Once upon a time so very very long ago, this story was started over at PoTL with the breezy disclaimer that it was a work in progress and might take a
little while to get wrapped up. I was thinking in terms of a few months, max.
I'm now thinking that I was an idiot, period.
Life, dudes. Pffft.
I've always known where it was headed and how it was going to end and it was mapped out loosely over ten average-length parts, but they just seemed to stretch and get looser, more rambling and inane....I'll get there eventually.
(The chapter "titles" are just the little names I have given the parts so I can keep 'em straight when I flick through my files.)
And to those who have been keeping this alive on the PoTL board, my sincerest thanks! I've really enjoyed writing this (September 2002, March 2003, January 2004, lol) but you make it real for me.
So here it is, infamous and in progress....still....
Prologue
It came early on a Tuesday morning.
He had only just stepped out of the shower, rubbing his wet hair lightly with a blue towel, when the knock at the door echoed through the small house.
He froze for a moment, caught off guard by the irrational, but instinctive thought that the person outside was equipped with X ray vision and could see through the door, past the walls, right into the small bathroom where he was standing naked....like a fool, with a towel stuck to his head by a hand that was paused mid-action.
With a small chuckle at himself, he pulled the towel down to wrap around his waist and ran the hand through his damp hair as another rap at the door sounded.
"Be right there!" he called as he negotiated the short hallway, trying to find footing between the packing boxes and mess that was to supposed to be in them.
Cursing softly as he heard something crunch underfoot, he held the towel in place with one hand as he stepped gingerly over the last box that had conveniently found its way from the ajoining living room to where it was now blocking the entry.
He hoped that whoever it was on the other side of the door, it wasn't his tyrannical neighbor Mrs Carson or one of her cronies; the last time she had called on him to tell him to turn the "racket" down, he had been wearing only boxer shorts. The old woman had been horrified and had added it to her arsenal of things to berate him about. He could only imagine what she'd think if he appeared in just a towel...and if that towel were to "accidentally" slip...he smiled slightly to himself as he unlocked the door and pulled it open.
Nope, wasn't her. Just a delivery guy, wearing the requisite uniform of a bored expression, in brown shorts that were too tight and a matching shirt that was stretched across his chest, a suave look that was completed by the thick, black moustache he sported above his upper lip.
The smile that had begun with the thought of Mrs Carson's shock grew wider. Hello, 1977!
"Pacey J. Witter?"
Realizing that he was probably the one looking a little strange here, standing half-naked, grinning like an idiot, Pacey caught himself and nodded.
"Yeah, that's me."
Mr 1977 presented him with a clipboard and a pen and a gruff "Sign..." The "here, please" part was lost somewhere in the jungles of the moustache. Pacey scrawled his signature and handed the board back. The guy didn't even glance at it and Pacey wondered why they bothered with the formality. Then Tight Pants held out a small box and nodded at the scene in the hall.
"When ya moving?"
Pacey took the package absently, glancing over his shoulder as the question temporarily halted his curiosity.
"Tomorrow," he turned back to the man with a rueful grin by way of admission at the sorry state of organization he was in, but Tight Pants merely grunted and headed back down the steps, his polite conversational material obviously used up.
Pacey looked down at the package in his hands, then back up at the departing figure. "Thanks" he called out, lifting it in a kind of wave to the driver, who nodded curtly in return and kicked the engine of the truck over.
Pacey threw a triumphant glance over at the neigboring house as he shifted the small box to his other hand. One more day with you, Mrs Carson, you cantankerous witch.
As if she had heard his disparaging thought, the screen door of the white house swung open and the witch herself stepped out onto her porch, and turned to face him with a scowl that was almost hidden beneath the pile of orange curlers sprouting from her head.
"Good morning Mrs Carson!" Pacey called to her with a grin, waiting expectantly for her latest grievance.
"Hah!" she spat back at him, tightening her bright blue housecoat about her like a general preparing for battle, "You have a lot of nerve, calling this morning 'good' when you know perfectly well I didn't get a wink of sleep last night thanks to that dog of yours barking like a mad thing."
Pacey rolled his eyes as she edged down another step, still pinning him with an accusing glare. "I don't have a dog, Mrs Carson," he told her patiently, muttering crazy old bat under his breath.
"What?" She might have missed his words, but she had eyes like a hawk and she took another step down.
Pacey smiled sweetly. "Maybe it was the Hennessey's dog, Mrs Carson."
The Hennessey's lived across the street and owned a mutt that had to be kept locked behind the gate as it had a penchant for throwing itself in front of cars. Pacey figured he probably would too, if forced to live with Mr and Mrs Hennessey's constant bickering.
"No," the old woman refused, "There was howling coming from this house." She jabbed her finger at the air separating their properties, her eyes narrowing to slits.
Pacey leaned against the doorjamb, the parcel tucked under his arm, and regarded her with a smirk.
"Maybe it was Mrs Hennessey," he suggested impishly, "I tell her to be quiet but sometimes there's just no stopping her..."
He winked at her, relishing the way her eyebrows shot up, her hands clutching her robe tighter, appalled.
"You are dis- gusting," she spat out the word as if it tasted sour, indignation radiating from her small body in waves. "Insinuating that that woman, defaming that marriage, that..." she suddenly changed tactics, giving an imperious toss of her head that rattled the curlers, "Well, it's no wonder you don't have a wife."
Pacey's slow grin only angered her further, the sly glint to it unnerving and she yanked on the blue belt tied around the middle of the robe as he called over to her.
"Aw, Mrs C.," he returned, his voice smooth as honey and dripping with lewd suggestion, "That's 'cause I'm waiting for you to get bored of Mr C. and turn to me to satisfy your carnal urges."
He straightened, openly leering at her now. "You want to play hard to get, that's fine, but don't deny you're hot for me, Mrs Carson." He growled her name seductively and winked again as he watched her struggle to maintain her composure.
She wrenched on the ends of the belt again with such force Pacey figured that if she did it any harder she'd cut herself in two, and drew herself up to her full five feet and four inches to shoot him a haughty glare.
"My husband is dead, Mr Witter," she reminded him, her tone resonating with the implication that he ought to show more respect for the dead.
A laugh flashed through Pacey's eyes, but he merely cocked an eyebrow.
To hell with respect; the man had clearly been a moron- he married her, didn't he?
"Well now, that doesn't seem to stop you."
At his playful words, Mrs Carson's jaw went slack, her eyes almost bugging from her head as she reeled at the inference and finally, she lost her cool.
"You, you, FILTHY man!" she sputtered, her voice rising to a screech as she choked out the only F-word she could bring herself to say, and Pacey looked at her with a surprised expression, the very picture of wide-eyed innocence.
"Me?" he contested with mock consternation. Then his hand moved to his waist and tugged at the towel secured there, letting it fall away from his body. "Why, I'm shower fresh, Mrs C."
Then he slung the towel easily over his shoulder and gave her a wave, her shriek of horror following him as he stepped back into the hall and closed the door behind him.
Inside the house again, a satisfied smile settling over his face, he set the parcel down on the hallstand and wondered if it was wrong to derive such amusement from torturing a crabby old woman. Pulling a pair of grey sweatpants from the box they were spilling out of on the floor, his grin spread as he recalled the way the orange curlers pinned to her head had bobbed furiously at his actions, as if they too had been outraged by the gesture.
Hell it is.
With the sweats now covering his lower half that a minute earlier been exposed to the entire street, Pacey let the towel drop to the floor and picked up the package, his curiosity returning as he regarded the plain exterior. The postmark was smudged, unreadable, his Baltimore address printed on a label like it was from some company and he tried to remember if he had gotten drunk again and ordered something from the infomercials that ran late at night. During a moment of insobriety a year ago, he had ordered porn videos that had been advertised, but it had just been that one time and anyway, he'd given them Dawson's address to send it to. Always thinking of those more in need.
He turned the box over, finding no return address and mentally flipped through the short list of people who knew he was here. It wasn't that his location was classified information, it was just that he had moved so often over the past few years, he updated only those who needed to know; his family, a couple of friends, some business associates. No one who would have sent a package today.
Stopping just shy of shaking the box to see if he could guess its contents, Pacey smiled at himself wryly. It's for people like you that the "Open here" label was invented he silently mocked.
Kicking a half-empty box of books aside, he moved into the kitchen and grabbed a knife, still coated with a thin smear of peanut butter from his late-night snack. He had been up until two that morning, trying to come to grips with incongruity of having to pack the CDs but needing his music to make the task of packing them, and everything else, less painful.
Wiping the flat metal edge on a cloth, Pacey slid it under the brown tape and slit it open, spilling a handful of foam packing bubbles onto the floor. He dug through, sending more floating down to join them, and his hand closed over a smooth flat surface. Pulling it out, he let the box drop to the floor with a hollow thump and stared at the small item.
Pacey ran his fingers over the surface, his smile returning faintly as he leaned against the counter, the gentle light of the morning sun washing in through the window behind him, and remembered.
He could still hear Dawson's voice...
I'm now thinking that I was an idiot, period.
Life, dudes. Pffft.
I've always known where it was headed and how it was going to end and it was mapped out loosely over ten average-length parts, but they just seemed to stretch and get looser, more rambling and inane....I'll get there eventually.
(The chapter "titles" are just the little names I have given the parts so I can keep 'em straight when I flick through my files.)
And to those who have been keeping this alive on the PoTL board, my sincerest thanks! I've really enjoyed writing this (September 2002, March 2003, January 2004, lol) but you make it real for me.
So here it is, infamous and in progress....still....
Prologue
It came early on a Tuesday morning.
He had only just stepped out of the shower, rubbing his wet hair lightly with a blue towel, when the knock at the door echoed through the small house.
He froze for a moment, caught off guard by the irrational, but instinctive thought that the person outside was equipped with X ray vision and could see through the door, past the walls, right into the small bathroom where he was standing naked....like a fool, with a towel stuck to his head by a hand that was paused mid-action.
With a small chuckle at himself, he pulled the towel down to wrap around his waist and ran the hand through his damp hair as another rap at the door sounded.
"Be right there!" he called as he negotiated the short hallway, trying to find footing between the packing boxes and mess that was to supposed to be in them.
Cursing softly as he heard something crunch underfoot, he held the towel in place with one hand as he stepped gingerly over the last box that had conveniently found its way from the ajoining living room to where it was now blocking the entry.
He hoped that whoever it was on the other side of the door, it wasn't his tyrannical neighbor Mrs Carson or one of her cronies; the last time she had called on him to tell him to turn the "racket" down, he had been wearing only boxer shorts. The old woman had been horrified and had added it to her arsenal of things to berate him about. He could only imagine what she'd think if he appeared in just a towel...and if that towel were to "accidentally" slip...he smiled slightly to himself as he unlocked the door and pulled it open.
Nope, wasn't her. Just a delivery guy, wearing the requisite uniform of a bored expression, in brown shorts that were too tight and a matching shirt that was stretched across his chest, a suave look that was completed by the thick, black moustache he sported above his upper lip.
The smile that had begun with the thought of Mrs Carson's shock grew wider. Hello, 1977!
"Pacey J. Witter?"
Realizing that he was probably the one looking a little strange here, standing half-naked, grinning like an idiot, Pacey caught himself and nodded.
"Yeah, that's me."
Mr 1977 presented him with a clipboard and a pen and a gruff "Sign..." The "here, please" part was lost somewhere in the jungles of the moustache. Pacey scrawled his signature and handed the board back. The guy didn't even glance at it and Pacey wondered why they bothered with the formality. Then Tight Pants held out a small box and nodded at the scene in the hall.
"When ya moving?"
Pacey took the package absently, glancing over his shoulder as the question temporarily halted his curiosity.
"Tomorrow," he turned back to the man with a rueful grin by way of admission at the sorry state of organization he was in, but Tight Pants merely grunted and headed back down the steps, his polite conversational material obviously used up.
Pacey looked down at the package in his hands, then back up at the departing figure. "Thanks" he called out, lifting it in a kind of wave to the driver, who nodded curtly in return and kicked the engine of the truck over.
Pacey threw a triumphant glance over at the neigboring house as he shifted the small box to his other hand. One more day with you, Mrs Carson, you cantankerous witch.
As if she had heard his disparaging thought, the screen door of the white house swung open and the witch herself stepped out onto her porch, and turned to face him with a scowl that was almost hidden beneath the pile of orange curlers sprouting from her head.
"Good morning Mrs Carson!" Pacey called to her with a grin, waiting expectantly for her latest grievance.
"Hah!" she spat back at him, tightening her bright blue housecoat about her like a general preparing for battle, "You have a lot of nerve, calling this morning 'good' when you know perfectly well I didn't get a wink of sleep last night thanks to that dog of yours barking like a mad thing."
Pacey rolled his eyes as she edged down another step, still pinning him with an accusing glare. "I don't have a dog, Mrs Carson," he told her patiently, muttering crazy old bat under his breath.
"What?" She might have missed his words, but she had eyes like a hawk and she took another step down.
Pacey smiled sweetly. "Maybe it was the Hennessey's dog, Mrs Carson."
The Hennessey's lived across the street and owned a mutt that had to be kept locked behind the gate as it had a penchant for throwing itself in front of cars. Pacey figured he probably would too, if forced to live with Mr and Mrs Hennessey's constant bickering.
"No," the old woman refused, "There was howling coming from this house." She jabbed her finger at the air separating their properties, her eyes narrowing to slits.
Pacey leaned against the doorjamb, the parcel tucked under his arm, and regarded her with a smirk.
"Maybe it was Mrs Hennessey," he suggested impishly, "I tell her to be quiet but sometimes there's just no stopping her..."
He winked at her, relishing the way her eyebrows shot up, her hands clutching her robe tighter, appalled.
"You are dis- gusting," she spat out the word as if it tasted sour, indignation radiating from her small body in waves. "Insinuating that that woman, defaming that marriage, that..." she suddenly changed tactics, giving an imperious toss of her head that rattled the curlers, "Well, it's no wonder you don't have a wife."
Pacey's slow grin only angered her further, the sly glint to it unnerving and she yanked on the blue belt tied around the middle of the robe as he called over to her.
"Aw, Mrs C.," he returned, his voice smooth as honey and dripping with lewd suggestion, "That's 'cause I'm waiting for you to get bored of Mr C. and turn to me to satisfy your carnal urges."
He straightened, openly leering at her now. "You want to play hard to get, that's fine, but don't deny you're hot for me, Mrs Carson." He growled her name seductively and winked again as he watched her struggle to maintain her composure.
She wrenched on the ends of the belt again with such force Pacey figured that if she did it any harder she'd cut herself in two, and drew herself up to her full five feet and four inches to shoot him a haughty glare.
"My husband is dead, Mr Witter," she reminded him, her tone resonating with the implication that he ought to show more respect for the dead.
A laugh flashed through Pacey's eyes, but he merely cocked an eyebrow.
To hell with respect; the man had clearly been a moron- he married her, didn't he?
"Well now, that doesn't seem to stop you."
At his playful words, Mrs Carson's jaw went slack, her eyes almost bugging from her head as she reeled at the inference and finally, she lost her cool.
"You, you, FILTHY man!" she sputtered, her voice rising to a screech as she choked out the only F-word she could bring herself to say, and Pacey looked at her with a surprised expression, the very picture of wide-eyed innocence.
"Me?" he contested with mock consternation. Then his hand moved to his waist and tugged at the towel secured there, letting it fall away from his body. "Why, I'm shower fresh, Mrs C."
Then he slung the towel easily over his shoulder and gave her a wave, her shriek of horror following him as he stepped back into the hall and closed the door behind him.
Inside the house again, a satisfied smile settling over his face, he set the parcel down on the hallstand and wondered if it was wrong to derive such amusement from torturing a crabby old woman. Pulling a pair of grey sweatpants from the box they were spilling out of on the floor, his grin spread as he recalled the way the orange curlers pinned to her head had bobbed furiously at his actions, as if they too had been outraged by the gesture.
Hell it is.
With the sweats now covering his lower half that a minute earlier been exposed to the entire street, Pacey let the towel drop to the floor and picked up the package, his curiosity returning as he regarded the plain exterior. The postmark was smudged, unreadable, his Baltimore address printed on a label like it was from some company and he tried to remember if he had gotten drunk again and ordered something from the infomercials that ran late at night. During a moment of insobriety a year ago, he had ordered porn videos that had been advertised, but it had just been that one time and anyway, he'd given them Dawson's address to send it to. Always thinking of those more in need.
He turned the box over, finding no return address and mentally flipped through the short list of people who knew he was here. It wasn't that his location was classified information, it was just that he had moved so often over the past few years, he updated only those who needed to know; his family, a couple of friends, some business associates. No one who would have sent a package today.
Stopping just shy of shaking the box to see if he could guess its contents, Pacey smiled at himself wryly. It's for people like you that the "Open here" label was invented he silently mocked.
Kicking a half-empty box of books aside, he moved into the kitchen and grabbed a knife, still coated with a thin smear of peanut butter from his late-night snack. He had been up until two that morning, trying to come to grips with incongruity of having to pack the CDs but needing his music to make the task of packing them, and everything else, less painful.
Wiping the flat metal edge on a cloth, Pacey slid it under the brown tape and slit it open, spilling a handful of foam packing bubbles onto the floor. He dug through, sending more floating down to join them, and his hand closed over a smooth flat surface. Pulling it out, he let the box drop to the floor with a hollow thump and stared at the small item.
Pacey ran his fingers over the surface, his smile returning faintly as he leaned against the counter, the gentle light of the morning sun washing in through the window behind him, and remembered.
He could still hear Dawson's voice...
