C1P1 - In Which the Story Begins

Chapter 1 - In Which the Story Begins

His friends would call him smart and forgettable. His enemies would call him, "Wait, who are we talking about, again?" Robert, while being smart, never had any desire to do anything with his almost eidetic memory. With very few likes, one might get the impression that Robert didn't have any dreams. This was in fact his one vice; he liked to day dream.

Robert didn't just day dream, he envisioned himself scaling great mountains, sailing the high seas with his very own band of merry men, and fighting mercenaries on tropical islands. He knew that he would never do any of those things, but still, it was nice to think about. And think about it, he did. His job took such little effort, that he only spent around two hours actually performing it. The rest of the time was spent in his worlds he created.

Day after day, Robert would go into work, sit at his desk and listen to Eddie, who sat across from him, complain about whatever sport was currently happening. Robert would nod as Eddie would inform him that the bastards on the Ravens offensive line need to get in a severe accident. Eddie never realized that Robert would always respond to his woes with the same phrases. In times of distress, Robert would say, "That's how it always goes," or, "Isn't that just the truth?". In times of joy, Robert would inform Eddie, "That's what it's all about!" Robert had no idea what teams were where or what Eddie saw in continuing to watch these games that was probably the cause of his aneurysm, of which Eddie also complained about.

On an average Monday morning in Spring, Robert woke up with his alarm clock gently coming to life with the sound of The Beatles. Robert's eyes stayed closed as the instrumental opening of Sgt. Pepper flew into his ears. He opened his eyes, as he always did on "It was twenty years ago today..." He slid out of bed, and walked to his sink while he was introduced to the act he's known all these years. Brushed his teeth while the Lonely Hearts Club Band informed him that they'd like to take him home with them. He used the restroom after Billy Shears made his debut, and was finished by the time they finally concluded that, yes, they do indeed get by with a little help from their friends. Robert had spent the last three months timing his morning routine to the Sgt. Pepper album. He loved concept albums, and spent months synchronizing his morning routine to a storyline in lyrical form. He had previously done so with Ziggy Stardust, and he felt that he connected to Bowie's character a little more than he connected to real people.

Robert entered the shower as he was invited to imagine newspaper taxis, and left it as a day begins on a Wednesday morning at five o'clock. He made breakfast as the singer ponders if he will still be needed and fed. He finished eating and has nothing to say but it's O.K. He walked to the door, turned around and bowed while the band informed him that they'd like to turn him on. Robert turned on his heels opened his door to the garage, and waited until just after the last chord ended. His car jumped to life, and he headed off to work.

He took the same route to work as he always did, beside the same cars, by the same buildings. Robert drove past a storefront he had driven past hundreds of times; it never caught his eye before, but he remembered it as a small hardware store. The hardware store went out of business when a Lowe's was built in the area months ago, so it had been empty. On this morning, apparently the new owners had moved in and  set up enough over the weekend to be open and selling their wares. A glint of light shone from the window, causing him to stare at the beckoning talon of a metal hand. Someone in a car behind him honked their horn, snapping him to attention that the light was green. Robert had never seen an occult shop before, and was, surprisingly to himself, intrigued to go in. He circled the block and parked just outside the new store called The God Bothered Snail. He looked at the metal hand in the window closer, the light catching every crease on it's surface from it's cradle that held it upright. It looked like a real hand, as if it was going to come to life, crash through the glass and grab Robert's neck. He rubbed his neck with his own hand, gripping harder than he meant to, transfixed on the curious body part in the store. It curled gently like a hand laid flat at rest, each finger bowing lower than the last, cascading in an arch of simple beauty. The hand was at an angle that made the fore and middle fingers seem to be beckoning him as a sultry lover would do late at night. He gave in to the temptation and entered the store.