificance made it immensely special and comforting to Jeremy.
"What do you mean?" Jeremy shouted back at Mr. Teeter, pausing to deliver the question before continuing to the bottom of the gentle, glinting concrete incline that linked Del View Street to Jeremy's garage.
Mr. Teeter's wrinkled skin drew back in a wide tight grin framed by his bluish, shoestring lips. He probably chuckled in the near-silent, breathy way that old men chuckle, but Jeremy couldn't hear it over the crackling of the rollcart wheels.
"Smart boy," Mr. Teeter said on his way back up his incline, wagging his finger and stopping alongside Jeremy, who also paused. "Just remember to forget everything you think you know and it'll all be fine." Their driveways were very close together, separated only by a thin ribbon of green grass wide enough to pleasingly accommodate a miniature white picket fence highlighted by marigolds. Jeremy liked marigolds. They were cheap and easy to grow and required no care at all. They also only lasted a year, so Jeremy didn't have to do anything to overwinter them.
Mr. Teeter put his hand on Jeremy's shoulder and grinned, knowingly. It was the first time Mr. Teeter had ever touched Jeremy (except to shake hands the day Jeremy moved into the neighborhood nine years ago) and Jeremy didn't like it. Mr. Teeter removed his hand and shuffled up his driveway. Jeremy watched Mr. Teeter's baggy pants sagging off his flat, elderly butt, considering the old man, before he turned back toward the street with his cart.
"Crazy old man," he mumbled under his breath.
He parked his cart squared off in the corner his driveway formed with the sidewalk and then began the ascent to his garage. Halfway up the little hill he heard a bump, a high-pitch "Bitch!" (not exactly, but that is what it sounded like), and then a chitter. He looked back quickly just in time to see (or think he saw) a black shape disappear behind his rollcart. He turned fully around and stared frowning down at his cart. Nothing moved and there was no sound. "149244" reflected in dull white back at him and he felt better. "Nothing," Jeremy said, shaking his head and turning back to his garage.