James sat at his desk, rifling through proofs as usual, though he couldn’t help but look repeatedly at the clock in the bottom right corner of his computer screen. He had already called, left three messages, and made excuses to co-workers, but he had no idea of Clark’s whereabouts. “9:55... 9:56... 9:57... C’mon Clark,” he said to himself. As James was picking up the phone to make the fourth call before taking a cab to the apartment, the office door flung open with great force and Clark tripped in. He tried to stop the door from swinging wildly inward, but could not catch it and the wall shook when it connected with a bang.
“Sorry,” said Clark in a groveled morning voice. James stood up.
“Where the hell have you,” he stopped as Clark removed his hat and made eye contact. “Aw man, Clark. You look like you got hit by a bus.”
“I wish I had,” Clark replied. “Maybe then my head would stop pounding.”
“What happened?” James asked, but he already knew the answer. Fifteen years happened.
“Jack. Jack happened.” said Clark. “Listen, I would very much appreciate if you could save all of your questions and concerns until at least after lunch…that is, if I make it ‘till then.”
“Yeah, no problem. I feel your pain,” James chuckled. “Just let me know if you need anything. Water, coffee, headache medicine, um…”
“Already too much talking, James,” Clark interrupted. James nodded, got up from his desk, closed the door, and went back to work. He punched the keys a little softer for the rest of the morning. He would look up occasionally and smile, as if to ask if everything was okay, but he was never able to connect.
A little after twelve o’ clock, James decided to break the silence and introduce the idea of food. “Alright, you ready for lunch or what?”
“Can’t do it yet,” groaned Clark, “Besides, I have some proofing to make up since I missed most of the morning.”
“Alright. I’m going down to the cafeteria today. How ‘bout water? Coffee?” he asked.
“Yeah. Both, please,” said Clark looking up for the first time in a while. He still looked like death warmed over and it was obvious he felt worse than he looked.
James nodded again, and smiled. He stood up, stretched, and as he leaned down to turn off his monitor something caught his eye. James always had a news ticker running on his desktop. He was a news hound and prided himself on being able to talk about things as they happened. He could not believe what the scroll at the bottom of the screen was saying. He sat back down with a thump and clicked on the link to view the entire story. As he read, he moved closer and closer to the screen and his eyes squinted, then widened, then squinted, then widened again. Clark, in his daze, noticed his friend’s odd behavior and said, “Hey, I thought you were going to,” but he was silently interrupted by the palm of James’ hand thrust in his direction. “What’s the matter?” asked Clark.
“Do you have your ticker running?” James’ voice cracked as he asked his question.
“No, I never turned it on.” Clark replied. “What’s the…”
“Turn it on,” James insisted.
“Why? What’s the big…”
“Goddamnit Clark turn it on!” James shouted. Clark, surprised by his partner’s urgency, fumbled with the mouse and finally got his news scroll working, but the story had already passed. It was on to the Yankees score and further points of sports boredom. Clark was irritated.
“The scores? Who cares James? What, did you have money on the Yanks?” Clark asked in confusion.
“Here. I am sending you a link to the story I have up.” With a couple clicks and a ding, the story had been sent and received.
“I’ve never seen you act so…” Clark trailed off as he opened the story and the reason for James’ excitement became clear.
Baghdad, Iraq. 6:23 pm. 10/26/2035. A marketplace was bombed today near the new Iraqi parliament building. Fifteen civilians and the bomber are confirmed dead and ninety-four more are injured. Only one hour after the attack a terrorist group calling themselves the Al-Mahjari released a statement to the international press claiming responsibility. The leader, Almar bin-Sawwadi, has warned that there will be many more attacks to come around the world as his group looks to seek revenge for what he calls years of Western oppression under the IDA. In addition to this evening’s attack, bin-Sawwadi has claimed sole responsibility for over thirty previous acts of terrorism, most notably the one which killed twenty-seven Americans fifteen years ago today. Not much else is known at this time, including the whereabouts of the terrorist cell. Updates are forthcoming as details are certain to emerge concerning today’s horrific attack.
Clark immediately recognized what he had read, but it seemed strangely surreal. He finally knew the name of the man who killed his wife. His pounding head soon went numb and he thought he may lose consciousness for a moment. Reality set in. He grabbed the trash can from under his desk and let the contents of his stomach go. Then again, and again. James came over to help, but Clark brushed him off. He sat huffing and spitting over the can clenched between his knees, and all James could do was watch. An intensely cold sweat formed on his forehead and neck and he felt dizzy again.
“I’m gonna get you that water,” said James. He turned and ran out of the office and down the hall. Going to the cafeteria would have taken too long and he wasn’t sure how long his friend would hold on. He stopped at the coffee station by the elevators, grabbed a paper cup, filled it up at the drinking fountain and hastily walked back. He couldn’t have been gone thirty seconds. As he approached the office he saw a crowd already forming at the door. Jerry Garafollo from sports, who had been there fifteen years ago, was standing with one hand on the knob and the other clenched in a fist, ready to knock.
“Jerry, don’t,” called out James.
“Did he hear?” asked Jerry, concerned.
“Yeah, just now. He needs some time,” James replied softly. He looked around and noticed Darlene Crawford from the Lifestyle division smiling, with her pen and pad out, as if she were going to write an editorial on the “distraught Clark Kent.” Then he spoke a little louder to the small group of fascinated onlookers. “Clark is just fine. He has heard the news. Please respect his privacy on this matter and I’ll see if he wants to talk to any of you later on. And Darlene, you can quote me on this, put your damn pen away!”
James waited a moment for everyone to disperse, then turned slowly and gripped the doorknob. He took a deep breath and thought about what he would say. Coming up blank, he decided Clark needed the water more than he needed words. He turned the knob and opened the door. There were two desks, two computers, two chairs, one half clean, one half cluttered, but the room was empty. His computer screen was still on and his jacket hung on the back of his chair, but Clark was not there. He had certainly left in a hurry and James was not sure how he didn’t see the escape, but plain and simple, Clark was gone.
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