Too Many Cooks

WXYZ - Chapter 6

Previously

Wesley remained in his chair, unable to process the event with which he was confronted. As the door opened, all he could see was a silhouette carved out of the bright rectangle that was the hall light spilling into his apartment.

“What are you doing in here?” the Super barked at Wesley. “I never imagined you’d be in here when I got a call about water leaking into the apartment downstairs.”

“What? Water? From where?” But then, much to his horror, he knew the answer. He was going to wash some dishes, then started making tea and had apparently gotten distracted. He’d found his mind wandering on multiple occasions lately. The simpler he had been trying to make his external existence the more complicated his internal landscape had become. During that moment of consideration the Super had finished his work, which really just meant turning off the faucet in the kitchen and tossing some towels down to start soaking up some of the spillage.

“Could you pay a little more attention next time?” he added on his way out.

And so he did. For the next several weeks he tried to reorient himself. It was very disturbing to his psyche for things to be disorganized and frankly his mind had become discombobulated. He double-checked everything for several days after the flooding incident. Water. Check. Water. Double-checked. Book. Check. Reread and edited. Double-check. Schedule. Check. Confirm tea time. Phew. Gradually he felt his confidence that he was on course return.

Rain had kept him away from his clean-up tasks at the cemetery for nearly a week, but that just freed up time to complete other tasks. One of his neighbors had gotten a number of new books which made borrowing some of the older ones even less obvious. 

He felt better when the clouds cleared and he was able to go and visit his parents and tend to the funerary plots. He performed the usual anti-litter campaign. Clearly the rain hadn’t stopped the local teens from having some beers graveside. He gently brushed away some rain soaked leaves that were clinging to the top of the gravestone. Across the top it had the family name, Yardley, carved deep into the marble headstone. 

As a small boy Wesley could remember going into his parents’ room and peering up from the foot of the bed to see if they were awake yet. As a grown man he now stood at the foot of their final resting place. Just as in life, Wesley’s father slept on the left as indicated on the grave marker which read Frederick Gerald-Harris, devoted husband and father. To his right lay his blessed and loving mother, Ida Jane Klempton. 

After completing his tidying up, he put out a blanket on his area and stretched out for a few moments. Hands behind his head, he watched the clouds pass overhead and even tried to identify some of the shapes that marched across the sky. He admired the tree branches that hung over his plot and watched the breeze play with the leaves. It did seem a shame that he wouldn’t have this same view from inside his planned mausoleum but he should still have space on the plot to have some outdoor entertainment.

Elsewhere Abby was also visiting the cemetery as she had done for almost as many years as Wesley. She now sat, slightly askew with her feet tucked underneath her left hip. There was a much simpler and cryptic marker atop her father’s grave which read Quispiam rarus. Sic tu una voce. As she did each time she visited, she pulled a volume from her bag, opened it and began reading, quietly but out loud. 

This was a ritual she and her father had had since she was old enough to sound out words. He would spend hours with her on his lap saying words that she pointed to. She would smile and giggle and repeat them. As she got bigger her father continued to dote on her and they would spend even more hours together in his study taking turns reading to one another. He would end each reading session by giving her a kiss on the forehead and saying her loved her. 

That was until she was nine. That was when her mother had left them. She didn’t know what had happened, she only knew that while her father continued to love her and give her kisses, she never heard another I love you. In fact there were no more spoken words. He never uttered another sound. But she would continue to read to him in life and death.

Wesley spotted Abby on his way out of the cemetery and quietly walked over. “My Latin is a bit rusty,” he ventured. Abby clutched a locket that hung low on her neck that bore a similar inscription with one hand while keeping her place in the book with the other. 

“It was a phrase my dad made up. Roughly it means ‘Something precious. You have a voice.’” Wesley didn’t fully comprehend the message but had to admit that he had noticed what a beautiful voice she had, even in those first moments when she was pointing a gun at him. He suddenly sensed that he was intruding,  became very nervous, and left with “So, I’ll see you tomorrow for tea?” She simply nodded, having never raised her head nor turning to look at him.

The following day they met at the designated time for tea. They had taken to alternating between their apartments, but today it was Abby’s turn to host. After some preliminary chit chat, she took a deep breath and said, “As long as I’ve known you, you have been trying to get two things: my books and your permit for the mausoleum.”

Taken a bit aback by her directness Wesley, nonetheless, had to agree that those had consumed a good deal of this thoughts in recent months. Before his brain could filter his words he uncharacteristically blurted out, “Yes, I do look forward to the day when I can invite you to tea at my new place.”

“I only visit one man at the cemetery, Wesley. And that’s not going to change anytime soon.”

Like a house of cards collapsing in on itself, Wesley could feel the paper cuts scrape across his heart. It had never occurred to him that she wouldn’t come visit. He thought she understood him.

Before he completely sank into his sadness Abby continued, “I have something for you.” Wesley snapped back into the moment and watched as she gently laid two items on the table between their teacups. The first was the volume of ella minnow pea that so continually tugged at Wesley. “You can read this book, or any of the others, but only so long as I am in the apartment.”

Then she picked up the second item, a large envelop, and opened it to reveal a stack of papers. “Or you can take this and never come back.” Abby had previously mentioned to Wesley that she might know someone who could help gain the permit he so desperately sought but they had never discussed it again. 

After a long moment, another wave of shock rolled over him. Reaching for an answer Wesley looked to Abby, but she remained as silent as her father. His eyes danced back and forth between the book and the permit. And finally taking one more look back to Arabella Beatrice Clementine, Wesley Xavier Yardley (Z) reached out and accepted her offer.

WXYZ - Chapter 5

Previously

“I must admit that when you put it that way, it does make my desire seem a bit, um, eccentric. I have no intention of ending my life. I just want to eliminate the clutter and noise.” Wesley centered his empty cup in the saucer and leaned back in his chair.

“You don’t know how close you came to getting your wish.” Abby patted her purse and Wesley felt a thin shock pass the length of his spine as he recalled his recent close encounter with a firearm. He wasn’t quite sure if what he felt was fear or excitement. He realized that it had been some time since he had felt much of anything, and he relished this new experience.

“I do appreciate the fact that you didn’t shoot me,” Wesley said as he rose to take his leave, “and I wonder if it would be overstepping the bounds of your kindness if I asked to borrow one of your books?” He walked over to her bookcase and reached out for ella minnow pea. His fingers twitched with excitement; he would most definitely enjoy his time with this volume. He might even need to buy a new red pen!

“I never loan out my books. Never.” Abby’s reply hit him like a verbal bullet. Wesley’s hand stopped just short of touching the coveted book.

“Well, perhaps I could come here and read it. That way, it would still be here and you wouldn’t have to worry about it being lost or…”

“No. I’m sure you can find your own copy. Check the library if you prefer not to buy a copy.” Abby moved toward him, still carrying her purse. Wesley stepped away from the shelves. He loved editing his books, but he also loved his body and felt it would not be enhanced by the addition of bullet holes or bullet fragments.

“Fine. I understand. Yes. Most definitely.” Wesley sidled to the main door, keeping an eye on Abby and her purse as he moved. “Perhaps we can get together again for tea and coffee. I did enjoy chatting with you. You seem to be a very understanding person.”

A faint smile moved across Abby’s lips. “I’ve been called many things, Wesley, but I don’t think ‘understanding person’ has ever been one of them. I accept your invitation and look forward to hearing more about your plans. For now, I think we should call it a day.”

Wesley heard the snap of the main lock and the heavier click of the deadbolt as he stood in the hallway outside of 4B. He realized that Abby was watching through the peephole, so he headed back to his apartment.

A creature of habit, Wesley let himself in and headed straight to the kitchen where he brewed a cup of tea. Real tea. Not whatever Abby had given him. He really must instruct her in the fine art of tea preparation and drinking. She seemed cultured, if the decor of her apartment and the collection of books were any indication. Odd that she should have a gun, now that he thought about it. More specifically, it seemed odd that she would carry something called a Desert Eagle. She had piqued his curiosity, and once Wesley’s curiosity was piqued, it had to be satisfied.

*****

The following day, Wesley set out for his favorite bookstore. The proprietor didn’t mind the hours Wesley spent browsing, as he had always been a very steady customer. Wesley took his time, checking his favorite sections before locating what he wanted: a book detailing firearms. He found several sources and learned that the Desert Eagle’s main uses were for hunting, target shooting, and silhouette shooting. This seemed an odd choice of weapon for a woman who wanted protection from intruders or muggers. Perhaps Abby inherited the gun. It was the only sensible explanation. 

Before leaving, he decided to purchase a book. Even though this went against his plan for spartan living, he felt he deserved something new to read after his adventures of the past few days. Sadly, no copy of ella minnow pea was available. He had to find something else. He knew now that ella minnow pea would be the Mount Everest of his editing efforts. He would one day possess his own copy, and that knowledge made him happy. Perhaps that would be his special treat once he had settled into his mausoleum. Yes. That would be most satisfactory.

Wesley finally settled on a book, paid, and made his way home. He spent some of his afternoon tidying up his apartment. A place for everything and everything in its place. He loved order and routine.

He fixed a simple meal of soup, bread, cheese, and grapes. As he ate, he daydreamed about his life in the mausoleum. He would invite Abby to visit; she would be impressed with his innovative ideas, and he blushed as he thought of various phrases of praise that would fall from her lips.

Once the kitchen was tidied up from his meal, it was time for his favorite activity. He busied himself with his preparations, muting his telephone ringer and turning the volume off on his answering machine. He hated interruptions while he read.

At last, he sat in his favorite reading chair, his slippered feet propped up on the ottoman. He was ready for a lovely evening at home. The small table next to his chair held a fresh pot of tea, his latest purchase from the bookstore, and his red pen. He pushed his glasses up on his nose, picked up his book, and uncapped his pen.

He opened the book to its first page, and that’s when he heard it. No mistake about it. Someone just unlocked the door to his apartment.

WXYZ - Chapter 4

Previously…

Though Wesley owned no television and had little use for the popular cinema, he nonetheless recognized the sound of a pistol’s hammer clacking in place.

“Hands where I can see them. Slowly if you please,” the voice, sweet and throaty, commanded and he obeyed. Wesley raised both hands above his head, still clutching the purloined book with his left. He heard the door close and was touched by a zephyr, smelling faintly of gardenia. “Turn slowly with your hands up, please.

“What’s your name, dear? I hate to shoot a man when I don’t know his name.”

“Z,” he responded, noting a brief look of shock on her face.

With a rush of adrenaline, he prevaricated on the spot. He’d rarely had occasion to lie and had little practice with it, but he spun a plausible tale so easily and smoothly he almost began to believe it himself. He told her he’d been called in response to a leaky ceiling in the apartment below. He explained that he had a master key to all the apartments and often backed up the super. He further elaborated that the super had seemed in his duties of late.

“Have you ever seen the damage a Desert Eagle can do, Z?”

Wesley’s eyes drifted to the pistol, a heavy cumbersome affair that looked out of place in the hands of the woman from 4B. He had expected a dainty, feminine gun more fitting to her dress and manner and found he could only stare at the cannon pointed at his chest. This short adventure had quickly gone sour and Wesley wished nothing more than to end it and calm himself with a cup of tea.

“Let’s assume for a minute I believed your story. Shouldn’t you be in the bathroom instead of raiding my bookshelves?” She waved her gun from Wesley to the back hall and back to Wesley to punctuate her sentence. “Maybe you should start over. And stick with the truth this time. You’re a terrible liar.”

“Do you think I could trouble you for some tea?”

“I’m a coffee drinker. But I might have some Lipton. Sit there,” she said, indicating a chair at the kitchen table.

Wesley told Arabella Beatrice, Abby she preferred to be called, everything. He was hesitant and halting at first but Abby drew it out of him. He felt comfortable talking to her in a way he hadn’t felt with anyone since his parents had passed away. More so once she put the gun in her purse. She listened attentively and shared his disgust with the local attorneys who’d been unable and unwilling to help him with his mausoleum. She even suggested she might know someone who could cut through the layers of bureaucracy.

When he finished, and had apologized a second time for trespassing in her apartment, Abby leaned her chair on its back legs and crossed her arms in a manner that seemed off-puttingly masculine to Wesley. She smiled and asked, “Why are you in such a big rush to end your life?”

Wesley clarified that he merely wanted to live a spartan lifestyle.

“Living like that is no life at all. You might as well be dead. Certainly be easier to get your crypt approved that way.”

WXYZ - Chapter 3

Previously

The meeting with his solicitor had not gone well. He simply wouldn’t listen to reason. Wesley had explained patiently that there was nothing in the deed stating that he had to be dead before availing himself of a mausoleum’s accommodation. The air-headed lawyer had waffled on about the spirit of the law and zoning regulations. Wesley had the distinct impression that he was not being taken seriously so had firmly but politely informed the solicitor that he would no longer be retaining his services.

Upon returning to his simply furnished apartment Wesley began systematically making his way through all the law firms listed in Yellow Pages. After making numerous calls, and before he had even reached the end of the E section, Wesley realised that the Yellow Pages clearly only advertised on behalf of idiots. He was stunned at both the rudeness and general incompetence he was met with when he explained his situation.

Wesley was certain that there must be someone with enough common sense and legal knowledge to assist him. In desperation he decided that he would turn to the internet for help. He was not a technophobe; he just had no real interest in computers and the like. He had heard his former work colleagues talk of something called “Goggle” which they claimed was a great source for finding out whatever details on whatever topic one could ever need.

He would have gone to his local library to use their facilities. Unfortunately a number of people had complained about the editing he had done to books he had borrowed and he was now banned from all libraries within a 50 mile radius. He knew that there was something called an internet café in his neighbourhood so decided to continue his research there.

One of the serving staff patiently explained how to use a browser and Google and Wesley began searching for information that would help him on his quest. He found a lot of information - everything from night clubs in Moscow to pictures advertising cemetery accommodation in Australia. Nothing, sadly, that was of any use to him.

He wondered if he might find any law firms to help him and out of frustration typed “blood sucking lawyers” in the search field. Unfortunately he inadvertently clicked the image search and ended up rather disturbed by some of the results. Somewhat dejected, he made his way home.

As he approached the apartment block he noticed the woman from 4B getting into her car. She was smartly dressed, as she had been whenever he had seen her previously, and looked to be of a similar age to Wesley. He had never been to apartment 4B and as she drove off he decided that now would be the perfect time to use his set of master keys.

He retrieved the keys from his apartment and tried to appear nonchalant as he made his way to 4B. His heart was racing with excitement. After checking that the hallway was clear he put the key in the lock and felt a little shiver run through his body. He quickly stepped inside and shut the door quietly behind him.

Her apartment was uncluttered and tastefully decorated. There was a pleasing sense of symmetry about the place that instantly made Wesley feel at ease. Best of all, there was a large antique bookcase forming the focal point of the main room. The books were arranged by height and grouped in complementary colours.

Wesley scanned the titles. There were many classics in the collection as well contemporary titles by well known authors. One book in particular caught his attention. He had heard of neither the title nor the author: ella minnow pea by Mark Dunn. He removed it from the bookcase, intrigued by the completely lower case title

As he read the back cover he knew that this was the book he would borrow. It must’ve been a challenge to write with an ever shrinking alphabet. It would no doubt be a challenge for him to edit. He relished the thought.

He opened the front cover and saw a beautiful book label which read as follows:

This book belongs to

Arabella Beatrice Clementine

And then he heard a key turning in the apartment door.

WXYZ - Chapter 1

Slamming the receiver back into the cradle, Wesley Xavier Yardley let out a loud huffing breath, smoothed his imperceptibly wrinkled sweater vest, and headed to kitchen to brew himself a cup of soothing tea. “What do they mean I need a death certificate in order to get a building permit for a mausoleum?” He thought a phone call could clear up the silliness of the rejection letter he had received in the mail. The clerk on the phone assured him that everything else had been in order and the forms had been among the most perfectly completed he had seen in all his days at the county office. Wesley took great pride in this statement, but it did nothing to rectify the situation.

Until about a year ago he had dedicated his working life to proofreading documents at an investment banking firm where errors were simply not tolerated. This was comforting to WXYZ, as he initialed all of his work. The trailing Z was one of the quirky mannerisms Wesley had adopted as a socially awkward youth. He liked the sense of alphabetic completion the final character provided. Perhaps in his mind it also afforded him a certain cleverness, and in his private moments, he fancied himself as suave and sexy as the literary alter-ego of the same initial. Not that he was delusional, but he did have a strange sense of humor. When co-workers had attempted casual, polite chit chat with him and dared to ask if he had plans with friends, his patented response was “Yardley any.” This was always followed by the snorty sort of laugh of an inside joke that precluded any further inquiries.

The day his work life came to an abrupt end shouldn’t have come as much of a surprise. He was a middle-aged man in a dying career and while he always suggested he had other options, he had neither pursued them nor taken note of the fact that they were dwindling due to neglect. The counselor whom he had been forced to meet with during his severance proceedings, tried to break this news to him. Her perfectly smoothed back blond hair and light hand with the makeup brushes gave her a lightness and gave the effect of her head floating effortless atop the pale blue suit jacket. Her entire physical and vocal tone were focused on one target—keep the severed employee calm. He watched her lips moving but no amount of nudging his spectacles back up the bridge of his nose helped him focus through the internal fog that had descended on him. After the brief interview, Wesley was escorted back to his work area by a member of the security department to collect any personal items. Then they went down the elevator and out to the exit. A first moment of clarity snapped into focus as Wesley handed the officer his building access card. So this was how two dozen years of service were to end. Clearly they did not deserve any further consideration from Z, so he simply severed them from his consciousness.

During the ensuing months Wesley decided that rather than looking for employment he would dedicate himself to his countless volumes of unread books. As was customary, he would prepare a cup of tea and sit in his reading chair, uncap a red felt-tipped pen and proceed to read. He took a perverse pleasure in finding a typographical error. His mind would sometimes wander and he would find himself rereading the same paragraph over and over again. He took this as a sign that the passage should be rewritten, as the bloodied pages would attest. When he finished reading a book he would put it in a plain brown box that sat next to his writing desk. Once a box was at least half full he would toss in a few worn dress shirts, remnants of his previous life, and carry the donations a few blocks down the street to the local thrift store. Unbeknownst to him they would toss the books that had lots of rewriting in them. The young girl who wrote up the receipts at the front counter had learned early in his visits that it was easier to simply smile and accept the box than to try to reason with Wesley.

The apartment became cavernous as his personal goods were ushered out the door. Trips to the thrift store sometimes resulted in small bookcases or tables being donated. Eventually, he looked around the sparsely populated rooms and had an epiphany. While he had diligently socked away a sizable nest egg over the years, this apartment was sucking funds out of the nest on a monthly basis. Wesley enjoyed saving money and had spent hours each month pouring over his financial statements. There were rules to being financially responsible. Save this amount. Put only this percentage in stocks. Rules were wonderful. They gave his life a structure.

But there was no rule saying he had to have an apartment. He owned a plot of land nearby and he had determined that moving there would be the logical and fiscally frugal course of action. His parents had purchased two adjacent plots at the Cavalry Cemetery, a short walk from his current residence. They had always looked out for their son and had left him his plot in their wills, which were executed simultaneously following a tragic car crash more than a decade ago. Going to his files he had no trouble locating the deed to his final resting place. There was no mention, even in the finest of print, that designated he couldn’t start resting there any time he wanted to.