Seattle Press on Line

Reality

By Catherine Buell

Jan 17, 2002 -- Part 1 of 2

I'm David Yadot. I was a businessman with a good job and a good house; good salary and a good, solitary life. I'm in jail at the moment, and am just as baffled by it as you might be. Why, you ask? I honestly don't know. But maybe my story--gone over so many times in my own mind while I've sat here on this cold, dank bench--will make some sense to you.

The day started out like any other day. I got up at the same time I always do, had the same kind of coffee I usually have, put on one of my various gray suits, and picked up my old briefcase with the particularly visible scratch on the top. I walked down to the bus stop and stood in my usual spot, waiting for the Metro. Like always, I glanced around at the mural painted years ago on the inside of the bus stop of people dancing among colors and musical notes. A painted lady in a bright yellow dress always stands out from the mural in the corner of my eye while I stand in my spot.

But on this particular day, there was an absence of yellow when I looked at the painting. I didn't see yellow out of the corner of my eye. I looked for the yellow lady and instead of seeing yellow, I saw something else: a handprint. A smeared, messy handprint covering the lady's dress. I frowned slightly, for nobody had ever defaced this bus stop before. I stepped closer inside the bus stop and bent down to look at the handprint. Up close, the material was made in what looked like a dark reddish color, and it was slightly flaky. Blood? No, I thought, dismissing it, unable to imagine a good reason for a bloody handprint to appear in my bus stop, smearing my yellow lady.

My bus came, and I focused my attention instead on the presentation that I was to give that morning. It struck me as odd that I had to give my presentation right when I got to the office. At least, that's the message that Lela left on my phone last night. Lela was a co-worker, and she always told me when the meetings were, where they were, who was going to be there. She was talkative, and she listened to all the rumors that went around, but she got things done.

I walked to the back of the bus and sat down after paying my fare. As usual, I looked out the window, waiting for my stop to appear. Then, something again presented itself in the corner of my eye, a color that wasn't supposed to be there. I looked down below the window.

Another handprint, same as the first. My mind raced. Was this aimed at me? Was it a joke? A prank? Was this aimed at anybody? The police? No, this wouldn't draw the attention of the police. It had to be a prank! But what if a person just had a really bad cut on his hand, and he got on the same bus as me? That was probably it.

I only stopped thinking about it when I realized my stop had passed two stops ago. I got off at an unfamiliar street and ran back up the bus route, then to the office building. I don't know how I got through the door on time.

Panting, breathless, I stumbled into the elevator and pressed the little number nine. Once on the ninth floor, I started walking briskly down the blue carpeted hallway leading to the room where the meeting was to be held. Forget the handprints, forget the handprints, I thought to myself over and over again, but in the next moment spotted another unusual color on the office wall. Instantly looking to my right, my eyes focused on yet another handprint.

I stumbled in my surprise. There it was, sitting there like a blurry warning, seeming to mock me and my fear. I didn't know what to do. This was certainly the last place I would have expected one of these handprints. Now I knew that this wasn't some public joke. This was personal, and part of me panicked. Someone's out to get me. Someone wants to scare me. Frighten me. Who? Why? I--

"David!" called a voice. Jerked back to the office hallway, I looked up. There was Lela, striding towards me. "You're here! The meeting's about to start, just so you know. I wouldn't say anything that might upset the boss, either; he's in a really bad mood."

"Uh, th-thanks for telling me," I managed to croak out as I willed my legs to function. Lela gave me a strange look, but didn't inquire further, which I was thankful for. My voice seemed to have run away when I stopped to stare at the handprint. Pull yourself together! You're about to give a presentation, and you sound like a squeaky toy, a little voice in my head yelled as I came to room 902. Taking a deep breath, I opened the door and walked in. I would not come out a free man.

Catherine Buell is a Seattle high school student who enjoys writing and singing. She looks forward to majoring in the sciences.

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