Walt by Rebecca Greene

Rebecca Greene

Walt counted two-hundred and twenty-seven steps to his car. Depending on his parking spot, he could count as high as two- hundred and forty-five steps, and as little as two- hundred and twenty- two. Walt carried his thermos of coffee in his right hand. It contained a quarter of a cup of one percent milk, and two teaspoons of raw sugar. Once these ingredients were added, he shook it five times. It tasted perfect, and that was true.

He reached into his pocket with his left hand and removed his car key. Walt opened the door, and stared into his car for fifteen seconds. Within this time, his eyes moved around each section of his car, inspecting: three seconds for the front seat, three seconds for the passenger seat, and so on and so forth. He then put the key in its place and started the ignition. He did this all while only using his left hand.

Four fingers wrapped around the worn rubber cover of his steering wheel. His thumbs rested on the knuckles of each of his forefingers, and his hands were spaced precisely at ten o’clock and two o’clock. That was the most comfortable way for Walt to drive, and therefore, it was the safest.

Off he went, never driving faster than twenty-six miles per hour, or slower than twenty-four. Walt took the street route to his job. He counted the stop signs (sixteen, to be exact), and the seconds between each light, was equivalent to the amount of stop signs. Thank goodness for that.

His parking spot was third to the right of his boss’s, or five hundred and twelve steps from his office. Walt was an accountant. He had been an accountant for fourteen years, four months, one week and three days, precisely. It had always been his dream to work with numbers. Walt saw numbers everywhere, and counted everything. That was true.

Walt took the stairs instead of the elevator. He liked being alone so that he could walk up to the eleventh floor and count each step, privately. His right and his left arm pit would be saturated in sweat by the time he made it to his cubicle, which was to the right of his boss’s office, and perpendicular to the exit. Walt felt safe here.

On his desk was a four by sixteen silver plated picture frame. In it was a photograph of a woman, two children (a boy and a girl) and a man that was not Walt. Walt stared at this picture twelve times a day. The man in the photograph was his brother. His name was William. He was younger than Walt by three years.

William lived 7.23 miles away from Walt; however, he hadn’t visited him in one- thousand four hundred and sixty days. Out of the twelve times per day that Walt would stare at the photograph, he would remember the amount of time that had passed since seeing him. Walt would get emotional, which made him only human.

Walt was jealous of his brother. It would be brazen for him to consider it hatred. Walt was a timid man. He kept these sentiments about his brother to himself, but twelve times a day his throat would tighten, and the tears that he should shed, never fell. Thank goodness for numbers. They would embrace him, and it made him feel safe. Walt would take his lunch at 11:54 AM. He would eat three carrot sticks, half of a tuna fish sandwich, and an apple that was quartered. He would sit alone in the staff cafeteria in the seat he had sat in for the last fourteen years. He would eat his carrot sticks first, and stared pensively into space wishing that there was more to look at (and count), instead of the food stains (thirty- seven, to be exact) that speckled the beige wall beside his table. Although the view was unappealing, Walt was content with it, and that was true.

Walt counted one-hundred and ninety-seven steps to his cubicle. It helped him to digest his satisfactory lunch, before the dread of sitting at his desk and staring at the photograph of his brother for the seventh time. He knew what he had done to William and his family. The memory never left him. It haunted him like the numbers he loved, and that was true.

Walt counted one-hundred and ninety- seven steps to his cubicle. It helped him to digest his satisfactory lunch, before the dread of sitting at his desk and staring at the photograph of his brother for the seventh time. He knew what he had done to William and his family. The memory never left him. It haunted him like the numbers he loved, and that was true.

At 4:50 PM, Walt shut down his computer, and began packing up his things. He stared at the photograph one last time for the day, and briefly sighed. He sat at his desk for nine minutes, in silence, reflecting: Two minutes on blood splatter, thirty seconds on the density of cartilage, one minute and thirty seconds on mercy and what it meant when someone begged for their life or anything,

three minutes on the silence of running water, one minute on the colour red, and one minute on forgiveness.

At five o’clock, Walt pushed his three wheeled chair under his desk, and proceeded to count (although he knew already), the steps that would lead him out of the building and towards his car. His boss waved goodbye and Walt put his right hand up in acknowledgement, but also to indicate that he was in a rush. He wasn’t. He was just counting and didn’t want to be interrupted, as with any other day. No one knew about Walt’s relationship with numbers. Thank goodness for that.

Walt counted two-hundred and forty steps to his house. He reached into his right pocket, with his right hand, and fished around for his house keys. He opened the door to his home with his left hand, and stood in his doorway, inspecting: four seconds for the coat rack, five seconds for the foyer, and seven seconds on his door knob. Walt walked into his residence, slowly. He closed the door behind him, and leaned his back up against it. Walt had an exhausting day, which made him only human.

It only took four minutes and fifty-two seconds, for Walt to microwave his dinner. It consisted of seventeen green peas, two slices of meatloaf and three quarters of a cup of roasted potatoes. The plastic cutlery sawing through over cooked meat, was the only sound to be heard as Walt ate. During this moment of silence, Walt thought about other things besides numbers, like when he and William were younger. He reminisced on the days when he would get into trouble for something that William would do, such as breaking household objects, or more importantly, killing the family dog. Walt began to feel angry at the very thought of losing his dog by the hands of his younger brother. To calm down, Walt began to count the peas left on his plate (seven, to be exact).

Walt ran his bath water until the tub was almost full. The temperature was perfect. Thank goodness for that. As he sunk into the water, he became weightless. All of the dirt from his long day, and his life, momentarily dissolved as he anchored willingly into the depths of his bathtub. Walt felt safe here, and that was true.

Walt shut his eyes underwater, and held his breath for thirty- three seconds. All that Walt saw was red. All that Walt felt was warmth. All that Walt heard were wafts of screams captured in the air bubbles that traveled through his ear canal under water. Walt sat up abruptly. Water dripped from Walt’s head, like blood.

In bed, Walt closed his eyes. He saw nothing, and thought of nothing for seventeen seconds. This was his only moment of peace for the day. After the time had passed, he opened his eyes and began counting everything in groups of four: Four bodies, four animal legs, four young eyes, four older eyes, and four body bags, four years, and four minutes of regret. Walt became emotional, which made him only human.

Walt took ninety- two sleeping pills before lying down on his left side. He clasped his left and his right hands together, and slid them under the left side of his face. His cheek melted into the cartilage between his four knuckles. This was the most comfortable way for Walt to sleep. Walt counted backwards from twenty. By the time he reached the number nine, he paused. The numbers were leaving him: Eight, seven, six, five, four, three, free. Walt felt safe here. Thank goodness.

Acadia Branch