The day seemed endless. Every year it was the same old thing; the Friday of a long weekend was always the second longest of the year for George Appleby, Assitant Accounts Manager at Excelcior Insurance Company. This Friday of the week prior to his vacation, was the longest. This particular long weekend he'd saved from earlier in the year, as he did every year.

However, it was over at last. Tomorrow, he'd be heading north to open up his cabin in preparation for his vacation which would begin at the end of the following Friday. He liked to take down the window shutters, air out the linen, remove the winter's dust and get his fishing tackle ready, all done ahead of time so that when he arrived for his vacation, all he'd have to do was enjoy this short life of tranquillity and freedom.

As he descended the wide steps of the gaunt, gray office building and headed for the subway, he exhaled, breathing out of his system all the past year's tedious, irksome problems. To George, it was like the final closing of a text book...a book he didn't want to read but had to...not enjoying it one bit.

He paused at the top of the stairway to the subway, looking down into the cavernous depths into which poured the human flotsam and jetsam of the five o'clock rush hour. Bodies jostled him from all sides, glancing at him with annoyance as they swept past like water rushing around a solitary rock firmly imbedded in a turbulent river.

Stepping to the side, away from the onrushing tidal wave, he glanced at the sky that had a tinge of gray and gold, noting the build up of dark clouds, far to the west, that predicated the coming of a summer rain storm. It would be about another hour before it hit the city, he thought, but it wouldn’t last for long and decided to walk home rather than partake of the sweltering, underground mobile torture chamber.

It was funny, he mused, forty-nine weeks of the year he instinctively followed this five o'clock routine as one of the thousands of commuters with their expressionless faces, mechanically embarking and disembarking the subway, like choreographed ice hockey players, weaving their monotonous way to work. Eight hours later, the same thing, only home again, day after day.

Tonight was going to be different for George. He had the euphoric feeling of having all the time in the world. To come and go as he pleased, do just exactly as he willed. He laughed outwardly, much to the surprise of a perspiring old lady who pushed past him, giving him a scowl of disdain. He felt his face turning red for a moment, then he thought, "Who the hell cares. I'm free. Free for at least three whole days." He laughed again, only this time inwardly, thinking that perhaps this too was becoming a routine. Had he not been going through this once a year for the past fifteen years? Routine perhaps, but boring and monotonous…not at this time.

He felt irresponsibly young again as he shed all the cares and worries which accumulated with each year of his adult life, like the barnacles on the hull of an aging ship that once a year was dry docked and scraped free and clean. Once again he laughed out loud, impervious to the odd looks of passers by, at the thought of having barnacles scraped off his backside.

He didn't rush as was his normal habit, but walked leisurely, suddenly realizing how sweet and fresh the air was, feeling the light breeze that played with a few dancing prematurely dropped leaves on the sidewalk. It was still August, and the last three weeks of the month would be all his...three glorious weeks, one of which, unfortunately, would be with the "sloth."

He pictured his three-roomed cabin sitting snugly by the shore of Black Water Lake, with its porch, facing southwest; about twenty-feet from the shore of the lake, with the other three sides surrounded by a deep, pine scented forest. He could almost smell the pine and hear the nervous rustle of the leaves on the silver birch at the water's edge. This time tomorrow he'd be lighting the fire in the open hearth, it sometimes grew quite chilly at night at the lake, even in August, three hundred miles north of the humid city that normally didn't cool off at night until the end of September. He'd be sitting back in his old worn armchair, a glass of scotch at hand and sorting out his fishing tackle in readiness for his treasured, soon to come, vacation. A long awaited vacation when he'd relax in his boat and fish to his heart's content, oblivious to the rest of the so called civilized world and the ‘sloth’, all of which, for two whole weeks, could go fuck itself.

He picked up the pace until he was at the entrance of his luxury apartment building. A towering white structure containing about two hundred apartments, each with its own small balcony with frail looking railings, some draped with lively green vegetation, but most stark and bland.

He entered the mezzanine, pushed the elevator button for "up" and waited for its decent to the ground floor. As he waited, his spirits began to sag as he wondered how he would get through the evening. "My God," he thought, "this is ridiculous. I'll go crazy one of these days. Why don't I just leave the useless bitch." However, he knew that that was something he just wasn't capable of...not that he didn't want to. If only he had the willpower. He'd fantasized during the last few months how he could do it, hoping he would come up with the beginnings of a possible fool-proof plan that he felt sure would relieve him of this plague in his life...if only he had the willpower. He new it would never happen.

It was this same lack of willpower and self-confidence that kept him from moving up to the position of Senior Accounts Manager, something he'd been hoping to achieve for the past ten years. He'd finally resigned himself to being merely the Assistant Accounts Manager. No longer did he resent being by-passed...even by those who had less seniority than he did. Eventually, he'd just given up and settled into his own little groove of acceptance of his lot in life.

The elevator doors silently slid open and he entered the empty cubicle. He pressed the button for the tenth floor, leaned against the cool panelled wall and gazed at the illuminated ceiling, wondering just where the hell he'd gone wrong in life.

Everything he did seemed to get fouled up somehow. If only she'd get hit by a car, or a truck or get cancer...anything that would rid him of her loathsome presence. The chances of those things happening were pretty slim. She seldom ventured outside of the complex, and she was too damned healthy. Maybe she would die of food poisoning, he mused, or an overdose of sugar poisoning, if that was possible, from all the chocolates she stuffed into her bloated face. No such luck, he thought hopelessly.

He never thought the day would come when he'd wish someone dead. Tears of self-pity filled his eyes as he thought of his unfortunate life and how much he loathed and detested his wife. He was glad he was alone in the elevator as he wiped his eyes. The flame of matrimonial love had been drenched and extinguished years ago. He'd tried everything to make their marriage work during the past ten years, but she just wouldn't co-operate, blaming him for everything. She'd grown larger each year and she became lazier and lazier...finally quitting her secretarial job. He often thought she'd probably been fired because of her absenteeism, and her size, which matched her symptoms of hypochondria...God forbid that he ever ask her…she'd scream his ears off.

She'd been quite a beautiful blue eyed blonde when he married her. She was also loving and considerate. Twenty years of matrimony proved how wrong he was when she started pecking at him for the slightest thing that wasn't to her satisfaction…which was usually everything…and most of the time. It wasn't long until he was doing the laundry, shopping, cleaning and cooking. She'd lapsed into a state of inert, slovenliness. She was absorbed by the ‘soaps’ and talk shows on the television all day, stretched out on the couch in her voluminous nightgown, surrounded by magazines, half empty and empty chocolate boxes.

He sighed as the elevator doors slid open. Stepping out onto the thick carpet of the hall, he made his way to apartment No.102. Unlocking the door, he entered the hallway of the plush apartment he could barely afford. The contrast of the stimulating fresh air outside with the ever-present, overpowering and nauseating perfumed air inside, assaulted his nostrils. He'd lived with it for almost twenty years, but it still repulsed him.

He hung his jacket in the closet and went to the kitchen. As usual, dinner was not prepared and the breakfast dishes were still on the table and in the sink. Passing through the kitchen to the living room he noticed that the drapes were drawn as usual, blotting the evening sunset and leaving the room in semi-darkness. The television was on, with some weatherman forecasting what he predicted for the weekend...he had no audience here as she was lying on her back on the couch, her ample figure overflowing the frail piece of furniture like a beached whale. Her mouth was slightly open as she snored...a trickle of saliva ran down the side of her several chins as her lips quivered with each snore.

He felt somewhat rebellious as he yanked on the drape cord, pulling them all the way back to allow the last brilliant rays of the evening sun fill the room with a crescendo of light. He walked soundlessly on the outdated, thick pile carpeting and looked down at his wife. Her plump, right hand lay limp on a pile of movie and fashion magazines on the floor and next to that, the remains of two, one pound box of chocolates.

He stood and looked at the scene in total disgust. Women like this he’d only seen in movies, read about them and laughed at the fictitious scenes, never dreaming that he’d be in the position of seeing one in true life.

"The lazy sow hasn't even dressed". She was wearing a sheer, billowy pink chiffon nightgown that only magnified her ample proportions. "Shit...she actually believes that thing she's wearing gives her a young and sexy, girlish appearance...like the models in her magazines." She'd actually told him that once…he’d laughed inwardly.

He continued to look down at her in total disgust as she continued to snore with saliva running down her chins and staining the pale blue satin cushion that supported her bloated head. Her long, now bleached, hair sprawled across the arm of the couch almost touching the floor. Her hair was her pride; she bleached it, brushed it, combed it, sprayed it and pampered it in every way possible; but cut it…never. He'd often suggested that she have it shortened as he felt that a fat woman always looks unsightly and ridiculous with long flowing hair, but then again, she would look ridiculous no matter what she did with her hair. As usual, she'd screamed abuse at him for even suggesting the idea. He resigned himself to the sight…not that he'd much choice. Everyone admired and envied her long golden hair so why couldn't he, she'd said.

His eyes shifted from his wife to the twelve inch marble figurine of Venus, on the nearby lamp table. "One swipe with that would finish her" he thought, and then looked back at his wife again. "If only I could do it now", he thought, "Hell no, there'd be too much of a mess and I'd never get away with it. Maybe if I hauled her ass to the balcony and drop her over. I could say that she'd slipped and lost her balance. Naaah…they'd never believe me and I'd lose the insurance money. Besides, how the hell could I manage to lift, or drag, two hundred and fifty pounds of dead weight to the balcony, let alone push her over the railing." He laughed at the idea. Instead, he walked to the table lamp and turned it on, allowing the light to shine directly on her bloated, quivering face.

Her eyes flickered and she emitted a couple of snorts, opened her eyes and stared up at him with a startled expression.

"That's a helluva way to waken someone," she grunted as she wiped the saliva from her bloated face with the back of her hand while struggling to get her bulk to a sitting position. "What time is it?" she sked.

"Six o'clock...in the evening," he retorted, hoping she'd recognize his sarcasm, but she just pulled her tent sized dressing gown around her obesity.

"What happened to dinner?" he asked.

"Do you see it on the table?" she snapped at him.

"No, but I see the dirty breakfast dishes still on the table."

"OK...so I fell asleep and forgot to wake up...so sue me," she spat at him. "Its bad enough that I have to be here all day feeling as bad as I do without you coming home and bitching about not having dinner ready. Go and make something for yourself...and if you have any feelings in you, you'll make something for me," she rasped.

He didn't respond and went to the kitchen, pulled two frozen TV dinners from the refrigerator and set them on the counter top.

"Did you get the milk and bread as I asked you," she shouted to him

"Shit," he thought. "No, I forgot."

"Just as I figured you'd do. Well you can just damned well do without your toast and milk for your coffee in the morning. That's just like you. You just don't think do you?" she ranted.

"I'll go get them now."

"I know what you've been doing all day…you've been thinking about that damned cabin instead of you responsibilities. I tell you, George, one of these days I'm going to sell that cabin…that'll smarten you up."

George froze in horror. "She can't do that…she wouldn't…my God." He was in a panic now. The cabin was all he had to look forward to in life. He cursed the day he'd signed it over to her when they were first married…as a form of life insurance.

"I've got to do something…within the next three weeks…Jesus Christ…what am I going to do?" He realized he was panicking and forced himself to breathe slowly and collect his wits.

"I won’t be long," he said.

"You'd better not be...I'm hungry."

"Lying bitch," he thought, remembering the empty chocolate boxes on the living room floor. "Hungry my ass."

He left the building for the corner store, walking slowly, taking his time to think. "Piss on her... she can wait for her fucking dinner." He needed time to think of a plan for her demise.

"I'm swearing better these days," he nervously chuckled to himself. It wasn't like him to use such language, but she had that effect on him. He'd never spoken that way before, at least not since he’d left the army many years ago.

Twenty minutes later and alone in the store, except for the clerk, he was getting the milk from the glass doored refrigerator when he caught the glimpse of flashing lights and the wail of a siren.

"Was that a fire truck Tom?" he asked the store clerk he’d known for years.

"I think so... I didn't see it until it whipped past. They're sure going fast."

George picked up the paper bag containing the milk and bread and walked out of the store, deep in thought. He was startled when Tom ran after him, to give him the change for the $20.00 bill he'd given him. "Getting forgetful over all this shit," he thought.

He tossed around several suicidal and stupid ideas of getting rid of her permanently but his head was in such turmoil and panic, he couldn't think clearly.

Suddenly it hit him, "That's it…the answer. His excitement was boiling over. "I've got to find a way to get her to come to the cabin," he thought. It was quite isolated, well out of the way, with only the birds and some wildlife as witnesses...only one other cabin was by the lake, and it would be empty by the time he arrived...anything could happen. He was shaking with anticipation of the prospect. He knew it would be difficult. "Somehow, I’ve got to manage it…there has to be a way."

His thoughts were flashing through his mind as if charged by lightening, making him lightheaded and dizzy. "Slow down, for Christ’s sake. You’ll screw everything if you don’t think straight." He began to think of all the different kinds of accidents that could happen up there...accidental shooting with his hunting rifle...falling overboard from the small aluminum boat he used for fishing…choking on her candies…yes…he could do it...he would do it. He'd start by buttering her up as soon as he arrived home.

The people at the town near the lake new him well; he'd always talked about his poor wife who was so frail and couldn't make the trip to the cabin. He was too embarrassed to tell them she was a fat, nagging and complaining cow of a woman, who wouldn't leave the comfort of her apartment for anything and hated all country hicks, as she called them.

First, he'd have to get her up there and then take the bull by the horns. He felt a bit better now that he'd made his decision and geared himself for facing her and persuading her to come with him. "A good slug of whisky is what I need right now," he thought.

"What if she won’t come…shit…she has to come." He began to panic again.

"If she doesn't come this weekend, then I'll just have more time next week to persuade her to come with me when I go up there for my usual two weeks of freedom." He started to control his breathing again and wiped the nervous perspiration from his brow.

He slowly became more composed as he approached the apartment building.

A fire engine and an ambulance were parked outside the main entrance to the building. "What now," he thought. "That probably means no electricity again tonight." It had happened before. The main circuit board had caught fire and it was hours before power was restored. He was getting pissed off with this happening again.

He noticed that the power to the elevator was still on. There was no-one there to tell him to use the stairs, as was usually the case when this happened. He rode the elevator to his floor and the door silently slid open.

The fire crew and police were in his apartment. He ran forward and pushed his way inside still holding on to the bag with the milk..

Before he could enter his living room, a police officer and paramedic stopped him.

"Are you Mr Appleby?" asked the officer.

"Yes...what happened?"

"Were really sorry Mr Appleby," said the paramedic. "We did everything we could. She must have had a major coronary...we're truly sorry. She managed to get to the phone and dial 911 and we got here as fast as we could...but it wasn't fast enough." "Is she...." George heard himself saying.

"I'm afraid so. At least she didn't suffer...it had to be over in seconds. Just wish we’d been able to get here sooner," said the paramedic, apologetically.

"Is there anyone you can be with tonight?" asked the police officer.

"Um...no...no, there’s no-one...no-one else. I'll follow you down to the hospital in a little while." He didn’t want to look at her in death so he sat on a chair still grasping his shopping bag as they heaved his wife's body onto the gurney. He stared, without showing any emotion, at the bulk on the gurney as they wheeled her out.

"Would you like someone to be with you for a while?" said the sympathetic officer.

"No...no...no thanks. I'll be fine. She was so overweight...I kept telling her to diet...but she wouldn't listen. Did you know we've been married for twenty years?" he said in a soft voice to the officer.

"No…that's a long time, Mr Appleby. I'm real sorry," he replied. "You just never know. We'll see you at the hospital then? Are you sure you'll be all right?"

"Yes...just give me some time...please."

"Take all the time you want Mr Appleby. There's no rush now," said the officer.

"Thanks," said George.

When they left he realized he was still holding the bag with the milk. He went into the dirty kitchen and placed the bag on the table. He left his apartment and walked to the end of the hall and looked out of its window to make sure they were all gone from the front of the building, he returned to his apartment, gently closed the door and fell on his knees.

"Thank you God...oh, how I thank you." Tears began to flow down his cheeks and he started to sob uncontrollably.

When the shock left him, he went to his bedroom and pulled a bottle of scotch from under the mattress and poured himself a stiff drink...straight. He downed it in one gulp. Then he poured himself another and sat back in his plush armchair, thinking how he'd finally start to live. "There is a God after all," he thought. He decided the first thing he'd do would be to cash in the half million life insurance policy he had on her...no, wait a minute…that would be too obvious. He'd hold off for a week or two...just to be on the safe side…like a husband in mourning. Screw work from now on, he'd served his time. He didn't need it anymore.

He stepped out on to his balcony and looked up at the evening stars beginning to show themselves in the dark purple sky. To the west, a shooting star streaked across the Heavens. He raised his glass to the sky and world around him in a toast. "Thank you God," he said with a smile and peace in his mind. "I’ve just hit the jackpot."

Copyright 2000 JWB Laing. All rights reserved.

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