Recycled

Ernest clacked away at his typewriter. Settled in, he started his day crafting the ongoing tale of Cecil Barrett. It's not a job if you do what you love, right?

“What sort of trouble can we get into today, Cecil?”

***

At the risk of burning his eggs, Cecil left the stove to answer the phone in the hallway. Chubs did as all cats must and scurried between Cecil’s pencil-thin legs as he reached for the receiver. 

“I’ll go soon enough you little bastard, stop tryna kill me.” Cecil cocked back his plaid moccasin but Chubs vanished before the kick could be delivered.

“Hello, Barrett residence.” Cecil liked to keep things formal even if it’s a sales call.

“Grampa? It’s Molly, in Pennsylvania.”

“Not my long-lost granddaughter? You’re alive?”

“Funny, Grampa. Yes, not only am I alive but I’m having a baby. I’m sorry for the short notice, but Mom’s trying to have a little family reunion.”

“Oh, I see. Where, and when? ‘Cause you know I’m in Florida, right?”

“It’s here, in Philly. Mom thought it would be memorable to have four generations together if the baby comes while you're here.”

Cecil sat at the foot of the stairs and tugged at his quitter of a sock, the elastic sagged beneath his ankle.

“Mom said we better do this now, while we’re all still here.”

First the cat, now my own daughter. Everyone’s scheduling my death. What’s the hurry?

“Will you come, Grampa? I want you to meet your great-grandson.”

“Yes, honey, I’ll be there. Mort can take me to the airport and feed the little murderer while I’m gone.”

“Murderer?” Molly asked.

The smoke alarm rang out and Cecil plunged a finger in his ear. Burnt eggs. Damnit.

“Text me the details, gotta skedaddle, Chubs’s tryna burn the house down again.”

***

Ernest paused. Someone’s fiddling with my narrative. I don’t want you dead, Cecil, and that’s all that matters. I don’t recall planning a trip to Philly, either. I need to speak to management.

He filled out clarity request form 99-4A and stuffed it in a carrier. Across his desk, he lifted the flap and fed it to the pneumatic tube. THWOOP. Sucked away. 

Ernest wondered when a reply would come. He hammered out something vague about burnt eggs, an open window, and kibble then turned his attention back to the tube.

THWONK. The carrier was back. 

Regarding your query pursuant to CECIL BARRETT, management reiterates that his current storyline is complete. As you have been previously afforded occasions to handle the circumstance and failed to do so, peripheral elements have been altered to facilitate this outcome. 

Well, that settles that. Management wants Cecil dead. Eighty-five years went by so fast. I don’t feel like I told his whole story. Ernest scratched his head then

 pecked on, sending Cecil next door to talk to Mort about a ride and cat sitting.

How should we do this, Cecil? Peacefully in your sleep? Too boring.

Plane crash? Too exciting.

Actually murdered by the cat? Too comical. 

Ernest rounded out the rest of his work shift bouncing between writing Cecil’s life and planning Cecil’s death.

***

The flight landed safely in Philly. When he checked his phone a text message appeared: Come directly to the hospital, Molly is in labor! 

Cecil’s grin spanned his crevassed face. He directed a cabbie with joyful aplomb. Upon arrival, he knocked on the open door of the maternity suite. He stepped in and saw the backs of a dozen people hunched over where Molly lay. The family parted like the Red Sea as he approached the bed.

The chatter and cooing settled as Cecil’s eyes met the newborn, swaddled tight and laying in his mother’s arms. Cecil took off his glasses to dab his watery eyes with a handkerchief. 

“That’s a fine-looking boy you have there. Well done, my dear,” Cecil said.

Molly smiled as she shared the youngest generation with the oldest.

“I’m glad you made it, Grampa.”

“Have you picked out a name for the tyke yet?” Cecil placed a hand on the bed rail and leaned in for a better view.

Before she could answer, Cecil collapsed into Molly’s lap.

***

Ernest struggled to type the awkward death scene for his old friend Cecil. Ernest knew the rules. Everyone must die, eventually. An empty feeling started to consume him.

Cecil is gone. What becomes of a writer when they kill off their protagonist? Cecil was more. A friend, a muse. Ernest shed a tear as he sent Cecil’s final pages up to management. Soon, the pneumatic tube rumbled and a reply thwonked into his basket.

The message was curt.

ATTN: Ernest Hirsch,

Lock your terminal and report upstairs to management, room twelve, immediately.

Management.

Ernest swallowed hard. He’d never finished a job before. He didn’t know what to expect. He wiped away the nervous sweat growing on his lip as he headed up. 

Did I complete my task? Did Cecil get the life he deserved? What lies ahead for him, for me?

Room twelve was spartan. A grand, white room with just two tweed-cushioned, steel-framed chairs. Ernest sat and waited. His anxious foot-tapping echoed in the empty space.

The door opened and a woman with a clipboard joined him at the chairs.

 She looked down her nose through her half-lens readers at her notes.“Mr. Hirsch, can I call you Ernest?”

“Yes, but just once, then use pronouns.” Ernest pointed at the ceiling. “The editors hate when you use proper names too often, it’s unrealistic, they say.”

“My name is irrelevant to this story, so we’ll skip it.” She seemed hurried to Ernest.

“I’ll just call you Management Lady, then?”

“Ernest, your days of narrating are over.” 

That doesn’t sound ominous at all, he thought.

“What becomes of me, now?” Without Cecil, what was left?

“You’re being recycled.”

“I’m sorry, re-what now?” A lump formed in his throat at the implications the word suggested.

“You’re being sent back.” She looked at her watch. “You’ve done a fine job writing these last eighty-five years, now it’s your turn to be written for.”

“When? Where?” Ernest transitioned from scared to joyful, grateful. A weight lifted.

“When is now. Where doesn’t matter—you won’t remember any of this until you come back up.”

The door opened and in walked Cecil. He made his way to Ernest, who stood to greet him.

“Thank you for a great life,” Cecil extended his hand and Ernest took it in his. The mutual understanding of their eighty-five-year relationship now clear in its completion.

“I did my best, I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

Cecil looked to Management Lady for approval. She nodded.

“I’ll do my best return the favor, Ernest. See you next time.”

***

A hush fell over the room when doctors returned to deliver the devastating news of Cecil’s passing. In the still of the moment, the newborn let out a squawk. The fuss diverted attention from Cecil back to the boy. 

As tears welled up, Molly took a deep breath and finally answered Cecil’s dying question.

“Ernest. We’re calling him Ernest. I’m glad he got to meet you.”