A Short Piece of Fiction-- The Idealist [Part 7--The End]

Ok, here is the end! Finally, I am such a slacker!

Jim continues to open, read, mentally catalogue, and destroy the garbage that encompasses his desk. As he works and drinks, the vehemence of his thoughts gives way to a dull, numb, gnawing desire to be done for the night. Still, he reads on, and as time drains and presses, he finds he has only one letter left for the night. He never reads the return addresses on the envelopes, and this one is no exception. He merely notes that it is addressed to Dr. James Bentley and rips open the top, (it having progressed far too late in the evening, and he having progressed far too deep into his open can to continue bothering with the letter-opener.) and reads:

Dr. Bentley:

You may be surprised upon opening this letter to find that I, an old Chemistry student of yours, should spend time writing you a letter, especially one that has very little to do with the subject of Chemistry, or any other scientific pursuit. I never would have pinned you down as a man of the arts, and so when I heard that you would be carrying out Rob's project in its entirety, I was surprised. Pleasantly, of course, but surprised nonetheless. Please excuse me if I address the remainder of my letter to Rob. I know it seems strange, a boy I passed in the coffee shop a few times, and stranger that he is no longer with us. I'm not sure why, but I think I would feel better if I told him how he changed me. Please excuse this little indulgence.

Rob:

People always talk about how they wish that they could talk to and thank those who have passed on. I decided not to waste any time on wishes, and just talk to you. Your project will be open to the public in a few days, but I have a confession to make: I have seen it! Alone, not with one of the touring groups. I snuck over the gate last night and wandered amidst the rocks, metal, mirrors, and the colors for four or five hours before coming back to and sneaking out unnoticed. I'm not sure how many others have done the same, but I would assume others have wanted to. I'm sure you can understand that we are all dying to "see what we've been missing."

I will admit that, at first, I felt nothing but disappointment. I just stood there in the middle of the field, looking at all of the foreign objects, the numbers, the formulas, all so carefully placed and measured, and I thought, "wonderful! Just like every other piece of art I've ever seen! It is worthless and makes no sense." I will admit that the only thing that kept me there was having known you. I told myself, "You knew the artist. Give him more of a chance than you've given everyone else!" So I sat, and I waited, and waited, and waited. It got cold, and I zipped my jacket tighter and waited some more. I wish that I could say it was right at sunrise, when the first morning rays hit my eyes that some great illumination came to me, or in the witching hour when some fairy ring appeared, and revealed all that I had been lacking. Honestly, I'm not sure what time it was when I realized what you had been getting at. Or, I guess what I see in it. If someone were to ask me right now what it "means" I would tell them: it means that it means. There is meaning everywhere, if we want to look for it. When we look hard, we are rewarded, and we come away better people. If we dismiss, we are the ones who suffer. Your work is a celebration of meaning, and of man's search for it, and his conquering of the unknown. The unknown will always become known with enough determination--perhaps a lot of patience, and a good wind-breaker. Shoot, it's probably a bit of faith as well. To escape finding meaning is to deny our nature.

Thank you for showing me that, I had definitely been missing it.

-Sylvia (from the coffee shop)

The only outward indication that Jim hesitates over finishing this last letter the way that he has finished the others is a slight deviance in his normally impeccable timing. He takes one long sip from his can before folding the letter again and inserting it back in its destroyed envelope. He may also let it fall just a bit more slowly over the scorching heat. The flame that follows, lying on top of the ashtray, has become a perfect lighter for one more piece of paper. Jim snatches The Professor in his Ideal and drops it on top of the burning mess. He knows he should have done it long ago. There is no reason to hold on to yesterday, or to think about tomorrow. All the days are the same, aren’t they? He stares blankly on, not registering the irony that the paper, writhing and twisting over the smoke-stained metal, has become the perfect visual to accompany the sound of an ambulance, several streets away, rushing off to some new emergency.