About 1,500 words
Curing the Common Cold
Joe got on the Go bus swiping his PRESTO card. He had been surprised when he’d received an email from the O.G.P inviting him out to the pub and he responded that day. The email read…
“Dear Joe…
I received your work and I enjoyed a good deal of it. I think we could meet. You said you wanted to interview me regarding my dilemma yes? That might be good. It’s complex. You know, there are many, many complexities. If you are willing to make the trek...”
The rest that followed was just standard details of time and address to rendezvous. The O.G.P never invited anyone directly to his home. He always met with visitors at the same bar in Belleville. Joe was used to travelling and meeting with the O.G.P seemed like it would make for a good story. He checked the schedule of buses for the next day and then went to sleep in his friends’ apartment. It was going to be a 4-hour trip.
Joe cleared his eyes as he woke up on the bus. His mouth was pasty and his neck was a bit sore. There was nothing to be done so he drank some water and stretched out. “So nearly free.” He whispered to himself and chuckled at the quiet outburst of sound. It was 2:54pm. Joe had time travelled two hours into the future. He still had another hour and a half to go but that wouldn’t be so bad. He pulled out his book and began to read. It didn’t really grip him and he looked out the window frequently at the purple loosestrife that seemed to spread farther each year. Soon the bus left the swamp behind and moved into farm country. Joe looked back down at his book.
The bus arrived at 165 Pinnacle St. just before 6pm.
Joe waited for the people in front of him to get off the bus. He wanted a bean and cheese burrito. It wasn’t like he was starving though and he was just down the street from where the O.G.P had asked him to meet. Joe walked to the intersection. Waiting for the light to turn he spotted an average looking man on the other side of the street. The man wore a blue collared shirt and tie. He looked like he was beginning to lose his hair. Every so often he would twist the left side of his mustache as if he was trying to twirl it without wax. Joe heard him muttering while glancing at an empty lot
“Now this isn’t right, no, no, this isn’t right at all.”
“Hi there Doctor!” Joe called out cheerfully. The O.G.P stopped pacing and turned towards him.
“Oh hello there. You must be Joe.” The two shook hands. “I’m very sorry about this,” the O.G.P continued. “I usually take my guest to the bar here. There used to be a hotel you see? I mean, the beer was a bit too flowery but they made a fantastic club sandwich.” Joe laughed at the joke and gave his condolences.
“You should pick up the paper more often Doc.”
“Oh I know, I know. But there’s plenty of time for that. Now though! Where shall we eat? We won’t be able to talk out this little dilemma of mine on empty stomachs now will we?”
The two decided to stroll up the road until they found a bar or café that suited them. They walked past Dinkel’s and Paulo’s Restaurants and turned right onto Front St. A few young adults milled around the youth employment-counseling center. Joe felt bad for them. The fucking capitalists had destroyed most of the local business. They brought in chain store after chain store until the chain stores were pretty much the only places left to work. Joe and the O.G.P decided to eat at an Irish pub just a little ways up Front street. Neither was in the mood for Thai food. They ordered a pitcher of Guinness and some sweet potato fries.
