Tuesday, December 17, 2013
Pi to 100 places
3.1415926535
8979323846 26433
83279
50288 41971
69399
37510 58209
74944
59230 78164
06286
20899 86280
34825
34211 70679
A Greek History Play for Home School Students
The Struggle
By Jon Bodenet
By Jon Bodenet
CHARACTERS:
The Farmer
The Spartan Boy
The Narrator
The Chorus
NARRATOR:
The narrator walks across the stage speaking to the people
The events take place
at a farm near Athens, Greece. It is
late afternoon. There are come clouds in
the distant sky and the sun is slowly dipping toward earth, dissipating its
warmth to the cool breeze that sweeps across a fox farm in the Athenian
countryside. A young Spartan boy slips
stealthily into the farm and lingers for a while prowling about unseen. Noticing the farmer, the boy slips quietly
out of the farm in an effort to leave undetected.
Narrator walks off
stage and stands to the side
ACT ONE SCENE ONE
Coming out of the
farm gate and dashing onto the road the Athenian farmer moves quickly in
front of the young Spartan boy. The
Spartan boy stops casually and looks innocently at the farmer. But the farmer looks carefully and
suspiciously at the young Spartan boy.
He circles the boy saying nothing for the moment, waiting for the boy to
entrap himself with his own words. But
the boy appears calm and unafraid. It is
the boy’s reticence more than anything that piques the farmer’s interest.
Action…
Farmer:
As he circles the boy, the farmer’s thoughts reveal his
suspicions.
“You stole my fox. Where did you hide it? Return it to me at once!”
The farmer speaks his thoughts…
FARMER
His thoughts assessing the boy
“He’s a young Spartan boy I see by his attire. Far from home, he is. What brings such a fair young lad to my farm…
if not to steal a fox? I know
these Spartan boys. Only the strongest
of them are even spared life. And those
who survive are then weaned on stealth and fed on deprivation. Yea… adversity has been their close companion
since birth. And they are clever. Their
gods have given them such cunning as to deceive even a clever serpent. They are always ready for heroic battle or
whatever clever mischief serves their present interest… And
their truth?… it is only relative. With them duplicity is a spoken art… as
poetry is to the Athenian ear. The
melody of prevarication to them is like music to the gods. And they keep their motives hidden so deep
that not even Zeus can know their heart.
SPARTAN BOY:
Standing erect and wearing a proud expression on his calm
face… he holds his coat closed and speaks calmly to the farmer.
“I am not a common thief as you describe me,
sir. What evidence begs your summary
conclusion that I have stolen your fox?”
Do you see here a fox? Unless the
gods have endowed you with their own gifts, you cannot tell without seeing
whether or not a fox has indeed been stolen.
Now, sir…I must leave that I may hurry on to my destination.”
Narrator
The boy turns and starts to leave, but the farmer quickly
steps in front of him again. Then, circumventing the boy as before the farmer
once more contemplated how his interrogation should proceed… (Pause). He stopped abruptly and put his hands on his
hips. Then he faced to boy directly but with a curious face. The sun now begins to dip… a chill descended
over the farm.
The chorus, dressed
in fine white robes and looking regal now moves slowly behind the two
figures. Filing in from opposite sides, they speak (sing). Lights on the
farmer and the young lad slowly dim while the lights gradually illuminate the
chorus.
THE CHORUS:
What
fair and youthful face
Can hide
Such malice in a
youngster’s heart
Can it be that evil may
abide
With beauty
Even from the purest start?
The Chorus files out slowly The
scene ends
ACT ONE - SCENE
TWO
NARRATOR
The farmer now walks
slowly around the boy and surveys his lean healthy features. He is still intrigued by the boy’s confident
posture. He stops again in front of the
youth and places his right hand on the boy’s left shoulder. He is convinced there is more to this
encounter than appears on the surface but he does not know if the boy has
indeed stolen a fox. Moving his face
closer to the youth he peers into the young Spartan’s eyes as though searching
for his heart. He speaks now in a soft
voice as a father might speak to a dearly loved son. He admires this boy. Yet, his lingering
suspicion continues to prompt his interrogation.
ASIDE:
A black
robed and hooded figure moves somberly and silently across the stage behind but
not close to the two figures. Then after a couple of times the dark figure
leaves the stage.
FARMER:
“You’re a Spartan boy, aren’t you? I can tell by your speech and your manner
and also your unusual attire. You
Spartan boys are a bit too cocky…intrepid and undaunted by adversity you seek
always to prevail… and with the certitude that you will.
The farmer begins to relax his posture now. He has grown more curious than
aggressive. Yet, he still has lingering
suspicions. What was this young lad was doing on his farm? Why so far from his family?
FARMER: What are you doing here so close to Athens?
Did you come on some important family matter, which you keep secret in your
heart… or did you come to
steal my fox?
(Italics spoken slowly)
NARRATOR:
Still undaunted, the Spartan boy does not move back as the
farmer moves closer to him. But now the
Spartan boy begins to show subtle signs of distress. The farmer being a keen observer and sees the
boy’s eye begin to wet. He noticed a
perceptible shiver come over the lad as well.
Lights are dimming
low now. The farmer and the boy are
shadows in the dark. The Chorus is
unseen but heard to speak (sing).
By the light of the moon
When
secret plans are laid
Capricious gods design the fate
That
snares the mighty and the weak
Extinguishing the light of life too
soon
With no remorse nor love nor hate
SPARTAN BOY: (Impatiently)
“I did not come to steal your fox! You can see, sir. I have no fox! You may watch me take my leave and see that
I will not recover any fox. So, Let
there be an end to this fruitless altercation for I have urgent needs that beg
my attention. And as you have no
evidence to offer in proof of your accusation, you must grant me leave of your presence without further
demands.”
THE CHORUS:
Pain
is nothing
To a Spartan
man
Or even to
a Spartan lad
It’s but a feeling
spent in vain
Like a
washed out, faded color
The test of man is not
vested in his pain
It is
vested in his valor
The chorus leaves and the scene ends
ACT TWO
SCENE ONE
NARRATOR:
The farmer, still standing in front of the Spartan boy, is
struck by the change in the boy’s expression.
The young Spartan’s posture now begins to slightly stoop. His appearance is pale and tired. In the minutes that have passed the boy has
grown pale white and apprehensive. His
expression is that of compensated pain. “Is this a clever Spartan trick?” the
farmer’s thoughts entertained.
A dull yellow light now illuminates the two figures. A lone figure in the black hooded robe
returns and moves somberly in anticipation behind the young Spartan boy.
FARMER:
Now testing the boy
“Do you entreat me with a
smile, young Spartan? I grow all the
more convinced of your guilt yet I wish not to raise my hand against
you. Your time now grows short. One last opportunity is left to save you from
the judgment of a lie.”
NARRATOR:
The young Spartan boy bending in a stoop clearly has no
smile. It is pain that sweeps across his
face. He is now beyond pale; he is
ghostly white. He is obviously weakened.
The bright youthful light is his eyes have now grown dull and he speaks
in interrupted panting tones. Yet he
maintains his innocence. The dark robed
figure slowly moves closer to the young Spartan and shadows him for a moment.
SPARTAN BOY:
Now unable to speak without pain, he speaks in interrupted
breaths.
“I did not… steal your fox. It’s just as…I have told you. I must leave you… now… at once. Do not detain me …
any longer.”
The light focuses on
the three figures. It dims very
gradually and pans on the farmer as the boy and the black figure fall into the
shadows but remain visible.
The Spartan boy begins to take his leave
and the farmer follows slowly behind, mystified by the strange turn of events.
The dark figure follows the boy and watches the farmer with caution. The evening shadows are now falling
quickly on the two lonely figures. The
farmer recognizes that he was not as patient or perceptive as he was blinded by
his own convictions. He is still convinced of the boy’s guilt, yet he has no
heart to lift up a strong hand against the lad.
As he prepares to reach out a caring hand to the young Spartan, the
boy’s body collapses limp to the ground.
Momentarily startled by this, the farmer stood with unresolved
emotions, his hands reaching out to the Spartan; he is gripped now by great
sorrow. Then he bends down and looking
at the boy’s lifeless face he pulls open the lad’s coat and falls quickly
back. He is startled by the discovery
of a fox. Inside the boy’s coat a fox
had been steadily eating out the young Spartan’s bowels as they stood and
argued. As the fox sped off down the
road, a flood of grief fell over the farmer.
Tears welled up in his eyes and he cries out loudly as he caresses the
boy’s face like a loving parent, still unable to reconcile the events with any
logic or reason.
FARMER:
“Oh, how sad it is to see this fair lad die so young, and
such a miserable and meaningless death at that.
How he must have struggled, with his hopes and his game. Torn between
truth and duty... Oh how his gods have deceived him, and deprived him of his
hope and even his own free will.
THE CHORUS:
What
fickle gods are these?
That care
not how
Our youth may fail
What good is bogus valor?
That is
predicated on a lie
That brings a fair young lad
To
death’s dark murky parlor
So meaningless to die
Poem by Dorothy Law Nolte
If A Child Lives With. . .
by Dorothy Law Nolte
If a child lives with criticism. . . . . . . .he
learns to condemn.
If a child lives with hostility. . . . . . . . he
learns to fight.
If a child lives with fear. . . . . . . .he learns
to be apprehensive.
If a child lives with jealousy. . . . . . . .he
learns to feel guilt.
If a child lives with tolerance. . . . . . . .he
learns to be patient.
If a child lives with encouragement . . . . . . .
.he learns to be confident.
If a child lives with praise. . . . . . . .he
learns to be appreciative.
If a child lives with acceptance. . . . . . . .he
learns to love.
If a child lives with approval. . . . . . . .he
learns to like himself.
If a child lives with recognition . . . . . . . .he
learns that it is good to have a goal.
If a child lives with honesty. . . . . . . .he
learns what truth is.
If a child lives with fairness. . . . . . . .he
learns justice.
If a child lives with security. . . . . . . .he
learns to trust in himself and others .
If a child lives with friendliness. . . . . . . .he
learns the world is a nice place in which to live.
Existentialism versus essentialism: A Story to present philosophical enquiry
They walked him to the door, one on each side, but they didn’t touch him. The ting of the proximity bell sounded softly
as the large door rolled open. Harold stood there gaping across the threshold
while fear and confusion welled up inside of him. Something unknown was compelling him to cross
the threshold and enter the room. He
scanned the room carefully as if looking for some explanation of his
predicament. There was a desk in the far corner of the room with two chairs;
one on either side. On the opposite side
of the room there was a narrow door with a large vent above it. There were no windows, no paintings, and no
other furniture or décor.
Harold crossed the room slowly and sat heavily in the
chair on the client side of the desk with his back to the narrow door. He felt weak and flaccid. His body was cold and sweaty.
His mind was filled with confusion and his ears were ringing loudly with
voices and scrambled sounds spinning round in the distance. He did not hear the large door roll closed.
It was all vaguely familiar but he could not grasp it. It was awesome and frightening. It was too terrible to think about. He pushed
the thoughts from his mind.
After a while, a man in a white smock entered the room
and sat at the desk, facing Harold. He took a small rectangular device from his
pocket and placed it on the desk in front of him where Harold could see it.
Then he looked at Harold, carefully surveying his condition and asked “How are you feeling today?” But Harold
could not answer him. Too many voices were
still crowding his mind and the awful haunting screams filled his ears. “Do you
know where you are, Harold?” asked the man. But Harold still heard all of the
voices echoing in his mind at once and could not answer him. He struggled to no avail to push them out of
his head but they were trapped inside.
The man looked briefly at the small device in front of
him and then he looked back at Harold.
He saw a helpless and terrified man slumping heavily in the chair across
the desk from him. It was clear to the
man that Harold could not talk. It was not time. He was not ready. The man in white put the small device back
into his pocket and stood up slowly. He then moved around the desk and silently
crossed the room, exiting carefully through the narrow door. Harold sat there in his frightened stupor
until the two men came and took him from the room.
Each day the two men walked him to the door and retrieved
him from the room. It was always the
same. Harold did not like the room. It was cold and silent like a tomb. He felt
uneasy and afraid. He could not remember
when he had first come to the room. Was it days ago? Was it weeks or months? Perhaps it was even years. When did the voices stop? He could not remember. There was a strange unreality about all of
this and yet there was something profoundly real. Harold sat at the desk contemplating the enigma.
The
man in the white smock appeared in the room from behind him. He sat down at the
desk, across from Harold, and took the small rectangular device from his
pocket. Then he placed it on the desk in front of him and looked directly at
Harold. “How are you feeling today,” he
asked calmly. Harold thought about that carefully, then, after a long while, he
answered with a question that had been growing in his mind. “How long have I been here?” he asked the
man. The man looked down at the small
rectangular device. “How long does it seem?” he asked. “I don’t know. I can’t seem to tell,” said
Harold fixing his arms straight down and clenching the seat cushion. “Is it
important?” asked the man. “It is very
important,” Harold replied, shifting uneasily in his chair. Then releasing his
tight grip on the cushion he leaned back casually. “Do you want to leave here, Harold?”
asked the man, sensing Harold’s mood.
Harold shifted forward in his chair again, and looked past the man. “Yes, that would be very good. I would like to leave here.” “Where would you like to go?” asked the man.
Harold leaned back again and looked up at the ceiling. He thought about it for
a while. He could almost remember. It was right there, why couldn’t he grasp
it? “I don’t know,” he finally
answered. “Do you really want to know?” asked the man. “Certainly!” replied Harold emphatically
looking back at the man; somewhat surprised by the question but understanding
it. “Let’s think about that,” the man
said hoping to probe Harold’s mind further.
“Can I can help you to leave here, Harold,” asked the man?
Harold looked up at the
ceiling and grabbed the cushion again. He leaned back slowly and stared upward.
"What are you thinking about Harold?” asked the man. But Harold only
stared at the ceiling and did not answer. The man stood up slowly and replaced
the small rectangular device in his pocket. He hesitated for a moment and
glanced back at Harold, reviewing his condition. But Harold did not return the
look or volunteer any conversation. The man crossed the room silently leaving
Harold staring at the ceiling. Then he exited carefully through the narrow
door. Harold sat there staring at his hands waiting for the two men to arrive
at the large door.
It would be lunchtime
soon. Harold looked forward to this time.
His day consisted of meals, the room, meals and the room. He hated the
room. He hated to be regimented. He was not a follower. He was a take-charge person. But mealtime had some semblance of
familiarity about it. He felt free, more
in control. He sat there thinking about
where he would go if he left the room.
It was almost there, somewhere within his grasp, but it was not clear. He stopped thinking about it. “I must leave
this room,” he thought. “This is not where I want to be.” He felt trapped by
the room. If he left, he could find the
place where he should be. He should not
be here. He would leave the room and find his own place where he should be. He
could almost see it in his mind’s eye
but something was still blocking his memory: something very powerful. Perhaps if he was free of this room he could
remember everything. The large door
rolled open. “Perhaps tomorrow…” he thought.
The following day, Harold’s mood was ebullient. He arrived
at the room with anticipation. The elements of a plan were beginning to take
shape in his mind and he was ready for it now.
Although the plan was not well defined yet, he still had time to develop
it; but most of all he felt
ready. He had been feeling trapped by
the room and he wanted desperately to leave it.
He sensed something ominous forming in his mind: a nebulas frightening
image. He could not face it. He forced it from his mind. He did not want to see
it. His only salvation, he thought, was
a successful escape from the room.
Each day he became more and more imbued with the idea of
escape and now it had become a driving obsession. He arrived at the room and
sat at the usual seat on the client side of the desk and engaged himself in the
various details and alternatives of the escape plan. He went over and over the details and alternatives
in his mind while waiting for the man in the white smock to arrive.
As usual, the man appeared at the desk without
issuing a single footstep. He sat down
slowly and placed the small rectangular device on the desk in front of him. He looked at it for a moment and then he
looked at Harold and spoke casually as if comforting a dear friend. “How are you feeling today,” he asked? “I’m feeling well enough, thank you,” said
Harold stiffly, shifting uneasily in his chair. The man leaned forward and
looked more closely at Harold now. He was observing something different in Harold,
something he had not noticed earlier. He took the opportunity now to press
Harold more forcefully into probing his own mind. He wanted Harold to examine
himself. They bandied trite conversation back and forth for some time, but
Harold was intransigent on the matter of serious introspection and still he could
not remember how and when he came to the room.
Or, for that matter, why he should even be there in the room at
all. He did not know where he was yet
somehow it all seemed strangely familiar to him.
“Tell me whatever comes into your
mind, Harold,” coaxed the man, “just start talking and perhaps we will discover
what we must.” His eyes looked deep into
Harold’s eyes. “Try, anything at all,” he insisted. “Perhaps you may even
remember someone that we can talk about,” he continued rapidly, hoping to help
Harold remember his predicament. Harold
put his hands together and leaned forward.
What about your father, Harold?
Do you remember? He tried hard to concentrate but still he could not see
anything in his mind but an indiscernible blur. He could not discern anything
about his past or present. Something frightening was in there, hiding somewhere
in the shadows of his mind. There were sounds spinning round in the distance but
he could not quite discern what they were. “I just can’t seem to recall
anything,” he finally protested, sitting abruptly back in his chair like a
protesting child. Dropping his hands down in weary surrender he refused to
continue the dialog.
It
was obvious to the man now that Harold was not going to remember anything more
today and that prolonging their meeting would serve no useful purpose. He stood up to end the meeting. He looked at Harold for a last brief moment
and said “about your father, Harold do you remember?” Then he put the small rectangular device back
into his pocket. Harold looked up at him, as if hoping for something, but he
said nothing and turned his head, staring back at his hands. The man knew what
Harold was thinking but he could not push Harold further at this time. He moved quietly around the desk and crossed
the room silently as always. Then he exited carefully through the narrow door
as usual. Harold thought more about his
predicament while waiting for the two men to come and fetch him but still he
had no answers.
The following
morning when Harold arrived at the room he was eager to begin executing his
newly formulated plan. He felt energized
now, standing there before the large open door.
He did not go directly to the desk this time. Instead, he stood at the threshold and
surveyed the room carefully and purposefully. Then he crossed into the room and
walked its perimeter slowly and cautiously sweeping out the area with his eyes,
and tapping on the walls here and there as he moved along. When he came to the narrow door, he stopped,
bent down and put his ear up against it and listened for any sound that he
might distinguish, even though no sound could issue from that door. Then,
looking up he saw the large vent above the door. Having been suddenly struck by the idea, he
stood there breathless for a moment examining the possibilities that were rapidly
intruding into his mind as the excitement grew inside of him. “Yes, it seems to be large enough,” he told
himself. “Yes, of course, it is
large enough. This could be my point of egress, my salvation,” he thought, almost speaking it aloud.
Harold was a large man, tall and fair with a strong
build. He always ate carefully paying attention to the nutritional contents. He
especially enjoyed mealtimes. It was a special time when he felt free from the
encroachments of a hectic day. He had always been very active and it showed on
him. He was lean and solid as a rock. He
was an avid skier, tough on the tennis court and a formidable student of the martial
arts. He had a good face with bright expressive eyes and a head cropped with
plenty of dark wavy hair. When he spoke
to people he would look them in the eyes.
It was intimidating to some. But others saw in it honesty. He was always meticulous about his
appearance. He traveled to Asia and
Europe to have the best tailors make his clothes. He had
a good sense of humor and an easy way about him, but he was no pushover. He was a tough negotiator and a good
businessman. He commanded a strong sense of authority. He did not like his ideas to be challenged
but he knew to be patient where necessary. He usually got what he asked for.
His employees were loyal and followed his lead willingly.
Harold
had no religious persuasion whatsoever.
To Harold, power was not vested somewhere in the unfathomable
heavens. Power was vested right here on
earth, and he often said it just that way.
To Harold, power was the measure of man and of man’s own aspirations and
achievements. Supernatural things did
not really happen. It was not God, who made the real miracles, but man. These
were the miracles of medicine; of science; the miracles of man’s own abilities
that were reflected in his own achievements. There were no inexplicable
supernatural occurrences that could defy human reason much less defy the laws
of physics which man had discovered.
These miracles of men were the only miracles that Harold embraced.
But
Harold’s father did not share his views and they often debated them. For Harold’s father the miracles of man were
the miracles of the soul. Man had an
intellect because he was imbued with a spirit; an essence; a soul. That’s what made man different from the lower
animals. Man was not simply and
evolutionary marvel, man had something that did not evolve; his soul; his
essence. It was this essence and not
simply neurogenesis that gave man creative abstraction. Man could discern between good and evil
because he has a soul. Animals had no
such awareness of good or evil. For animals, there is only fear or hunger,
with no understanding of why. Creativity
as the process of cognitive abstraction is only as a final stage of revelation. It was the essence of a creative process
obtained from a spiritual link without which abstraction that led to invention was
not possible. “All creativity comes through revelation,” he
would tell Harold. “Ideas are the essential but they are not the essence,” he would say. “Without the essence, there can be no essential.” But Harold did not accept his father’s words.
He did not waste time on philosophy. It
was only abstraction and of no practical use.
It held no real pragmatic value. Technology was Harold’s only close
companion. It was what Harold understood best. Even his reading menu reflected
it, consisting of trade journals, white papers and technical publications. His
intense activity over-compensated his latent feelings loneliness, which he
never allowed to surface.
Harold had few acquaintances but he was not a
recluse. He was kind, often tolerant and
well liked, even if he could at times be a bit condescending. To some, Harold seemed odd; an eccentric of
classical dimension; an unusual kind of social recluse. He was not at all timid
or shy, but a real loner. He avoided
company parties or celebrations or other activities the employees would
attend. He was an intense personality
and he had about him that peculiar quality of insular leadership. Unlike his father, Harold did more than
influence people, he controlled them. He
was always in control. He was no day
dreamer. He was patient, careful and levelheaded. He believed firmly in the
real and the possible and usually avoided risky opportunism. “Practicing the possible keeps your feet on
the ground and your head out of the clouds,” he would tell the new employees at
the company seminars he instituted after his father died. But it was Harold’s
father who built the company from the ground up on dreams, speculation, risk
and ambition; and revelation.
Harold
was exceedingly tenacious and carried out each task as evidence of his resolute
determination to finish things. He was not in the least way superstitious and
inveighed against astrologers, prognosticators and the like. He scoffed at them calling them doomsayers and destinooers. “Destiny is
what you make Destiny,” he often said
with a strong conviction.
From the floor, the
vent appeared to be large enough to allow him free movement inside. He presumed
that he would climb into the vent and work his way through the ductwork to his
escape at the other end. He pulled the chair over from the desk and climbed up
on it to examine the vent more closely.
It was, just as he thought, quite roomy inside. The outside grating was fastened very simply
with a series of small flat head screws that could be unscrewed with very
little effort by using a thin metal object such as a blunt-end butter knife; the
kind of knife, for example, that he always used at breakfast.
He could feel
excitement now rushing through his veins.
His mind’s eye raced over the landscape of ideas as he began to envision
a glorious escape through the vent. He
spread his hands apart and grasped the grate firmly with his fingers stuck
tightly through the square holes. He
pulled his body up close against the grate and pressed his face against the
square holes. He peered inside straining to see whatever he could discern. But
he only saw light coming from the far end and nothing else.
Everything seemed like
it was falling right into place now. He felt rejuvenated; he was regaining his self-confidence.
He liked the feeling. He was in control again and now he was going to prove
it. Soon he would actually begin his
escape. The reason he was in the room;
the reason he had to escape was no longer important; it did not matter. There was not practical value to answering
the question. What mattered was the
escape, itself. He would bring a butter
knife with him from breakfast and practice removing the screws from the
grating. He planned to remove the entire
set of screws and the replace them again. He would practice this procedure over and
over again, until he could quickly remove and replace all of the screws before
the man in the white smock appeared. The
escape was to be kept secret even
from the man in the white smock. But he
was not sure why. When the time was
right, he would make his escape through the vent and escape from the room and
the man. Harold dragged the chair back to the desk and sat there waiting for
the man and reviewed the events of tomorrow when his thoughts were finally
interrupted. The man entered through the
narrow door as usual without issuing even the slightest sound.
But
Harold always knew when the man was present. He did not need audible
verification. The man sat down slowly and
placed the small rectangular device on the desk in front of him and looked
across the desk at Harold. Harold sat
back in his chair studying the man carefully as if preparing for an important
statement.
The
man waited patiently for some time, but Harold did not speak. “What are you feeling right now, Harold?”
the man finally asked. Harold leaned forward. He was about to speak, but then
he dropped his hands to his sides, leaned back in his chair and looked up at
the ceiling again. After a moment, the man looked at him and spoke again. “Are
you afraid of something, Harold?” The
man continued, as if he expected Harold to reply. But Harold did not
respond. Harold was preoccupied with his
plan. This was mere talk, pure abstraction. What did it have to do
with anything, really? What he needed now was action, not abstraction. He had his plan and he was ready to execute
it. That was real. That was not abstract speculation.
The man continued in his effort to probe Harold’s mind, hoping
to break through; hoping to help him. But Harold was focused on his plan. He
did not want the man in the white smock to push him into facing the frightening
visions that were lurking in the shadows of his mind. He wanted to escape from them. He did not want to confront them. He wanted
salvation; but he did not really want to discover the details of his
predicament. The man recognized that his
efforts were fruitless. Harold insisted
that he could not remember anything and would not even try to discover what was
lurking behind the shadows in his mind. The man stood up and put the small
rectangular device back into his pocket.
The meeting was ended and nothing meaningful about Harold was
revealed. Harold’s own predicament was
still a mystery buried deep inside his own unconscious mind; perhaps even
deeper…in his soul.
Harold began to carry out his plan with increased
determination. It grew like a neurotic ritual that gradually engulfs the body
until it becomes an inseparable extension of the soul. Each morning when he arrived at the room he
would walk the room perimeter slowly, tapping deliberately on the walls here
and there. Then, stooping at the narrow
door, he would listen briefly for sounds that he knew would not come. But he did not linger, he hurried past
it. He always had a macabre feeling
about this door but he could not explain it. It was like an apprehension or a
foreboding of something unthinkable. He
would certainly not talk about it and he tried not to think about it. He was
not really sure what he felt or why. But
he did not like the feeling so he tested the door quickly with his ear and
moved on just as quickly.
It
was simply not practical to dwell on the narrow door and suffer those extraordinary
fears and bad feelings. He could simply avoid the door and avoid the
problem. After all, was he not a
practical man? He was a pragmatician,
as he liked to call himself. He forced
the troublesome thoughts of the door from his head and proceeded to follow his
plan. He dragged the chair over from the desk, positioned it carefully under
the vent, climbed up on it and began removing the screws according to his
plan. First he removed one. Then he replaced it. Then he removed two and replaced them. He continued working in this way until all of
the screws had been removed and replaced quickly. Each time he repeated this procedure he
gained proficiency.
Harold was a patient man, after all. He would follow his
plan to the letter without deviating from it. He would practice the procedure until it was
perfect. “Pick a direction and stick to
it,” his father used to say. “You can’t
get anywhere by going in circles.” But
unlike his father, Harold took a direct approach to things. He did
not waste his time on tangential diversions, whereas his father often avoided
the direct approach as hasty judgment until it was proven. But it was his ability to maintain focus,
Harold believed, that made him successful in business and technology.
When all of the screws were replaced, he put the butter
knife back into his pocket. Then he
dragged the chair back to the desk and waited for the man in the white smock,
whom he knew would come. He sat there
smugly reflecting on his small triumph while suppressing a proud inner
smile. The
man entered the room in the usual way and sat at the desk, across from
Harold. He again placed the small device
in front of him and looked directly at Harold.
He knew that Harold was watching him intently. “How are you feeling
today,” asked the man perceiving Harold’s alertness. The man in the white smock knew that Harold
was thinking about his plan. “I’m well,” he said, not looking at the man, but sat
with a partially suppressed inner smile.
“Perhaps you have something important to tell me today,” said the man.
“No,” said Harold, leaning comfortably back in his chair, “I don’t have
anything to tell you.” But Harold’s ebullient posture only encouraged the man
to probe further. “Tell me about your father, where is he, Harold,” prodded the
man, seizing an opportunity to force Harold to face his real predicament. There was a long silence at that question. “Do you remember your father, Harold,” the
man continued. “Try to concentrate on
him, try to remember him. What did he
look like? When did you see him
last? Where is he now? Do you remember what happened to him?” “I
just can’t remember,” Harold blurted out loudly with great agitation. The man waited for a further engagement but
Harold was still unable to face the issues the man was probing. The man in the
white smock realized that he could not force Harold to encounter himself. Perhaps you will remember more about it
later,” the man said, and left it at that.
Aware that any further discussion would be fruitless, the man stood up
slowly and left in the usual way, exiting carefully through the narrow
door. Harold just sat there again looking
at his hands.
The next morning, Harold arrived at the room prepared to
make his escape a reality. He was ready
now. He had practiced thoroughly and he was
quite efficient. He had waited long enough.
He was in a spirited mood now and he was excited about the impending
escape. Something truly momentous was
about to happen. He could feel it in every fiber of his body. This pervasive
ambivalence, which he could not explain, loomed over him. His composure was tempered by a brewing
trepidation. But he ignored his feelings and focused his energy now on the task
at hand. He dragged the chair over from
the desk and climbed up on it. Then,
with practiced hands, he quickly removed all of the screws securing the heavy
grate that covered the vent opening. Cautiously he removed the grate and
stepped down gently from the chair. He
placed the grate on the floor next to the chair and leaned it against the wall
with all of the screws laid out neatly in front of it. The grate was surprisingly heavy even for him
but strangely it made no sound on contact with the floor.
A
mixture of excitement and apprehension came over him at once as he peered into
the ductwork. He could feel his heartbeat
accelerate. He was acutely aware of the
loud throbbing pulse invading his ears. He pulled himself up higher and leaned
forward into the large cavity. Looking
down the shaft-way, he did not see any straight up or straight down vertical
drop. There was a direct route straight to the other end of the large shaft.
“That’s a bit of serendipity,” he told himself out loud. He had earlier pondered the many possible
problems in his mind and had envisioned such difficulties as perhaps having to
climb barefoot up one or even two stories through a straight vertical rise of
ductwork. He was pleased by the apparent
simplicity of his task. He pulled
himself up into the shaft-way now and leaned forward on his knees. He was balanced now just inside the
ductwork. It was not as dark as he
expected that it would be. A bright spray
of light was coming in at the other end illuminating the entire inside. He looked all around and saw that the
interior was painted white everywhere, and reflected the light so efficiently
that the inside actually appeared to be lighted. He was still in the smaller section where he
had to crawl. But immediately ahead of
him the duct opened up vertically to where he could almost stand. A smaller man, in fact, could probably walk
it upright without ever stooping. But Harold was a tall man, like his
father.
He
moved quickly and silently to the taller section of the vent. Serendipity
seemed to be his companion and he tried to dismiss his anxieties. Shifting his weight, he tested the
floor. It was strangely quiet. He had anticipated perhaps a lighter gage sheet
metal; the kind that would probably reflex under his weight, causing loud
unwanted sounds. Harold was a heavy man.
But this floor made no sound at all as he moved across it. It was cool
inside the shaft. He could even feel a gentle wisp of moving air caressing his
face as he descended further into the taller shaft-way. The cool wisp felt good on his face, which
was now beginning to perspire more heavily.
He could almost stand comfortably in this section. He continued to move ahead slowly with his
head slightly bowed. He was becoming a little more anxious now and his body was
beginning to perspire even more heavily.
The light he had seen before was now flooding the entire area in front
of him. He was almost there, just a
little farther. It was a beautiful spray of light like bright yellow sunlight
on a summer morning. “How could it be sunlight,” he thought, “when there were
no windows in the room?” But he quickly
dismissed the anomaly.
He was now approaching the end of the shaft now and he
could see what appeared to be a grating on his left. The bright yellow light
was pouring in profusely from that side projecting the rectangular grate
patterns on the floor of the duct in front of him, in big black shadows like
distorted trapezoids. He crept
cautiously forward as he approached the grate. He knelt down and leaning
forward, he put his fingers in the square holes and pulled himself up against
the grille. Then he pressed his face
tight against the grille to maximize his viewing angle and peered out through
the holes.
From
his viewpoint he could see nothing but the bright yellow light. There was
nothing to identify. There were no structures or shapes, no windows or doors, only
light. It was most puzzling,
indeed. He pulled himself up closer for
a better look and pressed his cheek tighter against the grille, looking first to
the left and then to the right. Then he
looked up and then down. But still he
could not see anything but bright yellow light. He moved back from the grille now and
examined the grate carefully looking for the inside fasteners. He searched
diligently for fasteners of any kind but he could not discover them anywhere.
“There must be an inside holder of some sort,” he murmured to himself, “There
is always an inside frame.” But he did
not see any. He did not see any way to
remove the grating from the inside and the rectangular holes were too small to
reach through. He put his head down
close to the bottom of the grille and looked more closely, following the
outline of the grating slowly with his finger in search of some sort of
fasteners. But he was unable to discover
an inside retainer or fastener of any sort.
His finger deliberately followed the remaining three sides with equal
concentration, but with the same results.
There were no inside fasteners of any kind to be found. “I will just have to force it open.” he muttered
to himself with a confidence reminiscent of earlier days.
Serendipity had followed him again. Where he was the tall ductwork had conveniently
narrowed. He placed his back firmly
against the duct wall opposite the grate and stretched out his powerful legs.
Then he placed his feet strategically on the grating and pressed mightily. He had huge solid legs and could generate
tremendous force with them. He had once
lifted the rear part of a three-quarter ton pickup truck using this same
technique. He continued to apply great
force to the grate. He was perspiring quite
heavily now and became keenly aware of his own body heat. The grating creaked
and groaned but it did not break free.
He shifted his body into a more solid position and pressed against it
again, this time with even greater force.
But unlike the pickup truck, the grate refused to move. He tried again
and again but with the same result. “This puny grate should be giving way!
What’s wrong?” his thoughts took on an elevated pitch.
He
could feel a surge of panic now beginning to erupt inside of him. He was beginning to lose control. Unable to restrain himself, he brought his
knees up to his chest and fired a powerful crashing blow to the grate, making a
thunderous sound throughout the entire duct.
But the grate still refused break free.
He paused for a few seconds then he drew his knees to his chest again
and began firing powerful successive blows to the grating. The entire duct was now exploding with
deafening thunderous sounds. He
continued battering away at the grate until he was exhausted. But the grate did
not open. Finally, he just lay there, exhausted
and out-of-breath. He did not know how
long he was battering the grate. He felt defeated. He stared out of the grate
again but now he saw nothing but a blur. Slowly, he began to recover from his
defeat and in his pragmatic way he realized that any further effort to break
open the grate was useless and impractical.
He felt drained of all his energy. He had not known the feeling of
defeat like this before. He did not like it. How long had he been there
battering the grate and then resting? He
could not tell. Did the man in the white
smock hear the deafening thunderous sounds?
How could he not have?
The bright yellow
light was gone now and there was nothing but an indiscernible blur beyond the
grating. He peered out through the grate
again, hoping to see something, anything that he could recognize. But still, he could not distinguish any shape
or form. He was totally perplexed by this. He was feeling exhausted, defeated and
pitiful. He felt sick in his
stomach. He looked back toward the room
and saw a light coming from the place where he had originally entered the
shaft. He made his way slowly back to
his earlier point of ingress. Then he climbed out of the vent and stepped
carefully onto the chair. He did not
bother to replace the grate. It lay on
the floor leaning against the wall with a pile of screws organized neatly in
front of it just as he left it. He
pulled the chair over to the desk and sat there waiting for the man in the
white smock.
The man appeared predictably in the usual silent
way. He sat down at the desk and placed
the rectangular device in front of him.
Then he looked at Harold sympathetically; perhaps even hopefully. “Something here is strangely unreal,” thought
Harold as a profound déjà vu
experience fell over him. The man looked
briefly down at the small device then he looked back at Harold. “I know how very upset you are now,
Harold. I know that it would help you to
talk about it. Is there anything in your
mind that you want to tell me?” he said in a calm and sympathetic voice. Harold
looked at him, struggling in earnest now to speak. He wanted desperately to speak now but no
sound would issue from his throat no matter how he tried to speak. “Are you sure
you cannot tell me something?” asked the man, observing Harold’s lack of
response but understanding it. Harold tried to put his hand out to gesture for the
man but he could not command any motion to his arm. His eyes were beginning to flood with tears
and his face was growing tight and hot.
He tried to speak again but no sound would come. The man, aware of Harold’s condition, put the small device
back into his pocket and stood up presently to leave. Harold was still
struggling to speak. He looked up at the tall man but still, he could not issue
any sound from his throat. The man moved
silently around the desk and started across the room. Harold, through enormous physical effort,
finally mustered sufficient power to break free from his torpid state. He turned around from the desk, and, for the
very first time, he watched the man leave the room. The man simply pushed the narrow door open,
and exited carefully through it.
Harold
stared at the door in total disbelief.
How could this be? There was no
lock on the narrow door, “not even a door
handle!” he thought. His mouth fell
open and his head shook in amazement trying to capture the validity of his
discovery. He stared again at the door, still in total bewilderment, trying to
accept the unbelievable. He felt his pulse throbbing heavily, forcing warm
blood to his head. Panic began flooding inside of him like a menacing tidal
wave; building now into a forceful hysteria.
He was trapped in that nebulous area of the mind where reason no longer
has a useful purpose and hysteria drives down hard on one’s psyche like a
furious demonic monster, suppressing any inkling of self-control or thoughtful
hesitation. It is indeed a strange
dimension of life where the self, is helpless and confused and gives away control
to the reckless power of unbridled fear.
It is a state where even the ego no longer has any meaning or
importance. Harold flew across the room.
Without thinking and without reason he burst open the narrow door, screaming at
a deafening volume.
It was as though a great flood had swept through his
bedroom. Harold’s bed was sopping wet. A cold chill surrounded him and he was
seized by an extraordinary fear and immobility for what seemed an endless
duration. He lay there, in his cold wet
bed, struggling desperately to shake off the vast oppression that seized
control of him while he slept. He was
exhausted, and out of breath. He tried
to scream but he could not make a sound.
He tried to move but he could not command motion to any limb. He wanted
to see but he could not open his eyes.
He remained in this torpid state for an interminable time, struggling to
free himself from the vast oppressive blackness that had engulfed him. He was
still struggling to scream. He heard only the faint sounds at first, but they
were enough so that he was becoming aware of his own state of twilight
consciousness. He struggled harder now to break free from the awful dream.
Then, by the sheer will and powerful determination that obtains only from
extraordinary fear, he forced more volume from his lungs. The sounds of his own screams finally
succeeded in awakening him sufficiently to evoke a slight, almost
imperceptible, motion in his arms. He
fought more desperately now to bring any sort of motion to his body. He managed to bring a slight motion first to
his legs. Then finally, he began to move the rest of his body. The bazaar
events of the dream had finally come to an end.
He
was now fully awakened from the terrifying nightmare of the room. He lay there
thoroughly drenched in his own body fluids and completely terrorized. His eyes
opened wide. Slowly, he lifted himself from the bed and tried to focus. He
searched the room with great trepidation. His body was still trembling with
such fear that he could see and feel his own shaking. He heard himself crying
and felt the tears flowing profusely down his face. He was cold and sick. He wanted to vomit. He had terrible cramps. His bowels were rapidly filling with icy
sharp objects designed only to deliver raw pain. He detected foul odors and icy
wet jelly in his pants. He rushed into
the bathroom.
It was getting much worse now. The nightmare was occurring several times a
night, and even during the day, if at all he slept. He was in dire need of
extended rest. But he dared not even take a short afternoon nap for fear that the
dream would overtake him again. The dream was so frightening and powerful that
he seriously wondered if his heart could continue to survive the repeated trauma. He did whatever he could to prevent the dream
from recurring. During the day he did not nap at all. At night he set his high tech programmable
device, the companion, as it was
called, to alarm-tone every fifteen
minutes hoping to be awakened him from his dream when it occurred. He looked at himself in the mirror and did
not recognize what he saw. He was
completely exhausted. He lost weight and
his sunken cheeks were obvious. He
looked like death stalking a victim. His
color was gray and pallid. His tired
eyes were recessed deep inside dark black caverns. His mouth drooped in an expression of painful
misery and disgust, and he had an irremovable wretched taste in his dry mouth.
He needed rest desperately. He was making bad decisions
and countless mistakes owing to this terrible fatigue that had descended upon
him. He was falling apart, all because
of this crazy uncontrollable dream. He was having trouble keeping up with his
work. He had not been to the office in
weeks. He called in for his messages and
had his correspondence delivered to his home.
Apprehension was building at the office and several of his key people
tried to seek him out because of their own personal concern. But he declined to see any of them saying he
had some personal business to attend to and that everything was under
control. He did everything by
telephone. He was living on the edge and
becoming a nervous wreck but he refused to take leave from work. He was adamant
that he would not jeopardize his business.
It
was always the same dream: The room, the man, the vent, the narrow door and the
vast blackness, the room, the man, the vent, the narrow door…. Soon, he would try to get help. He already made an appointment with a
psychiatrist. But that was still a week
away. Countless nightmares would occur
in the interim. Meanwhile he had his work cut out for himself. First of all, he knew that he must maintain
his own personal stability. He could not
allow himself to lose his business over this dream. He and his father had worked too hard to
build up such a successful and prosperous business to lose it all now because
of this miserable recurring dream. They had started out small and worked long
and hard hours. They sacrificed year after year to build it up. Now it was a
greatly successful commercial enterprise that generated considerable income
beyond what they could have imagined in the early years.
After the tragic events that took his father, Harold was completely
on his own; although managing well. He
tried not to think about the bazaar accident that plucked his father from the
peak of his career. If only his father
had not panicked. If only he had
listened to the advice of others he would still be alive today, Harold
reasoned. He recalled his father’s own aphorism,
"Self-discipline, is the key to self-control
and self-control is the key success."
"What a strange irony," thought Harold. If only his father had better self-control… His thoughts trailed off. He wrestled with tragic events often right
after the accident but less and less now as more time passed. Was it the
circumstances, or was it really the panic that took his father? In the end, did
his father cause his own demise by his own futile and reckless panic? Was it truly a character flaw in his
father? Was it a simple human element,
after all, which exacted such a heavy toll?
Or was it more than that? Was it
something beyond human comprehension?
Harold
tried not to think about his father lately, as it was his character to dismiss
troublesome issues of no apparent consequence. He was pragmatic to the point of
strict utility. After all, it was a moot question now. His father was gone and that was over. Nothing could change that now. It was time to
put it all behind him and move on with the things that he could control. His meeting at the St. George Hotel at 1:00
O’clock this afternoon was an important account that he had been anxious to
develop. He had not yet contacted the client-company with a proposal, although
he had been researching them and formally preparing his approach. How surprised he was when he received a
call from them asking him for a formal presentation. Was it was pure serendipity? They came to him while he was looking to
approach them: What a remarkable coincidence.
He wanted this lucrative account and he knew he had only
one chance to make a first impression. Although he was apprehensive about his
present condition, he did not reschedule the meeting. He showered for the
second time; he picked out his best business suit, his tailored shirt, diamond
links, and his Italian shoes. He dressed with his usual attention to detail. He
was punctilious about his appearance. He glanced down at the high tech device lying
on his bed and noted the time. It was a small rectangular device manufactured
by Karma Products Inc., a company under the umbrella of Harold’s main
technology organization. It was a very advanced high tech device that presented
highly accurate time for every time zone, as well as temperature, humidity,
barometric pressure, and various other programmable timer-alarm functions.
Additional features included AM, FM and all-band short-wave and microwave
broadcast reception, continuous time standard, weather and navigational
information for auto, boat or plane. It even tied into a satellite network for
GPS and telephone, and was completely battery operated with an internal power
antenna. And, it was thin and light and could be easily carried in one’s
pocket. It was a marvelous illustration
of leading edge technology. It was the
major product that had catapulted Harold’s company into the limelight. He picked up the small rectangular device, the companion, and placed it back on the
nightstand where he normally kept it at night, next to his white smock and put
it in his pocket. He had just enough
time left to swallow down another cup of coffee and quickly review the notes he
had made for his presentation before leaving for the hotel. He was already forewarned that the St. George
was undergoing major renovation, and, therefore, he should allow extra
time. He did not want to be late. He arrived at the hotel shortly before one
o’clock. Renovation was apparent
everywhere, inside and out and on the grounds. He had to step carefully over
the various litter and construction debris as he made his way to the lobby,
lest he injure himself by a fall.
The
St. George hotel was an old historical landmark around which a larger building
was later constructed. It was rumored
that a wealthy group of men had originally conceived the odd shaped building as
a private club with a peculiar inner courtyard and alleged “secretive rituals,”
which no one could ever describe. They eventually dispersed and for many years
the building lay vacant. But apparently
the structure was well built since it showed few signs of deterioration, and
the unusual inner courtyard attracted local interest as well as curious
speculation and even superstition.
Later, the local community launched a successful campaign to make the
building an historical landmark. It was
then converted into a hotel and given the name of St. George. It served that
purpose for several years but constantly changed ownership, until a certain
group of wealthy speculators purchased it for business and professional offices,
keeping the name St. George. It did not
have a typical business character about it.
There was no hustle or bustle or sort of business center activity that one
normally associates with typical modern day business. On the contrary, the St. George was a quiet conservative
setting, having a relatively low keyed and subdued atmosphere.
Harold entered through the main door to the lobby and
walked over to the reception desk. He
inquired there about his client and had a call placed. “Please have a seat over there and someone
will pick you up shortly,” the young red haired lady told him with a smile. He sat on the comfortable leather chair and
placed his attaché case on his lap. But
the chair was too comfortable and too relaxing.
He kept getting out of the chair every few minutes for fear that he
would fall asleep. He was exhausted and
running on pure guts and caffeine. He was still not thinking clearly now and he
was beginning to have second thoughts about giving this presentation. Perhaps he was really not up to it after
all. Perhaps he should present at
another time when he was past this nightmare problem. He decided that he should leave and
reschedule the presentation for another time when he had more in control over
himself. But just as he started to leave
two well-dressed gentlemen came to escort him to his client. They looked strangely familiar to him. Indeed, it was so uncanny; it was macabre. He stared at them for a long moment. They were
so strikingly familiar that it created in him an eerie feeling of déjà vu.
But Harold forcefully dismissed the feeling. He had never been to the St. George before,
and he could not say why they looked so familiar so there was no point in
dwelling on it. They boarded the
elevator together. But Harold was growing more and more uneasy as they
ascended. It was as though he had been
in this place before; it was like he knew this place. It was a déjà vu even beyond his memory. The
elevator stopped at the seventeenth floor and they stepped out into the plush
hallway together.
They walked him to the door, one on each side, but they
didn’t touch him. The ting of the proximity bell sounded softly as the large
door rolled open. Harold stood there
gaping across the threshold while fear and confusion welled up inside of
him. Something unknown was compelling
him to cross the threshold and enter the room.
He scanned the room carefully as if looking for an explanation of his
predicament. There was a desk in the far
corner of the room with two chairs, one on either side. There were no windows,
no paintings, and no other furniture or decor.
Harold looked at the desk with the two chairs, and then he looked at the
narrow door with the vent over the top of it.
He could not believe his eyes. He stood there immobilized for a moment, staring
at the door in total disbelief. A sick
feeling surged up from his stomach. He wanted to vomit. He shook his head and rubbed his eyes. He looked again, hoping to verify that his
initial perception was incorrect. Suddenly, he was filled with both rage and
terror of un-proportioned magnitude. The room began to swirl around him in a
sea of confusion. He felt himself spinning out of control. He was moving rapidly now into that nebulous
state of reckless hysteria, where one is oblivious to all sensibility. Impulsively, and without reason, he flew
across the room with his arms stretched out in front of him, and his fists
clenched tightly. Waiving his fists in the air, he burst through the narrow
door screaming at the top of his lungs.
The
door was narrow because the old staircase behind it was a very narrow design.
It was originally intended only for limited access, many years ago when the
building was originally built. They were part of the old building security
system before the advent of automated computerized security systems. In those
days, the security guards would make their rounds and check for potential
hazards and other matters of security by using these narrow stairways. Sometime later, the narrow doors were fitted
with special keyless magnetic locks. They were referred to, in those early
times, as the security doors. However,
with the coming of modern security systems and the installation of remote
computerized monitors, sprinklers video devices and other automated security
functions, the doors were seldom used, and some of them had already been closed
off. The larger door, being accessible
to the main elevators and the plush hall was of course much more convenient and
pleasant.
But
there was yet considerable debate among the architects as to whether they
should seal off the remaining doors, and eliminate that access altogether, or,
instead, enlarge the rear access stairs so that the door could be safely used
by tenants for additional access and privacy. Some tenants had expressed a
strong concern for the privacy afforded by these doors. Also, a new and larger freight elevator could
be added to enhance the value of these expensive suites. After long and
wearisome disputation, it was finally decided that the narrow stairs should be
enlarged and made to possess aesthetic qualities as well as utility. The narrow doors and rear stairwells would
simply become part of the planned renovation. The narrow swing doors with the
magnetic locks would be refitted with the new type of electronic security
locks.
Just minutes before Harold
arrived at the room, the workmen completed their work. They had removed the magnetic lock assembly
from the narrow door, and the hand railing from the landing. They were not ready to install the
replacement locks and railing, so they hurriedly draped a small rope over the
temporary type moveable stands, such as those used in hotel lobbies, banks and
theaters. They swept the area clean, put
the debris in the specified containers, and collected their tools. Then they
walked down the narrow stairs to a makeshift equipment elevator and got off at
the ground level and gathered in the central courtyard where some other workmen
were taking their break.
It was inconceivable in any case; no one thought that
anyone would have need of those narrow stairs during the renovation period.
Nevertheless, the men had dutifully attached what seemed to be an appropriate
large letter sign to the roping that read: CAUTION - HANDRAIL MISSING - POSTS
NOT FASTENED - DO NOT HOLD ROPES.
Harold’s
huge body had such momentum that he sailed right across the landing pulling
down ropes and posts alike, and plummeted seventeen stories to his death. Below, the workers were gathered viewing the
incredible fall. There were voices
screaming among the scrambled sounds spinning round in the distance.
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