The Day of Concern

by Clark Gilbert

Part 1 appears
in this issue.

conclusion

There are only two possibilities where I would not have the answer in my mind. First, I think maybe I am losing my memory. But that doesn’t make any sense, because I am twenty-five years, three months and four days old. If I were sixty-seven years old, then an appropriate amount of memory loss would be acceptable. But not now, at twenty-five years, three months and four days old.

The second possibility is that aliens have drained part of my memory from me. But that couldn’t have happened, since I have always passed the three-part test.

I continued to breathe hard, and my mind was working, going through the Tax Code with all of its addendums, but I could not find the answer. I was starting to get frightened, and when I get frightened I begin to cry.

Mr. Steve got up from his desk and walked over to me, telling me it was going to be alright, and that I should sit at my work table and think things through for the next twenty minutes, and then I might find the answer. But I knew the answer was not in the Tax Code or its addendums.

I returned to my work table and sat there, going over the Tax Code in my mind again and again, and I couldn’t find the answer. I stood up and walked the thirty-two steps to where the printed Tax Code was located on the book shelf.

I picked it up and returned to my work table and began looking through it assessing if I missed memorizing something, which would actually have been a third possibility. I found the section that should have answered Mr. Steve’s question, but I could not find the answer by reading the text.

I sat there and was beginning to become frightened again, and I started to cry softly when I noticed at the end of the section that there was in the binding the slight remains of a page. A page had been cut out of the Tax Code. The exact Tax Code that I memorized. There was a page cut out that I did not memorize, and therefore could not have had the text in my mind, and so I could not access the information when Mr. Steve asked me his question.

Picking up the book, I returned to Mr. Steve’s office and showed him the discovery that I had made. Mr. Steve looked at the cut page and thought it “strange.” He then said he would compare the printed text with his computer text of the Tax Code, and he turned on his computer.

I walked backwards four steps to the door and stood. Because I do not like computers. Mr. Steve knows this. He loaded the computer text version of the tax code and selected the section that had the cut-out page. He read for two minutes and fifty-one seconds and then looked up and said that there indeed was a missing page.

He motioned me over to look, but I hesitated, and then he said that he would print out the missing page, which he did and handed it to me. I walked the sixteen steps to my work table and began to study the missing text. It took me twenty-two seconds to find the answer to Mr. Steve’s question. I was so happy that aliens hadn’t stolen my memory that I cried “happy tears.”

Mr. Steve came out of his office and stood next to my work table where I began to answer his question in earnest with references. He thanked me and then announced that he was going to have an office meeting, “Right Now.” The six tax preparers and Mr. Steve walked into his office, and Mr. Steve closed the door. I never go to office meetings, as I prefer to perform my evaluations or study the Tax Code, which I really enjoy.

They were in the office meeting for forty-two minutes, and then the door opened and they all walked out, but they did not look at me as they passed my work table. Some of them had pink faces and they did not look happy. The last one to pass was Carol, but I never speak to her except to point out errors with her tax returns.

Carol stood by my work table for eighteen seconds and then with a sigh began to speak to me, which was unusual, and this what she said: “I am sorry for cutting the page out of the book. I meant it as a joke.”

I thought about what she said for a total of six seconds and then replied to her, “A joke is something said or done to evoke laughter, especially an amusing story with a punch line. A joke is not something that causes undue stress or discomfort to another person. This was not a joke.”

She looked at me for three seconds and then said, “You are such a freak,” then turned and walked to her desk and sat down.

At that moment I wanted to stand on my work table and shout at the top of my lungs, “Who’s the freak? At least I know what a joke is and what a joke is not!”

Instead, I returned my attention to the tax return of Mr. and Mrs. Harrison and found three errors in the calculations. They were Carol’s errors. I referenced the Tax Code on a piece of paper and walked the twenty-nine steps to Carol’s desk and laid the tax return on her desk, and then returned to my work table and picked up the next tax return for me to evaluate, one belonging to a Mr. Tommy Hansen.

I worked on that return until Mr. Steve walked up to me and said it was time to go home. I looked up and noticed that everyone else had left. I stood up, laid my pencil on my work table and grabbed my jacket. Mr. Steve asked me if I was alright. I told him I was very grateful that my memory had not been stolen and that there existed a perfectly logical solution.

Mr. Steve smiled and asked me if I wanted a ride home, and I told him, “no” and thanked him, and walked out the door and walked the nine blocks to my studio.

Once in my studio I hung my jacket up on my hook by the door and ate a strawberry Pop Tart, which I love, and drank two glasses of orange juice fortified with Vitamin D for dinner. I opened my blinds on my window and sat looking across the street at the two-story brick apartment building for forty-four minutes waiting for my mother to call. She always calls at 7:30 p.m., though she does have a standard of error of three minutes and sixteen seconds.

That night she called at 7:31 p.m. and asked me how my day was, and I told her about the clouds this morning making this a good day, and then how I worked through four evaluations before the “concern” happened.

I told her all about what had happened with the sun coming onto my desk and me pulling the blinds, and how Mr. Steve asked me a question that I could not answer.

My mother, said “Oh, dear.” I went on to explain how stressed I was about possibly having my memory stolen, though I told her I had passed all my tests this morning. My mother knows about my fears of alien testing and helped me develop my three-part alien detection test.

My mother listened to all parts of my story without speaking and then, after I told her I had wanted to stand on my work table and yell but that I hadn’t, she said that she was proud of me for showing restraint.

We sat in silence for thirty-two seconds before my mother said that she had watched me walk home from work, and that I looked good.

I didn’t know how to respond, so I was very quiet. My mother was quiet, too. I looked out my window over to the brick apartment building at 732 Langley Street, and my gaze went to the second floor apartment with the large bay windows, and there standing in her living room talking on her phone was my mother who was waving at me. I waved back and moved away from the window.

My mother then asked me what I was going to do with the rest of the evening. I told her that I was going to memorize, again, the missing text from the Tax Code, and then quiz myself on potential questions that Mr. Steve might have for me.

My mother asked me if I wanted to come over and visit, and I explained to her that I was learning to live an independent life and going over to visit her might interfere with that.

My mother then said that even people living independent lives often will spend time with friends and family and don’t lose their independence.

I reminded her that I saw her eleven days and six hours ago, and she said that she understood that, but that she missed me. I didn’t know what to say. I have been living an independent life for thirteen months and eight days. And sometimes, like this, I still don’t know what to do.

We were quiet for one minute and twelve seconds when I said, “We could spend time together on Saturday.”

My mother said “That would be wonderful,” and that we could watch a movie together and she would pop popcorn. I asked if she would put real melted butter on the popcorn, because I really like popcorn with real melted butter, and she said yes! And that made me happy.

I told my mother that we had been on the phone for thirty-four minutes and twenty-nine seconds and that I needed to study the missing Tax Code text. She wished me a good night and told me she loved me, and I wished her a good night and told her I loved her too, and I hung up the phone.

I studied the missing text until ten o’clock. I did my “business” and dressed for bed. I made sure the feather was in its proper place and that my black shoes with soft soles were positioned correctly by the door, as I do every night.

Crawling into bed, I lay on my back, looking up at the dark ceiling. I prayed. I thanked God that aliens did not steal my memory and asked God to keep the aliens away from me again this night.

I was very quiet for three minutes, fifty-three seconds.

I smiled a big smile, maybe the biggest smile I have ever smiled in my whole life, knowing that I had answered the question that Mr. Steve had asked me, and that I was not having my memory stolen by aliens.

I then closed my eyes and went to sleep.