Exmarks

Michael was an optimist who had done everything by the book. He listened attentively in class and achieved notable grades with his average talent. He secured a comfortable job where his dependability became the cornerstone of the department. Each day was faced with an outlook of positive expectation which for the most part, was fulfilled. As a skilled counter of blessings, he wasn’t too perturbed at being single when the early stage of middle age was broached. He was sure it would work out in the end, it usually did and fussing about it wasn’t going to help. Even when informed of the nascent dilemma of a growth in his intestine, he still went about his day. Whether it was helping out at the local shelter doling out servings of hot food or furniture shopping, Michael made an effort to keep to routine.

It is said that a person’s home is a window into their personality. Michael liked to keep things simple. He had one pan and a handful of bowls he used on a regular basis. His room was spartan with a few personal effects that reminded him of key milestones or souvenirs from his trips abroad. His personal favorite was a small miniature of Rodin’s The Thinker sitting on his dresser. However, in the orderly zone that was his home, there was one spot of chaos: the library. It was bursting at the seams with assorted literature. Michael was an avid consumer of books, specifically fiction.

This room was the bedrock of his life. Half read books lay strew across tables, shelves that bore the weight of words from prodigious men and women became the walls that guarded his sanctuary. These imprints of his passion arrayed like an audience around his one opulence; a fireplace with a large comfortable leatherbound armchair. It was here that he spent most of his time during the weeks and months as he retreated from the battery tests and treatment he endured.

Whether he was gripped by a Sci-Fri drama that questioned the hallmarks of man or the transportive effect of Fantasy that took him to other worlds; he was enthralled. Reading about a humble protagonist that started off as a farmer and ended up eventually slaying a dragon helped stiffen his resolve at the situation before him. His favorite was any tale that involved an intrepid adventurer chasing the promise of treasure. Usually it was a pirate following a map with an X planted on it or a knight braving a dungeon for glory.

It was after a particularly tough day when he sat in front of an oncologist that his enduring optimism wavered for the first time in his life. The bushy brow of the specialist was furrowed as he delivered the news. “Michael I’m afraid to say it has spread, despite everything we’ve done this is the point where we need to start considering more thorough treatments” said the doctor with guarded sympathy. That night Michael bought a bottle of wine – a rare occurrence – and spent his time reading until the birds started to chirp. With a sigh he picked up the phone and made the difficult call to his workplace. The decision to phone in sick was not one to be taken lightly; he could not remember the last time it had happened.

The day after he received a knock on the door and opened it to a bouquet of flowers, a care package and a card signed by the whole office. The card resided next to the carving of the The Thinker for the rest of its days. It was a small yet powerful comfort in the period to come as Michael saw himself losing weight and hair. He mused to himself that his chances at finding a suitable date dropped even more from its already low probability.

It was about a year after the initial prognosis that reality started to sink in. Michael looked at himself in the mirror and stared at his displayed ribcage. They resembled two engulfing hands that were slowly squeezing him. For the first time in his life he felt the flicker of existential doubt. He could feel his lethargy seeping into daily routine. Chores that were satisfying to tick off started to become laborious endeavors. However, the one light that remained was his literature. He made an effort to really make progress on his ‘book bucket list’ as he labeled it in a mood of dark humour. Whether The Gold Bug by Edgar Allan Poe or Masquerade by Kit Williams, he threw himself into his guilty pleasures. It helped stave off the injustice he felt, there was so much left undone and he started to feel each tick of the clock in his library.

It was after one such story where Michael turned the last page and found his resolve coalescing with acceptance. The book itself was average but the lesson it preached was poignant. The main character had gone to the ends of the seas to finally unearth untold riches. After trials, tribulations and fortunes amassed did the protagonist eventually reflect on his journey in the final chapter and regarded his life. He thought not of the gold bullion that lay in the treasury, but the ways in which he had touched the world and how it touched him in turn. The orphan rescued amidst a drifting wreckage, the kings and queens he had befriended and his own crew that served him until their death. With a snap the covers, Michael closed the book. He thought back to that very morning when his doctor had stared in his eyes with the resigned but practiced condolence of someone who knew the burden of a hopeless outcome all too often.

It was at that moment Michael made some decisions. He flicked open his phone and looked over his savings. A lifetime of frugal living had amassed him a modest fortune. He began to write cheques to the causes he had drip fed donations to all his life. If his road was coming to an end, he hoped maybe across space and time he could also reach out with his finger and nudge the world towards a better trajectory. As he started to sign the final cheque, a cheeky grin blossomed across his face. He made sure to leave a small amount, exactly twenty thousand dollars left to spare in his bank account. He then went on purchase a little black book; a heavy cotton fabric woven with care and had sufficient heft worthy of a man’s dying optimism. With the map of his area on his computer and the overly cautious hand of an amateur cartographer he started to etch a map onto its pages. He worked late into the night switching his gaze between screen and pad. With the final two strokes of his pen he marked out the spot on the last page.

The next day Michael bought a shovel and then went to the bank with it still in hand, drawing strange looks. After one sizeable withdrawal of a specific amount he got into his car and started to drive. Carefully consulting a printout of a national park and his own bound book – with quite a bit of pride too, he was finally an author – he flagged the relevant landmarks and started to dig. Staring at the freshly disturbed earth it reminded him of a grave. Michael stood there for several long minutes and regarded it before his indefatigable positivity finally kicked in. “The nutrients of those buried eventually seed the future of those to come” he whispered to himself. Walking back to his car he soaked in the clean air and tuned into the distant rumble the river. Stillness reigned as he took one last look at nature’s majesty then he got into his car and drove away.

Michael was tired, the flurry of his idea had fueled him but he could feel the gentle beckoning of permanent rest. He sat amidst a busy train terminal and absorbed the hustle and bustle of a world turning. He pictured all the people he would help with his final gestures. Although ultimately his contributions would be miniscule in the grand scheme of things, the satisfaction of the attempt brought him solace. He got up and walked away yet the little black book remained on the seat. A nearby Samaritan noticed the lost property and picked it up hoping to chase after Michael, but he had already vanished. Hoping to find some contact details they started to leaf through the pages. Their expression changed from urgency to confusion and then eventually curiosity. By the time they had reached the final page, the idea of adventure was written in wide eyed possibility on their face as their gaze narrowed on a little red X.