Random

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Synopsis:

In a society that has chosen to slow its pace of life, Martin waits outside his estranged daughter's office with a bag of pastries. This is his second day of waiting. He can't arrange their encounter or even let her know he's there—but if chance brings them together, perhaps they'll finally have time to reconcile.

Random is a flash-fiction story of less than 1,700 words. I hope you enjoy it, and I'd love to hear what you think

~*~*~

By noon, Martin had missed the three times the office door had opened.

The first came while he was tying his shoe. The second came when a woman entered carrying a parcel too large for anyone to pass. The third came when he had stepped away to buy coffee.

He returned to his place beside the office door.

Above the handle, a brass plaque read:

ALLOW LIFE TO HAPPEN

Someone had polished it recently. Martin could see his face in it, stretched thin.

There had been a time when he would have knocked.

There had also been a time when his phone reminded him to stand up, sit down, drink water, answer messages, and prepare for meetings about meetings. He used to eat lunch on the way to his next meeting. Once, his watch had congratulated him for taking enough steps on the day his wife died.

He had voted for the Random Principle.

Most people had.

Life had become so fast-paced. It was getting harder and harder to keep up. The Random Principle had promised breathing room. Martin remembered a woman on television explaining that people had begun measuring every moment by what it produced—even time to rest was hard to find.

His wife had looked up from her crossword.

"Eventually we won't find time to breathe," she said.

He laughed and returned to his phone.

So the Random Principle was offered as a solution, and eventually made the law of the land.

Businesses relaxed their deadlines. Appointments gave way to random walk-ins. Shopping became more of a casual outing than simply fulfilling a to-do list. People grew accustomed to leaving more room in their day for unplanned activities and interactions.

The Random Principle promised more fairness, too. Martin remembered that argument. You might come across a job opening or meet someone who would never have given you an appointment before. Who you knew would matter less than how you found out.

It slowed everything down.

The adjustment was awkward, but it had benefits. People had time to finish a conversation without checking the clock. A chance encounter could become a pleasant afternoon instead of an interruption.

For a while, Martin had slept better.

After the Principle became mandatory, the reminders disappeared from his phone.

He still woke at six.

That morning, the bakery clerk had offered him a bag another customer had declined.

The bag contained two apricot pastries.

For the first time in months, the Principle had seemed to be working in his favor.

A young man joined him beside the office door.

"Been here long?"

"Since nine," Martin replied.

The young man nodded toward the plaque.

"I like it better now."

Martin nodded back.

Through the service window, Martin could see a blue cardigan hung over the chair of the desk on the other side.

It hadn't been there yesterday.

"You work here?" the young man asked.

"No,". Martin replied.

"Delivery?" The young man asked after seeing the small paper bag Martin was holding.

"Something like that."

The young man shifted a folder from one hand to the other.

"I need a signature. My department has been waiting all week."

"What happens if you don't get it?"

"We'll just keep waiting until we get it," he said pleasantly.

Martin looked toward the door.

"I still remember three years ago when we could just walk in," Martin said.

"No waiting for somebody to come out?" the young man asked.

"No," Martin said.

The young man considered it.

"Knowing you had to enter each time... the stress it caused must have been exhausting."

He took out his phone. The screen suggested three nearby places he could try at random. He selected one and left.

Martin stayed.

He had checked the building directory on Monday. Finding a name in a public directory was permitted. Requesting that person at a service window was not. An encounter could be hoped for, but it could not be requested or arranged.

A booklet explained the distinction.

Martin had read it twice.

Standing near a person's workplace occupied several paragraphs. Only random occurrences were permitted. Waiting was permitted, provided the person inside had not been asked to appear. Asking someone to open the door was prohibited. Asking a colleague to send someone out was prohibited. Remaining available for an opportunity was permitted.

A woman appeared behind the service window.

For a moment, neither Martin nor the woman spoke.

"Dad?"

"Hello, Ellie."

She looked behind her toward the office area, then back at him.

"What are you doing here?"

"Waiting."

"I can see that."

He lifted the bag.

"I found these at the bakery. The ones you liked."

"Dad. That was twenty years ago."

"Yes."

"They still make them?"

"Apparently."

She almost smiled. Martin could see she was thinking about it.

"How did you know I worked here?"

"Your name's downstairs."

"And you happened to read the names when you happened to be downstairs?"

Martin lowered the bag.

She glanced over her shoulder.

"You could have come across me anywhere."

"I didn't."

"So you came here."

He nodded.

"You always did find a way to get what you wanted," she said.

Butter had darkened the paper along the bag's folded bottom.

"Not always," he said.

She rested her fingers on the sill of the service window.

"Are you teaching here?" he asked.

"This is a purchasing office, Dad."

"I thought perhaps they had training rooms."

"No. I process orders. I record what each department accepts and arrange payment. That sort of thing."

"What happened to the school?"

"It closed."

He looked at the cardigan on the chair. She had worn blue to her graduation. He remembered taking a photograph of her holding the certificate.

"Couldn't you find another school?"

"Find one?"

"I mean, come across one."

"I waited outside two schools. A woman I met at one of them mentioned an opening here. I had rent to pay."

"Do you like it?"

"It pays the rent."

He nodded. He could have offered to telephone someone. He knew a retired headteacher. But an introduction intended to secure a position was exactly the sort of advantage the Principle had been designed to prevent.

"There might be another opening at another school," he said.

"That's what everyone says."

Martin turned the bag so its greasy seam faced him.

"You don't have to take these," he said. "I just remembered you liked them."

She looked at the bag.

"Mom used to cut hers in half," she said.

"And give you the bigger half."

"She said they'd cut them crooked at the bakery," she added.

This time, Ellie let herself smile.

There was no ring on her finger. He wondered whether there had been one during the years he'd missed. He knew so little now that any question might uncover something he should already have known.

He had rehearsed this part on the bus. There were things he should have said after the funeral, and things he should never have said at all. Given enough time, he could put them in the right order.

He'd had four years.

"I wanted to—" he started.

A voice called from inside.

"Ellie? Coming?"

She turned toward it.

"Just a minute."

Then she was gone.

Martin lowered the bag.

At the funeral, Ellie had tried to tell him about her mother's last morning. A bird had got into the kitchen. There had been flour on the floor. His wife had apparently said something funny.

He had interrupted to ask whether Ellie had brought the documents from the hospital.

Later, she had tried again.

Martin had stopped her and told her there would be time for that once everything was settled.

For months, he'd worked through papers, accounts, drawers. When Ellie came over, he gave her things to sort. She began leaving earlier. Then she stopped coming.

A year after the funeral, the estate was settled, and the Principle had become law.

He could still have written. Letters were permitted. At home, where one could enter their own property whenever they wished, he had begun several.

Each sounded like an explanation.

None sounded like an apology.

Eventually, he'd decided they would speak when they encountered each other. The Principle encouraged patience. He had been grateful to have an official reason for doing nothing.

Now he stood outside her office with two pastries slowly growing stale in a bag.

A man emerged carrying an empty mug.

Martin stepped forward, but the door swung shut before he reached it.

"Sorry," the man said. "Didn't see you."

"That's all right. Hey, I don't suppose you could—"

The man stopped him short. "No, I couldn't."

Martin nodded.

The man continued down the corridor.

Martin looked at the handle.

He could wait until tomorrow. He had done that before.

He raised his hand.

Before his knuckles touched the wood, the door swung open.

Ellie stepped through, carrying her coat. Behind her, the door began to close.

She caught it.

"You just happen to be here when I'm going to lunch," she said with a smile.

"Yes." He smiled.

"And you just happen to have pastries."

"Yes," he said again, amused by the randomness of it all.

She glanced at his raised hand.

"Were you going to knock?"

"I think so."

"Good thing I came out."

He couldn't tell whether she meant it as a joke.

"Ellie. I'm sorry."

She waited.

He felt the familiar urge to explain about the paperwork, the funeral, the house. Instead, he stood still.

"About what?" she asked.

"For not listening when you needed me to."

Her fingers tightened on the edge of the door.

"You may have to listen for a while."

"I can do that."

She smiled a little.

They started down the corridor. Martin turned back and reached for the door she had left standing open.

"Leave it open," she said. "Someone could walk in."

"Yes," Martin said. "Someone could."

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