The Procrastinator

I can't put off writing this any longer. In an hour I may be dead. My name is George Marlin. I am a procrastinator.

Yeah. Yeah. I know that sounds like what drunks say at their first AA meeting, but there is no such thing as Procrastinators Anonymous. Too, bad. If there had been, maybe I wouldn't be in this predicament. But it'd never fly anyway. Nobody would ever attend their first meeting. They'd keep putting it off!

I loved to put things off until tomorrow. Well, not loved, really. I just did it. Or rather I didn't do it. You know what I mean. Margaret knew. She was my wife. And if there's one thing she hated, it was my procrastination.

It started with our wedding twelve years ago. She'd set a date for June the first. But as the date approached, I broke a leg slipping on the sidewalk.

"I can't get married with my leg in a cast," I protested.

"No one will mind, dear," Maggie replied.

"No. No. No." I countered. "We've got to change the wedding date."

And we did. Rescheduled it for August the first. But then I got a bad case of hives two weeks before the big day.

"I can't go up before all those people scratching like a dog with fleas!" I said.

"George, it'll probably clear up by then," she replied.

"No. No. No. I can't chance it. We've got to change the date."

Again she relented. We rescheduled for October first. I tried to find an excuse to postpone it again but Maggie told me we'd be through if the wedding was delayed again. A permanent postponement, you might say.

Well, I loved her so I agreed that this would definitely be the day. Even so, I arrived late at the church and fumbled my way through the "I do's". In the end it was official. We were hitched.

And so began twelve years of slow torture for the both of us. I procrastinated. She nagged.

"Can you fix that cupboard door now please, George?"

"Aw Maggie, the football game's on. I'll fix it later."

"Game's over George. How about that cupboard?"

"I'm tired, Maggie. I'm gonna take a nap. I'll fix it tomorrow."

You know tomorrow never comes for a procrastinator. Three months later she called in a carpenter to fix it.

She started losing patience with me.

"George, mow the damn lawn!"

No more please and thank you. Truth to tell, I never did much to earn a thank you.

"We're out of gas for the mower, Margaret."

"Well hop in the car and get some, George!"

She wheedled and cajoled and finally I went out and got the gas. Even put it in the mower. But I'd also picked up a paperback at the same time and now sat down on the grass to read it. Maggie started up the mower and went to work.

"Damn it, Margaret, watch it with that mower! You nearly ran over my fingers!"

And so it went.

After a few years, she started procrastinating a bit too.

"Let's make love, Maggie."

"Oh, I've got such a headache, George. Maybe tomorrow."

Maggie got more and more sullen. I got more and more fed up with her nagging.

"Why can't I do things when I feel like doing them?" I shouted at her one day. "Why is it always now, now, now?"

"Because if I didn't pressure you to do things, nothing would get done. Nothing! Ever!"

"Oh, I'd get around to it eventually," I said.

"Yeah, sure. When hell freezes over. I've just about had it with you, George."

Twelve years of hell. Finally I decided to do something about it.

I'd been reading a lot of crime novels and picked up a tasteless, fast acting poison. I'd slip it into her coffee and it would look like she had a heart attack.

From what transpired, I think Maggie was wise to my scheme. Maybe she spotted the poison in the cupboard. Who knows.

In any event, one quiet Sunday afternoon I decided to do it. I'd been putting it off for weeks, of course.

"Take it easy. Sit down on the sofa and I'll make us some coffee," I said.

"There's a switch," she said. "You never make the coffee."

I poured some of the poison into a cup. Then I poured in the coffee. Then I poured myself a cup. I loaded up a tray with the two cups, a bowl of sugar, some cream, and even added a plateful of cookies. I carried the tray out to the living room.

It was then I started getting cold feet. The thought of actually killing Margaret got to me. I hesitated, then put the tray on the table. I started to put the poisoned coffee in front of her, but at the last minute said, "No, wait. This one's mine. I put sugar into it in the kitchen and you take yours black." I put the cup of good coffee in front of her and the poisoned cup in front of myself. I'd have to think of a ruse to get rid of it.

"How thoughtful, George," Margaret said. "You even brought cookies."

"Oh, dear," she added, "the sun's in my eyes. Would you be an angel and pull the drapes?"

I closed the drapes and went back to my seat and put a spoonful of sugar in my cup.

"Oh darn," I said. "I forgot I had put sugar in my cup in the kitchen. Now it'll be too sweet. I better go dump it and pour myself a fresh cup."

I thought myself quite clever as I went to the kitchen and dumped the poisoned coffee into the sink. Maybe I'll kill her tomorrow I thought. All of a sudden I heard a crash of dishes in the living room. I rushed back in to see Margaret collapsed on the floor, her eyes staring at me in horror and a glint of anger.

"You bastard," she hissed. "I should have known you'd put off trying to kill me at the last minute." Then her eyes glazed over and she expired. She must have switched the cups while I was pulling the drapes.

So now I'm sitting here in my cell waiting for my execution. "Damn," I think. "I shouldn't have put off getting rid of the vial of poison."

There's a clanking of keys in the steel door. The warden enters.

"Well, George," he says, looking at his watch. "Only a couple of hours. Maybe."

"What do you mean, maybe?" I choke out the words in desperation. "Did my appeal come through?"

"No. But I've got some good news and some bad news for you, George," he replies. "The good news is that our hangman called. He's sicker than a dog. He may not make it in. If that's the case, it's a 24 hour reprieve. The execution will be tomorrow."

"So what's the bad news," I ask.

"Well, Stretch, that's our hangman, he prides himself on punctuality and on showing up to do the job. He'll probably come in even if he is feeling sick. He hates to procrastinate."

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