7/29/2002 George Thompson awoke one fine Sunday morning to the sound of the front door being slammed shut, followed a moment later by a crash then a thump, as the nail which suspended the painting hanging on the foyer wall broke loose, and dropped the painting which knocked the blue vase on the table underneath it off the table and onto the floor. It promptly shattered. But for George Thompson, this was all a slight discomfort which barely interrupted his awakening. He threw back the floral-print covers, and sat up yawning and stretching his arms high above his balding head, then sighed and let his legs dangle over the edge of the bed. Clearing his throat while scratching an itch on his chest, he stood up and walked over to the window. He vaguely remembered his wife, Dorothy, yelling at him earlier, but the warm covers and blissful void of sleep had kept him in bed, and he had ignored her outcries. Besides, he had been having a nice dream, although he couldn’t quite remember the details of it. He made his way down to the kitchen, opened the cabinet above and to the left of the sink, removed his favorite mug which showed a picture of his two kids when they were six and two, and poured himself a cup of coffee. In the sink were yesterday’s dishes and, piled on top, this morning’s. Somebody was in a rush this morning, George Thompson thought. With his cup of coffee in hand, he walked to the front door, wincing at the mess of porcelain fragments. The vase had been a present from his favorite aunt celebrating his and Dorothy’s wedding, twenty-five years ago. His aunt had passed away five weeks ago, and it was a shame that the vase was gone too. He carefully tread over and around the shards and opened the front door, stepping out into the morning sun. George Thompson walked out into the not-so-early morning air. The sun was shining, and a cool breeze blew, causing the wind chimes, hanging from the dogwood in his front yard, to dance about and sing. The chimes’ music did little to disrupt the quiet of this morning, however. It was the (late) beginning of a beautiful day. He looked across his yard to the neighboring houses, remarking in his mind on the verdant and well-manicured lawns, but he didn’t spot anyone clipping hedges or mowing. Taking a sip of coffee (one cream, two sugars) from his mug, he walked to the mailbox and leisurely picked up the newspaper. Turning, he strolled back towards the front door, admiring along the way the birdhouse that his son had made him many years ago. Unfortunately, the birds seemed to be absent this morning. He walked back inside and shut the door, maneuvering across the broken vase (resolving to clean it up after breakfast), and went back into the kitchen. He sat down at the table, and stared into space for a moment, periodically taking sips of coffee. Finally, with his free hand, he opened the newspaper, smoothed the crease, held it upright, and read the headline story’s caption. His eyes widened; the mug cascaded from his limp hand, tumbled, and broke when it hit the floor. He looked away from the paper, shook his head in disbelief, then looked back at the headline. With a yell, George Thompson threw down the paper onto the table, stood up (knocking over the chair), and shouted to no one in particular, “Today? It’s today?” He ran out of the kitchen, snatching up the car keys, and into the garage. His wife’s car was gone with his wife, so he would have to take the escort. He threw open the car door, flung himself onto the seat, jammed the key into the ignition, slammed the door shut, started the car, and drove it through the garage door, out onto the driveway and then into the street. The car convulsed, ripping through the empty streets at a speed far above the posted limit, the needle in the speedometer teetering very near the limits of the car itself. Turns were dangerous hindrances, eating up precious seconds and requiring an application of the brakes, which soon were worn bare. Stop signs and lights were ignored; George Thompson was driven. After an all-too-long time (in his mind), he saw the building a few blocks down, on the right. Swerving wide and breaking hard, he skidded into the parking lot, banged across the bumpers of a few parked cars, tearing gashes into the Escort and denting several bumpers, then eventually came to a stop. George Thompson flung the door of the smoking car, ran across the parking lot and front lawn, strode up the walkway and front steps, and opened the huge wooden front doors with both his hands. He looked into the dim and cool building, with its towering ceilings and wide spaces, and the world looked back at him: a middle-aged, balding man who was rather unremarkable looking, his whole body sweating profusely and heaving as it drew in big gulps of air, wearing a navy blue bathrobe that was wet at its bottom, and slippers covered with damp grass clippings. He gulped a final heaving breath, then gathered a modicum of composure, and, his eyes now adjusted to the relative darkness, walked down the center aisle, excused himself past a few sitting people, and plopped down onto the bench next to his wife. The still and solemn natures of the occupants was almost unnerving, and looking around nervously, George Thompson noted that even small children and babies were keeping unnaturally quiet. Everyone had returned to stare towards the front of the building, though it was empty. Nobody seemed anxious, merely waiting… George Thompson looked around carefully, in case there was something he ought to be doing, but trying to not let anyone notice him doing so. He saw multitudes of people, and was amazed at their diversity and number. So many people, he mused to himself, and yet we all managed to fit in here. So many different people… Some movement caught his attention, and he saw a familiar shape through the open window to his right. Looking hard, he was surprised that it was a horse moving outside the building. Nobody else seemed to notice. But after glancing again (to ensure that he wasn’t hallucinating from the hyperventilating), he decided that he wanted a closer look. Excusing himself (“I’ll be right back, just need to visit the john.”), he walked around the benches to the open window. The people near him ignored him as he stood and peered out the window. George Thompson was amazed by what he saw. Outside, in packs, or prides, or pods, or whatever they’re called, were animals. All sorts of animals, stretching as far as his eyesight allowed, ones that he didn’t recognize and every animal he did. The animals were lying down and walking, soaring high and burrowing low, swimming in both clear and murky waters, predator and prey both content with each other’s company. There were plants, too. Trees, flowers, vines, grasses, shrubs, mosses, fungi, and more. It was like a children’s book, a Noah’s ark, and George Thompson knew that there were more that he didn’t (and some he couldn’t) see. This world of life stretched across the horizon, unmarked by the constructs and hands of man. No skyscrapers, no cars, no computers, no house in the suburbs, no humans… but, wait…there, no, next to the iguana… and George Thompson’s eyes widened as he saw that there was man there, too. Certainly not as many as inside the building he was in, and they weren’t dressed in suits or wearing nikes, but they were there, living among all the others. And then George Thompson remembered. “The dream… The Promise…,” and he began to walk towards the exit. “George!” his wife was standing at her seat, looking towards him with fear in her eyes, “George, what are you doing? Come back here, you can’t… you shouldn’t… we’re human, not animals!” George Thompson smiled, said, “I love you,” and walked into the world. previous - next