This is the conclusion to Not Randy’s Day, from my book, Go West or Go Weird. Click on this link to read Part 1.
Not Randy’s Day (Conclusion)
And that’s when his nerves broke down, suddenly caving in under a growing weight of insanity. Like a flash of lightning, Randy saw a mad image fork through his mind, that pointed to what he must do next. He suddenly pushed himself away from the unyielding doors of his church and angrily rushed toward his green Porsche. He pushed the gas pedal like he was squashing a rotten plum, and fishtailed through the watery streets, disappearing into the driving rain.
His enraged mind set mental crosshairs on a gargantuan target. And when he saw it with his eyes he skidded to a violent stop in the middle of the street. It stared down at him, its windows hundreds of horrified eyes, wondering what this madman planned to do.
It was the office building where he worked. A monolithic gray skyscraper, scraping the even grayer sky.
Randy rushed the building, bursting through the front doors. The guard recognized him and waved him through without a challenge. But if the guard would have taken seriously the fiery look on Randy’s wild face, he might have prevented a tragedy.
Randy found the elevator and pushed the button for the top floor. His former workplace was on a middle floor, but that’s not where Randy desired to go. Randy wanted to rise to the top. To go above. To go high, where there is no going any higher. But where there is always a way down.
To the top of the skyscraper the elevator pushed him. To the top, where wet steel met rainy sky. And that’s where he got out. A swimming pool swirled like a miniature sea in a hurricane. Executives used this pool on sunny days, to lounge away their lunch hour. But no executives could be found up there on a day like this. Just an insane figure hurrying beneath a weeping black cloud.
Randy quickly strode to a railing at the edge of the building and leaned over. There were people far below, scurrying through the rain on a narrow-banded cement sidewalk. They looked like ants to him, but he mused that soon they would be giants. And his car, his tiny green Porsche. That must be it, so distant and so small, parked in the middle of the street.
It looked to him like someone down there in a uniform—perhaps a meter maid—was giving it a parking ticket.
A parking ticket?! That heartless bitch! This stone-hearted city!! After all he was going through, couldn’t someone have some sympathy for him?! Couldn’t someone give him just one damned break?! Christ! His parents were dead, his girlfriend gone, his job was lost, and the only response from this unfeeling world was yet another kick in the ribs?! A goddamned parking ticket?!!
It was the last insult! He would show this thoughtless world—this cold, unresponsive Earth—just how awful it really was. He would give it a sight of poetic justice. And he would do it with his green Porsche.
He was completely carried off by his insane plan. The real Randy was gone and had no idea what was happening. But the insane Randy was right there calling the shots—and he knew exactly what to shoot next.
He cackled to himself while he positioned his body, so that the Porsche was directly in front of him. Then he climbed up onto the rail and stood straight up, balls of feet on the railing, toes of patent leather shoes dangling over the void.
Suddenly he heard a shout behind him. He turned his head and saw a security guard. The man was half-running toward Randy through the rain, telling him not to do it. Telling him that it wasn’t worth it.
Wasn’t worth it, Randy mused in his madness. And so much did the security guard know! Ha!! For this was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to teach the world a powerful lesson. A lesson that the meter maid would bear to all. This was definitely worth it.
He turned his head back and gazed down with gunsight eyes. He focused with determination on the roof of his green Porsche. He bent his knees, sucked in his breath, then leapt with all his mad strength—forward through the air.
While his body missiled forward through space, rain pelted him from above. But after his body arced downward, and gravity sucked it toward the Earth faster and faster, he became one with the raindrops.
He kept his eyes fixed upon the green Porsche directly below. That was his target. He would show that meter maid a thing or two this day. And he would show the rest of the world, too. He would teach this world to treat people better. To be more understanding. To realize that some people have serious problems going on in their lives and need to be sympathized with, not persecuted.
He was a blurry bomb from above, descending downward in the rain, only just now being caught in the eye-corners of a few pedestrians.
Randy was halfway to his target, then three-quarters, then barely a hundred feet. And then . . . whiteout.
He suddenly entered a thick white fog. And he continued to fall, tumbling blindly, and groping around for his bearings. He could not see what he was falling into, and that enraged him, because he felt his aim had been upset.
Then the white fog grew gray, and the grayness grew dimmer and dimmer, until it was completely black. Randy felt a punch of pain in his midsection and he doubled over.
And then he wasn’t falling anymore. He was lying on his back, holding his stomach, and writhing around on the floor. He opened his eyes and saw his girlfriend kneeling over him. She was crying. “Oh Randy, oh Randy, I’m so sorry Randy.”
Randy stared up at her and tried to speak her name, but he had no breath. His girlfriend cradled his head in her arms and kissed him liberally, all over his face. Her tears bathed his cheeks, and he tasted their salt on his lips.
The half-naked man walked into his view and pulled a teeshirt over his chest. He snarled, “Well, if you feel that way about him, you can have him, bitch!” And he strode away. Randy heard a door slam a moment later.
“Randy I’m so sorry,” she sniffled. “I’ll never do this to you again, I promise.”
Randy was finally able to suck in a deep breath, and had enough air in his lungs to speak. He whispered, “I love you.”
“I love you, too, Randy!” she said. Then she embraced his open mouth with hers, and kissed him long and passionately.
And at that moment Randy emerged from the other end of the white fog. His fantasy ended instantly as his body slammed into a rain puddle, one foot away from his green Porsche parked so illegally in the middle of the street.
The comment my creative writing teacher wrote at the top of this story, read in full, “Most certainly was not Randy’s day. Too many tragedies. Not sure if you were trying to be funny, but if you were, the humor didn’t come across. B-”