Chase Sanborn

My body's an antique. It's as if my limbs have hardened to the point where movement could be a potential disaster: I reach for an item and my whole arm breaks; I'm handled too rough and a crack could shoot from my head to the bottom of my soul, like an earthquake ripping through the heart of a city, leaving me to pick up the pieces...if I could find them in the first place.

My organs, however, are as sharp as the day I first received them--more sharp, if I'm being truthful. If there were competitions for best working organs (and there are none, as far as I know), I would win first--without a doubt! Take my eyes, for example. My gorgeous--this I'm told--green eyes with hints of blue. I'm told--by everyone, I might add--they look like emeralds, glimmering for the world to see. And they are by far my greatest asset. From where I'm situated, my eyes can see the world. Though a small world it is in my present position. For as beautiful as my eyes are said to be, they don't encounter much company.

You see, not too long ago I was in the company of men and women, all of whom were of the highest status. I was an actor, you see--and a fine one at that. My presence on stage was matched only by the greats: Chase Sanburn, they'd say, you have the comedic timing of Charlie Chaplin; the booming voice of Humphrey Bogart; the powerful presence of Lionel Barrymore. Mr. Sanburn--and here their voice would gain muster--you are the next big thing. . . !

Well, the next big thing I never was, and the next big thing I never will be. In fact, the only thing I'll ever be--is forgotten! Ah, I can only sigh, as I suppose I'm already there. Forgotten by those around me that's for sure. I have no one of any significance in my life. My own name, a once renowned name, is but a memory even I forget at times. You would too if you ceased hearing your name for...for--hm, it's been too many years to recall. Seems my memory is escaping with my body. Ah, my memory: once full of youth, love, excitement; now, nothing but the shards of painful memories reside. One such memory, I recall instantly, is the memory of one, Miss. Lisa Ideal. Ideal...even the name suits her, for she was certainly flawless.

Ding-a-ling-a-ling! Oh, my. The ring of that bell never does grow pleasant to the ears. If my eyes are my glamorous organs, than my ears are it's fine-tuned, ugly-little counterparts. Nevertheless, it used to be a signal of possibility; a signal someone has come to pay a visit; a signal of friendship or camaraderie or lessons to be had. But I'm afraid the bell is nothing more than a warning, or a lost traveler, or an old friend looking for a lost soul.

What is the time? If I may be so bold to ask? Five-o'clock? Well then, it does make sense the dang bell would be ringing. If you'll excuse me for a moment...interactions, as I've stated, are becoming a rarity; and I'd rather not miss it. --Hush! It must be silent! Ah, if my eyes dare deceive me! It's the old whipper-snapper himself: Mr. Pritchard Mendison. Ding! ding-ding-ding! "Hello? Is anyone running this d--n place!"

Mr. Mendison will wait for hours--but he won't do it solemnly. He has, and has not, the ability to remain patient. He's like a rattler waiting for its prey, but rattling like a mad-man as he waits. "Mr. Allan? Danny?"

Poor fellow--if only I could help...oh well. It's not like I can leap from this furniture and help the fellow. No sense fussing over matters out of my control. Sure makes for good entertainment, though. Don't you think? Besides! no one sees me as I am anymore.

"What is the meaning of this? I've driven in solely to see an old friend--and you don't have the courtesy--I've known you for many things--but rude ain't one of 'em!"

You do see the impatience I was referring to, do you not? No worries, it will be over soon. Was nice hearing the sound of a name though. Funny...it wasn't mine--what was it he said? Mr. Allan--Danny, was it not? The name sounds so familiar, yet, no matching face comes to mind.