Chop - Chop

A story loosely based on Daniel Four

By Bob Freye

Elizabeth stood at the window and stared out at the world beyond the glass. It had never been easy to share her feelings. So she stared at the parking lot, wasting time, putting off the inevitable for just one more moment.

Dr. Mark Caldwell sat in his chair, scribbling notes on a pad of paper. One leg was crossed over the other, which allowed one very expensive Prado shoe to hang in plain sight, no longer obscured by the cuff of his tailored Enzio slacks.

To most people, Dr. Mark was an imposing figure. But Elizabeth was not easily intimidated. Her dark Mercedes was parked right next to Dr. Mark’s red Jaguar convertible, among the choice parking spots near the door of the building, the area reserved for executive clients.

“I have all day,” Dr. Mark said, “but you may want to use this time more profitably.” He chose his words deliberately. They were both driven by profit.

Elizabeth turned to look at him. “I had a dream,” she said, and then she lapsed back into her uncomfortable silence.

Dr. Mark made a note on the paper. “You had a dream,” he repeated. “And this dream troubles you for some reason.”

Elizabeth nodded and looked away.

 “When did you have this dream?” Dr. Mark asked.

“Last night.”

Dr. Mark scribbled another note. “Tell me about the dream,” he said.

“There’s a tree,” she explained. “It gets chopped down.” She stopped for a moment and looked to see if there was any reaction.

Nothing yet.

“Is there anything special about the tree?” Dr. Mark asked.

“It’s big,” Elizabeth mentioned, “and it gets chopped down.”

There was something else, something she didn’t want to mention. She hesitated, as if to say the words would cause them to happen. But the secret wouldn’t be contained. It spilled out in one frantic revelation.

“I’m the tree,” she said.

“What?”

“I’m the tree. The dream is about me!”

“I see.” Dr. Mark scribbled across the width of the paper in his lap.

“Don’t you get it? I’m the tree!” Her words betrayed her frustration. “I’m being cut down to size!”

Ever the professional, Dr. Mark had never been known to laugh at a client in their presence, until now. It started as a chuckle, and soon he was hooting and cackling and shaking with amusement.

“What’s so funny?” she asked.

He was able to control himself just enough to return to the conversation.

“You,” he told her. “You’re funny. When have you ever been bothered by pangs of conscience?”

She had to think. It was unusual.

“Maybe this is different,” she said. “Maybe this time I’ve gone too far.”

That brought another hoot from Dr. Mark.

“And maybe none of this matters,” he snickered. “Maybe you just had a bad dream, and you should forget it and get back to real life.”

“I can’t just forget it. I think I need to pay attention to this.” She was angry now. “You can’t just go through life doing whatever you please. There has to be some kind of—”

She was stuck for the right word.

“Justice?” Dr. Mark sneered. “Fairness? Cosmic law? Where was justice when my parents died? Where was fairness when I couldn’t get a scholarship to Harvard? Where is cosmic law? Do you have proof that anybody out there cares?”

“That’s so cynical—“

“Yeah, so I’m cynical!” he grumbled.

“Well, I don’t want to live my life that way,” she shot back at him. “I want this all to mean something, to stand for something.” Elizabeth turned and leaned on the window. “I want to live my life as if it mattered.”

Behind her, she heard only silence.

“I can’t do this anymore. I can’t lose myself in the deal. I’m empty. You can be blind to your responsibilities if you want, but I can’t.”

Silence—and the faint squeaking of his chair.

She turned back toward him, but no one was there. The chair spun lazily on its pedestal, empty. Elizabeth was alone in the office. She peeked out into the outer office. No one.

She turned back to survey the room. Dr. Mark’s pad of paper was flopped on the floor near the chair. The pen had rolled across the floor. She heard a bang outside in the parking lot and hurried to the window.

The hood of the red Jaguar convertible was badly dented. A single Prado shoe lay in the grass in front of the car. A pair of tailored Enzio pants dangled from the Jag’s radio antenna. In the background, on the far side of the pavement, she saw a man dressed only in boxer shorts dash into the hedgerow that separated the parking lot from the highway.

She tried to call out. “Dr. Mark!”

But she was on the wrong side of the glass.

Anyway, it was too late. He was gone.

[-] © 2006