A Matter of Routine

A Short Story from Morbid Ink Magazine

The silver moon shone through the leafless branches of trees, casting eerie shadows over the quiet neighborhood. Mr. Shaver stepped out of his apartment at precisely nine o’clock, feeling the chill of the October wind rush against his face. The scent of fall filled his nostrils, mixed with a faint hint of wood smoke in the distance. He strolled down the street, his hands pushed down inside his camouflage green coat. A knit cap kept his long hair out of his eyes and covered the bald spot spreading on top of his head.

As Shaver passed by 816 Elm Street, he grumbled to himself about having to step off the sidewalk. A section of newly laid concrete lay in his way and he maneuvered around the boarded-off area near the driveway. Then, the man noticed the streetlight at the corner was out; he frowned.

Typical of our growing mediocrity.

Automatically, he continued down Elm Street, his thoughts lost to a recent paper which caught his focus. His mind whirled around the work completed by Wheeler concerning space-time and what the renowned physicist called quantum foam. His short legs followed the familiar path as his mind delved into the complexities of the journal he read.

Eventually, he would stop at Walter’s Vape Shop. Every night, he would enter the shop and greet the man behind the counter with a nod before purchasing a replacement pod for his e-cigarette. With the black box in hand, Mr. Shaver would continue down Daytona Street until he reached Peach Street. Then he automatically turned left and made his way back to Elm Street via Lincoln Avenue. The entire route took him exactly 45 minutes, and he always arrived back at his front door at precisely 9:45 PM. Then, he would return to his work.

As he walked, Mr. Shaver would occasionally encounter people, but they rarely said anything to him. Known as the eccentric fixture of the neighborhood, most people simply avoided him. Even the man at Walter’s Vape Shop remained silent during their interactions, knowing that Mr. Shaver preferred it that way. With a tap of his fingers on the glass counter while holding the exact amount with tax in his hand, he would purchase what he needed. Ignoring the customary thanks, he would quietly leave the store, resuming his slow and deliberate pace around the block.

Those who took notice of Abraham Shaver could sense the need for seclusion. As he trudged along, his heavy army surplus coat and woolen cap pulled low over his long gray hair, many assumed him to be a destitute wanderer. But only a handful would realize that he was once a distinguished academic. With doctorates in both philosophy and physics, Shaver had been a renowned authority on Aristotle and Plato. His works inspired and guided younger colleagues with his ground-breaking ideas. His publications argued against the technology that lacked ethical safeguards. He held technology as an existential threat, becoming so ingrained in society as to destroy humanity.

However, that belief did not bring him down. No, his name sparked a wildfire of controversy for another reason. His beliefs ignited an inferno of scandal in academic circles at the small college. Not reflecting upon history, people whispered with horror and disdain, accusing him of dangerous thoughts. Mr. Shaver became a threat to their complacency, for he wanted students to think critically. He pushed Platonic rationalism and Aristotle’s deductive reasoning on students. He asked them to think critically instead of blindly accepting what their teachers and classmates said.

He dared to expose traditional ideas of academic rigor and rational discourse to students over secular theology, which brought about a revolt. As a result, he paid the price by losing his job because of the backlash from those administrators who deemed themselves “right thinking.” But even in exile, at first, he stood tall and unyielding, refusing to let their pettiness and obliviousness silence him. However, the fight turned his family into social outcasts, creating an unbearable tension between husband and wife. The event eventually broke him when he lost that one person who he deemed the most important to his world.

The solitary man took in his surroundings without dwelling on the past, since he remained fixated upon Wheeler’s paper. He could not help but feel a twinge of nostalgia for his long-lost tobacco habit. Still, the ex-professor occasionally liked to sniff an expensive cigar, even if he could not afford to buy one. His doctor’s order prompted Shaver to make the change for the sake of his health. So, each night he would take this route to pick up a refill for his vaping habit. This was one of the few major shifts in his life over the last few years; everything else seemed to remain stagnant and unchanging. Shaver liked it this way.

As Aristotle would say, quality is not an act, it is a habit.

When he reached the intersection of Jefferson Street, Shaver frowned to himself. Something felt off, like he missed something. He looked around, then shrugged, dismissing a feeling that made no logical sense. Over the years, he has lived his life like a clock. Every day, he did the same thing at the same time. Certainly, the number of footsteps remained the same.

His routine wasn’t a conscious decision. However, Shaver found comfort in the regular habits. It came naturally after losing his wife to the overwhelming social chaos she endured with him. Luckily, she didn’t divorce him. She still sent him checks each month to allow him the pleasure of researching ancient manuscripts and books inside his apartment. His timed existence became a way to refresh his mind while tackling complex philosophical and physics questions.

As he turned onto Peach Street and headed back towards Jefferson, the dog that always barked at him was waiting once again. As always, Mr. Shaver ignored the snarling animal that raced back and forth inside its fenced yard. The beast eventually gave up trying to chase him when he stepped in front of the next house.

Shaver came to an abrupt halt in front of the quaint house at 213 Peach, his progress impeded by several large boxes scattered across the sidewalk. He couldn’t help but notice the couple standing on the porch, their agitated voices carrying over the yard. Through an open front door, he caught snippets of the conversation as a disheveled man bolted past him, arms laden with hastily packed suitcases. The man flung the items into the waiting car’s open trunk before once again disappearing into the house.

Curiosity piqued, Shaver tilted his head and gazed up at the porch where the man’s distraught wife stood clutching their crying infant. Tears streaked down her cheeks as she urgently urged her husband to hurry.

For a moment, Shaver overheard the sound of a faint newscast drifting from the open living room door.

“… we have reports of buildings gone . . . missing people. . .Dr. Hardwick . . .” The wind whipped the muted words away and Mr. Shaver shrugged as he stepped through the obstacles and continued on his way.

Authorities are scaring the populace again!

He’d heard it before. Atomic weapons hidden in a Middle East desert to start a war to enrich the super wealthy. Terrorists flying planes into buildings, leaving the populace happy to give up their freedoms. Logic and rationality always fell by the wayside when people turned into blithering puppets driven by fear and emotions.

The Hardwick name came to his mind as he remembered the braggart loved to move everyone. A trained monkey who enjoyed sitting for interviews with intellectual inferiors like himself. Shaver’s objections to Hardwick’s experiments on quantum physics and braneworlds played a role in the ex-professor’s current state. He lost vital friendships when he pointed out the potential issues of pushing through the curtain separating dimensions.

Despite the nagging thoughts that crept into his mind, Shaver shook them off and vigorously rubbed his arms together as he breathed in the crisp, chilly air. He quickened his pace, taking in the familiar sights of the neighborhood that emerged from the dark fall night.

He reminded himself of the mantra he had adopted a decade ago to remain sane — nothing in the world would phase him. Isolation and resilience remained the keys. With a determined stride, he continued on his way, confident in his ability to stay calm and collected. In a way, he even went against the advice of the great one he knew well. Aristotle claimed those who enjoyed solitude were a beast or a god.

Well, I’m certainly no god.

When he reached the parking lot of the drugstore at the corner of Peach and Lincoln, he noticed an unusual gathering at the drugstore. Mr. Shaver noticed the people were upset, and he overheard brief statements among the milling crowd.

“It’s happening everywhere . . . this is getting crazy. . . when are the cops coming? I’m getting anything I need; no damn clerk is stopping . . .

Amid the growing commotion, Mr. Shaver trudged on with determination. He ignored the tension he felt in the crowd, seeking to get to his apartment, just three-quarters of a block away. As he drew closer to his home, he could have sworn he heard glass shattering and screams piercing through the air. But when he turned back to check, everything seemed eerily calm and still.

He made his way up the stairs and hesitated before unlocking the front door, glancing at his wrist out of habit. The watch was a gift from his wife, who was supposed to be in his life forever. It showed him the time: 9:30 PM.

He did a double-take and looked at the watch again. Shock filled him, unable to comprehend the difference in time. He always left at nine and returned by a quarter to ten. How could he have arrived fifteen minutes early? While puzzling over this strange occurrence, he checked his pocket.

No refill!

For the first time, he missed stopping at Walter’s Vape Shop. He realized he had forgotten to buy an e-cigarette refill today — a daily routine for him.

Muttering to himself, Mr. Shaver fumbled with his keys, the metal jingling as he let himself into his apartment. His eyes scanned the quiet street outside before finally locking the door behind him with an audible click. Letting out a sigh, he shrugged off his coat and stocking cap, hanging them on the rack that hung from the small closet door by the entrance.

The quiet living room welcomed him with its familiar warmth and comforting familiarity. He sank into his favorite chair, its plush cushions molding with his body. As he gazed at the empty e-cigarette device on the stand next to him. He put it to his lips. While he puffed on the tube, he smelled the menthol and found solace in its calming presence. The steady rhythm of the clock on the mantle provided a soothing soundtrack to his thoughts.

“Maybe I should check the news!” He told the quiet room.

The man eyed the piece of furniture that once held a television on top. His wife took the radio they had there. He replaced it with an old CD player he found on clearance at the drugstore. His limited collection of artists lay piled up next to it. The rest of the top now held a row of dusty books, along with a few rolled up celestial maps. He had long ago stopped reading newspapers and magazines. Instead, he went to the library on Peach Street to borrow those academic papers he needed. Mr. Shaver felt no need for anything else.

Each day he walked along the same streets, passing by the same buildings and people, never venturing beyond the invisible walls that confined him. He had cut himself off from the pulse of the city, living in a monotonous cycle of familiarity and routine. His existence remained in a confined world of just a few city blocks. A self-imposed isolation had slowly transformed into an insurmountable barrier enclosed within four blocks.

Still, despite his reclusive nature, he couldn’t completely avoid hearing about the outside world from time to time. He may have lost track of what day it was, but Shaver knew about the ongoing troubles that plagued the world. Wars certainly never stopped. Envy and resentments stoked by people clawing their way to power brought butchery and misfortunes upon everyone.

The once familiar newscasts, which he used to follow religiously, were now nothing but a distant memory. He removed the television years ago when he could no longer take listening to the talking heads. Inevitably, the beautiful people told their audience how to react to sudden death, violence, politics, even the weather with a certain mystical awe. Reports on the cause and effect went out the window for heart wrenching personal testimony or dramatic, if set up, encounters.

Everywhere he looked, emotions and passions were on full display. Any rationality, along with thoughtful discussion, quickly cast aside in favor of sensationalism. Even among mathematicians and scientists, he noticed systematic study fell out of fashion, replaced by a need to feel good about oneself at all costs.

The overheard snippets of conversations struck a chord with him when he replayed them in his mind. For a moment, Shaver considered using his old computer, sitting on a desk in his bedroom. Then he remembered he disconnected from the Internet after mobs targeted his wife with hateful comments. These mobs were angry with him but didn’t hesitate to harm others for their version of justice.

Most of those he saw on the street carried a so-called ‘smartphone’. The thought brought a smile to his face because Mr. Shaver wanted to pat himself on the back. He recognized a dreadful future coming when he first observed the young kids clued to the small screens on tiny telephones as they walked down the street. Many centuries before, a philosopher pointed out that the quality of life is determined by its activities. In his mind, the muddled intelligence of the coming generation directly resulted from such technology.

Still, it would be useful now.

However, only grudgingly conceded the idea, for Mr. Shaver ignored the troubles of the world. He convinced himself there was no need to bring such things into his daily concerns. If others wanted to talk about or stress about events beyond their control, that was on them. To Shaver, outside events held no significance. Only his study to uncover the deep and hidden connection between time and existence pulled him from the melancholy of his past. Examination and reasoning gave him the motive to exist, a future. Shaver retreated from humanity to research and learn from the brightest throughout history.

His mind engraved every detail of the room with clarity. It wasn’t much, a few pieces of furniture, including an old center leg table with its green felt-like covering and a lamp next to his comfortable recliner with it taped patches over worn leather.

His eyes traveled across the room as he looked over the dusty shelf, which held a couple of awards. Next to it was a quartz clock that told the time of day and the day of the week and month. It was the only item which he maintained with batteries. The rhythmic, steady beat from the clock overwrote the silence of the room. Above the shelf was the painting he enjoyed most.

An acrylic copy of “Parade de cirque” by Seurat fit the room according to his wife, who praised the muted colors. It was the last present his wife gave him. Aside from that, Shaver considered the masterpiece perfect for his world. It carried a certain mathematical quality with its close approximation to the divine proportion. The picture showed a row of cornet and trombone players in a somber arrangement dominated by a uniformity of horizontal and vertical lines.

“Yes, Aristotle was correct. Mathematics exhibit order, symmetry, and limitations, the greatest forms of the beautiful.” He stated with certainty.

Mr. Shaver smiled to himself as the weariness of the day wore upon him. Looking over at the table where Wheeler’s book rested, he got up from the chair and retrieved it. Laying on his bed, the man reread the essay, stopping now and then to consider the vague, strange feelings that swept over him. While he could neither define nor understand his uneasiness, Shaver decided the change during his walk must be the cause.

After hours of tossing and turning, he finally drifted into a restless slumber. However, instead of finding peace in the depths of his mind, a series of nightmares threw him into a state of unrest, disrupting his restless slumber.

In the most intense, Shaver walked alone in a type of cartoon. Dead trees and withered brush, vivid in their starkness, surrounded him while the surrounding air reeked of death. He stumbled along as the limbs brushed against him, yet he felt nothing. When he reached out to touch the vegetation, his hands became invisible until he pulled them back. But when he did, the skin was missing, leaving only blackened skeleton fingers.