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The Escape of Timmy Evergraus [MultiFormat]
eBook by Brady Boyd
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$0.51 |
eBook Category: Dark Fantasy/Mainstream
eBook Description: Making the right decisions in life can be a bother to us all, but for the retarded Timmy Evergraus, choosing even the most simple of paths leads to drastic and desperate actions. When a simple man must make a difficult choice, he not only must confront his own disability, but the rigid attitude of an entire town.
eBook Publisher: Clocktower Books and Far Sector SFFH (magazine), Published: Far Sector SFFH, 2003
Fictionwise Release Date: November 2003
Available eBook Formats [MultiFormat - What's this?]: Adobe Acrobat (PDF) [68 KB], eReader (PDB) [23 KB], Palm Doc (PDB) [10 KB], Rocket/REB1100 (RB) [10 KB], Microsoft Reader (LIT) [88 KB] - PocketPC 1.0+ Compatible, Franklin eBookMan (FUB) [81 KB], hiebook (KML) [71 KB], Sony Reader (LRF) [62 KB], iSilo (PDB) [9 KB], Mobipocket (PRC) [11 KB], Kindle Compatible (MOBI) [47 KB], OEBFF Format (IMP) [18 KB]
Words: 2950
Reading time: 8-11 min.
Microsoft Reader (LIT) Format: Printing DISABLED, Read-Aloud ENABLED
Adobe Acrobat (PDF) Format: Printing DISABLED, Read-Aloud ENABLED
All Other formats: Printing DISABLED, Read-aloud DISABLED
 
In Pasceyville everybody did what he was born to do. Sam the Butcher was born a butcher. And so it was. Caleb was the mortician--he made dead folks look pretty. Patty made quilts out of rags because she had a lot of rags. Uncle Raynor didn't do anything but drink, so his job was to drink--even though he never got paid for it. But Timmy was different. He didn't get to do what he was born to do, and that was to be a fisherman on the wide blue sea. Instead, he was a postman. And he was unhappy. The townsfolk wondered, why couldn't Timmy be happy with his lot in life? "The world wouldn't work right without postmen," they said, "and where would the world be without those folks?" The earth revolves on its axis because it's supposed to; and Timothy Evergraus was a postman since that was his post. Besides, if Timmy left the post office, who would fill in for him? Sam the Butcher? And who then would do the butchering? Not Patty the quilting bee queen, oh no. The world has files--just like the post office--for sorting folk into their right places.
But Timmy was unhappy. Every now and then, as he sorted mail--day in and day out--he came across a postcard. Sometimes they were sent from near places--like the Midwest (but not so middle as Pasceyville)--or from down along the Mississippi where showboats were now only just for show. And on rare occasion cards arrived from Europe, their pictures those out of encyclopedias and travel guides. But Timmy never paid attention to those. One out of twenty postcards were from the East Coast--Maine, Cape Cod, Rhode Island (Timmy dreamed of living on such an island). Most of these cards depicted life at sea. Men hauling food from the Atlantic's froth. Raincoats and lobster traps. Lots of rigging on tough fishing boats. Buckets of clams and shrimp. America's bulwark cliffs dissolving each moment in the briny sea. These were the pictures Timmy took with him to the break room: the hum of the soda machine became the engine drone of fishing vessels; the click of the clock was the turning reel, its line dragging out in search of prey. For those fifteen minutes, the crew chattered on deck. The boat headed out to sea. And after fifteen minutes, Timmy returned to his station and sorted mail. The postcards disappeared into their respective files. Mother had helped him get his job at the post office. The family was proud, the townsfolk surprised. Doctors had declared him retarded. Teachers told Mother he was unfocused, without decision-making abilities. Uncle Raynor called him "confused as a one-hind-legged-dog next to a fire plug." On the day Timmy got his new job, family and friends threw a party for him. But he wasn't happy. so that's how he was, unhappy, when Kipp first met him. * * * *When Kipp walked into the old-fashioned ice cream parlor on Cherry Street, he was first struck by its unspoiled authenticity, the smell of 1956. There was no frozen yogurt, or any flavors with French names or trendy titles like, "Buttermilk Vanilla Supreme". Just vanilla. And chocolate and strawberry. And maybe half a dozen other flavors. The storekeeper, wiping down a spotless counter, didn't bother him as he scanned the tubs of ice cream. After browsing the parlor for a good five minutes, Kipp noticed a large man standing directly in the center of the shop. The man had been there when Kipp first walked in, but he had a "blending in" quality about him; he now dominated the room with his unresponsive bulk. Staring at the ice cream as though in a stupor, the man appeared unaware of Kipp or the shopkeeper. His arms, like loaves of Italian bread, hung motionless at his sides. The storekeeper seemed equally oblivious of the strange customer, but he winked at Kipp. "Can't make up his mind," he said from behind a moustache stolen from Mark Twain. "How about you--what would you like?"
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