Henry Bemis (0:11)

Of all the things one could have chosen to do that night, Henry Bemis was pretty sure sitting quietly in a chair reading was the least offensive. Yes, he had snuck away and camped out in the living room. Alone. On purpose. Was it so wrong to want a private moment to leaf through a magazine he'd hidden from Agnes? Well, sure, he was aware that that didn't sound so great out loud. But look, it's full of words. Henry Bemis began, spouting off the titles of interest about current events, holding up the pages to show his wife, each one war just days away. Collapse of conference imminent. He licked his finger and rifled through the pages even faster. Prehistoric artifacts unearthed in the Yucatan. The Yucatan. Where even is that reading? Am I right? Don't you just want to know more? He said with wild eyes. Clearly Agnes did not. So Henry caved, promising himself he would read the magazine later, when he had time. He would do it this time. He would. Agnes glanced at the clock and took the situation by the horns. She swiped the magazine from Henry's hands, tearing a page in the process, which didn't really matter because the whole thing flew right into the fireplace and withered immediately. It's bridge night. Bridge night. And I do not want to be late again, agnes said. She scowled at Henry's chin. Agnes would want him to shave before leaving for the Joneses. Henry knew his wife was always going on about how smooth Jasper Jones's chin was. Jasper Jones. Jasper Jones. Oh, Jasper Jones. Henry. Good grief. Agnes was serious. Yes, go shave, get dressed, and clean up this living room. And. And his fingers reached for the magazine that no longer existed. Oh my gosh, Henry. I'm going. I'm going. Henry stood and waddled away, not once realizing how important this moment was, what this exchange said about him as a person, how precious his options used to be. Time was always what Henry Bemis thought he lacked. But time, he'll come to see, was not his problem at all. From Jason and Carissa Weiser, creators of myths and legends. This is fictional. For some, work is an escape. No one to nag me here, one co worker always joked kind of a lot. For others, home at the end of the day was the real delight. This was how most co workers at the Eastside bank and Trust claimed to feel. Actually, all of them, except for Henry Bemis. He felt stuck in the middle. Neither work nor home provided the slice of time all his own in one place, agnes always filling Henry's time with tasks and social events. In the other, Mr. Carsville, the bank's boss doing the same, just without the social pieces. Agnes could probably give Mr. Carceville a good run for his money, which was all the man ever seemed to care about. It's a bank, Bemis. Our whole thing is money. Barked Mr. Carsville. He stopped by a vase of flowers to pinch off a white carnation from the bunch, then planted it in his lapel. He adjusted his tie. The signet ring on his middle finger sparkled beneath the fluorescent lights. It's a great day to make some money. Let's make it as interest wait for it ing as possible. He sang and strutted away to the back office. Henry squared up his station and opened the drawer as Wilkinson, to his right, waved the first and only person in line to the counter. Words like deposit and account number filled the silence as Henry began counting the bills in the drawer for the morning check. Before long, Henry's shoulders drooped. I'm distracted, he said to no one as he started over at zero for the third time. What's that, Bemis? Prithard asked from the left. I said I'm going down to the vault for a moment. I've only got two fives. Prithard shrugged and waved to a family entering the front door. Alright, no rush. There's nobody here this morning. Back in five. Or should I say two fives? Henry shot his co worker a half hearted smile and shuffled to the basement. He was in the vault when it happened, the moment the ground shook. The walls had vibrated and the lights flickered before the generator kicked in. But it was the lack of commotion following such an event that that clued Henry into the fact that something very important had happened. Something unusual. He'd only just pulled the rolled up magazine from his coat pocket, too. Earlier that morning Henry had passed a newsstand and the COVID of one of the current issues had caught his attention. The new weapons of today and what they'll do to you. Yes, that was the question, and Henry had to know the answer. All morning it was all he could think about. Normally it was the public library that ate up his thoughts. The library with its unending rows of books arranged by letter and interest, each one full of things Henry Bemis would one day very much like to know. Sometimes on Fridays, and only if he was running early, Henry would detour into the library on his way to work, just to see and smell, dream. One day. One day he would sit and read a book, cover to cover. It was the one and only thing on his bucket list. The idea of having time to complete such a task simply blew his mind. How free must the gentleman at the far table feel, poring over a book on car mechanics at leisure? Or the woman over there perusing the new and noteworthy stacks whose main challenge was picking just one book, not ten. Always. Henry left the library feeling energized and determined. Someday he would sit in that library and read to his heart's content. It would be glorious. But today, Henry Bemis had just picked up a magazine on the way to work. Not the same one Agnes tossed in the fire, but one of equal intrigue. And since there was no morning rush that day, he'd snuck away to the privacy of the vault to allow himself to sneak a peek. Well, more than a peek. He'd hunkered down in the vault to read his magazine without interruption from Mr. Carsville or Agnes or anyone else when it had happened. Forgetting all about the $5 bills and even about the magazine, Henry stood and turned. The vault door was still there, but it was different. It was more of a ramp than a door, and the ceiling was no longer flat. Before him, the scene narrowed like a funhouse room in a carnival, the kind that made you feel like you were standing sideways or morphing into a giant with each step. Curious, Henry crawled through the opening and couldn't believe his eyes. Rubble everywhere. The staircase had turned into a towering pile of cement bricks. The far side of the next room had completely caved in, and dusty streaks of light rained down like shooting stars. And the oddest piece of all. Henry waited and listened. But there were no sounds. No alarms, no shouting, no running footsteps. No Mr. Carsville cutting break time short and commanding everyone back to work. All was quiet. Fog settled behind Henry's glasses as beads of sweat trickled down his brow. The nose bridge slipped lower and he pulled off the frames to clean the lenses. As he did so, the world was a blur. Literally. Without his glasses, Henry was lost. Legally blind, it read across the top of his medical file. But with glasses, it was miraculous, a delicate and exact science he entrusted only to Dr. Torrance, though her office was over an hour away. That was why he never filled his prescription in town, and also why he was scheduled to pick up his spare pair next week. Not this. He would ask Dr. Torrance to adjust the current pair while he was there, Henry decided. Looking down at his hands, he set to work. An impressionistic scene lay before him, no matter how hard he squinted. The largest blobs his arms and hands. A splash of pink. A splash of pink. The cleaning cloth he pulled from his back pocket. Only with glasses cleaned and repositioned? Did the absurdity of Henry's present situation become clear once more? Hand over limb, Henry climbed the pile of rubble back to the work floor. Mr. Carsville. He called. Mr. Carsville. No answer. Wilkinson and Prithard were nowhere to be found either. Mr. Carsville. Actually, the same could be said of the desk behind which they always stood. Emery, Pete, Ralph, Jenkins, Hunter, Pat. Where had everyone gone? Even the guard and the doorman were missing. That was not like them at all. It was literally their job to be there all day. At that moment, Henry stepped on something soft and gasped. It was slippery like a banana peel. Except it wasn't fruit. It was a hand. A hand wearing an oversized signet ring on the third finger. A hand that disappeared beneath the slab of concrete that used to be the ceiling next to it, a loose carnation that Henry knew to be white. It was now spotted with reds and browns. Henry looked away. Mr. Carsville. Oh, Mr. Carsville. The chain of command ran through Henry's mind as best he could remember. Mr. Carsville followed by Mr. Wilkinson. Then Mr. Emery. Or was it Mr. Prithard, then Mr. Emery? What did it matter anyway? They were gone. All of them, judging by the splatters and smears across the floor. The scene was so horrifying and Henry Bemis almost wished he couldn't see. Almost. He shielded both eyes as a pounding beat rippled through his chest. No bank meant no workplace. No work. At the very least, there was nothing tying him to the desk and drawer anymore. The desk and drawer that no longer existed. All that time bought by Mr. Carsville returned to his keep to do with as he pleased. As in, he could leave. Henry swirled around to look at the front door. No customer. So yes, he could go somewhere else. He could go anywhere. He could read whatever happened just now. In town or in the city, in the world. Who knew how far the havoc reached. Whatever happened, the vault had protected him. He hadn't asked for safety, so there was no reason for guilt. And he would have done something to help Mr. Carsville and his co workers if he could. But he gagged. He had to get out of here. He forced himself to look at the grisly ruins and remains one more time. Nope. There was definitely nothing he could do to bring anyone back. That was tragically and horrifically obvious. Outside the east side bank and Trust, it wasn't much better, really. It was probably worse. Cars lay smashed in and out of lanes, most at least partially beneath blocks of concrete. Another debris. Streetlights stretched into the road, the closest one sparking beside a weeping fire hydrant. And the people, all the people. Lumps, really. They were all unidentifiable but recognizable enough, bent and twisted, torn, and Henry couldn't stomach it and hobbled away in the direction of home. His torso jerked ahead, his feet struggling to keep up over uneven chunks of pavement as he stumbled. Agnes came to mind. Oh snap, she would be so upset to know that she had not been his first thought when trouble came. At least he was thinking of her now, though, of her safety. Was she alright? His toe landed on a grounded poster beside a sideways phone booth and the paper caught his eye. In the event of an emergency, do not use the telephone. YOUR loved ones are as safe as you are, it read in blue letters. Well, I mean, if the poster said so, it must be true, Henry believed. And if the poster was wrong, well, by the look of everything up to this point, everywhere bodies and things lay strewn about as though the world were an overstuffed closet that spilled open, all its contents now broken and lifeless, cracked or oozing or. If Agnes was not all right, there was nothing Henry would be able to do. Not for her, not for anyone. It was a sad and lonely thought that lodged in the back of Henry's mind. He sputtered, tearing at his tie before throwing it to the ground. It didn't fly far enough, so he had to bend down to untangle it from his shoe and nearly lost his glasses in the process. Oh yeah, when this was all over, he was absolutely gonna call up Dr. Torrance for an adjustment. For now, though, he would make his way home and face whatever had become of Henry Bemis made it three blocks before the broken car fender got him sharp and metallic. His fleshy leg never saw it coming and didn't stand a chance. The outpouring of crimson from his slacks took him by surprise, as did the sting that followed. He pulled the cloth from his back pocket and wrapped and tied it around his calf. He limped a couple steps before slowing his pace. Right next to the Gazette building. Well, what was left of it, completely razed to the ground. How seriously, how shame that there would be no more weekly newspapers to one day consume, no more titles to read as one walked by, no more magazines to buy on his way home for Agnes to throw into the fire. Oh my gosh, Agnes. Henry had to keep moving, had to get home to his wife. But also no. He balled both hands. No. Henry had to be real with himself. Was there any way Agnes had survived whatever this was? No, there was not. Well into the distance, every chapter of the story was the same. The event had been so sudden, so massive, so thorough, and the effect was final. Tears puddled atop his cheeks, but he wiped them away. For a moment, Henry froze in the center of what used to be the busiest street in town. It was surreal. No traffic lights, no honking horns, no places to be or go. No one claiming all the hours of your life. Was this it? Henry thought. Was this his moment? Did he, him, Henry Bemis, finally have time enough? At last, slowly at first, then gaining speed and ignoring the bright red seeping from his bandaged leg, Henry Bemis took off. He was wobbled and tripped all the way there as worry stormed through his head. What if they were all ruined? What if he couldn't get to them? What if they had been destroyed like everything else? What if. And then there it was, the domed building that always brightened his day, that beckoned him inside every morning, the one place Henry Bemis always wished he could go and stay. It was battered and broken, the whole front facing the facade ripped open to the outside, but miraculously, it had remained intact enough to shelter its precious contents within. He could see them and rushed inside. The library. The glorious public library. It was beautiful with its doors wide open and also missing. But it was undeniable. Everything had finally aligned for Henry Bemis, and time was his for the taking, his for the reading. It was a real struggle to get inside, especially with his leg in such a condition. But at last he was there, standing among rows and rows of books. The first he picked up, collected works of William Shakespeare. His smile could not have been wider. He would work his way up to that one. But yes, he was going to read it. Louise May Alcott, Lynn Venable, the Wisers, Huxley, Oxwell. The yes pile of books grew and grew. Yes, he said. Yes, he will. Yes. He didn't understand that reference. He'd heard it before, but he would. He threw James Joyce on the pile. The pile spilled over like dominoes, fanning across the floor. It was a beautiful mess that Henry couldn't wait to explore where to start, though why, that was the most glorious piece of all. Henry could start anywhere because he could read all of it in time, which he had plenty of now. That was the silver lining, the blessing in disguise, the Unable to contain himself a moment longer, Henry stooped and picked up the nearest title. A shelf near the front had turned on its side, so Henry made his way over and sat down on the makeshift bench. This moment it felt even better, even more satisfying than he ever imagined, ever hoped the cloth covered spine rested on his lap. The pages reached toward the sky like petals of a flower begging to open and bloom. Fingers on the COVID thumbing the pages, the long awaited treasure cracking open. The rumble took him by surprise. It was a latent vibration from beneath the toppled shelf, from beneath the library. The world was still reacting to the bomb. Henry lost his balance briefly, but steadied himself in time. However, in his current state, the moisture beading atop every pore, his sweat slick and slimy, the adjustment to his frames he knew he needed, had told himself that very day he would get from Dr. Torrance very soon. Henry Bemis did not fall, but his glasses did. The book, his hands, the shelf, the floor, his world, all of it sucked into a vacuum of blurred oneness. In that singular moment Henry blinked over and over, but only splotches of muted colors melting into one another remained. When he felt the crack underfoot, the truth sank in. All the time one could ever wish to have, could not grant the freedom to do the one thing Henry Bemis always longed to do, always assumed he'd be able to do. It was always someday, but never this day. Always a dream, a sometime eventually. But in that moment it had all turned to never. Henry lowered his chin, the book on his lap the one felt but not seen. No words, no outline, not even a page at all. Time enough at last, but all he could do was cry. Not every story needs to have a moral lesson or an impactful takeaway. Those can be good things, but it's not always necessary to have good writing. Sometimes the point of a story is the journey itself, the experience, and I could talk about that all day, but here we get both. By the end we've gotten to know Henry and we can feel for him, or at least see why. The last scene closes on him in despair, but there's the reflection that follows. I can't help but think, what is my equivalent to Henry's dream of raiding? What is the goal that I have, that I never make time to pursue? Henry was always waiting for time to be given to him, and he found out the hard way that time alone wasn't the missing piece. When it comes to people, relationships, and the things you want to do in life, you have to make time make those things a priority. That's something Henry never did. In that same vein, this story reminds me of when I used to work doing psychometric testing, cognitive testing that helped to diagnose stuff like Alzheimer's and frontotemporal dementia, other other stuff, or differentiate them from Mental health problems. There was a patient that stuck with me for years. The husband talked to me personally while the wife was in speaking with the psychologist. The couple was in their mid to late 60s and had worked all their lives. He told me they had both retired around the same time, like a year or two ago. And finally, finally they were going to be able to spend time together, travel, go and do all the things they had been saving for for all those years. Then they started noticing some things were off with the wife's memory. We at our clinic could only help confirm what they had been experiencing. That she had early onset Alzheimer's and it was bad. He told me that all the things they had wanted to do together, they couldn't do them now. They had done everything right, had waited for so long, and now that future that they dreamed of together would never be. It was utterly heartbreaking and the look of anguish on his face will stick with me for the rest of my life. It is good to plan for the future and be responsible and delay if you need to, but also, don't forget to live. Like, obviously, don't be irresponsible. Our lives are a balance between knowing that there might not be a tomorrow, so we need to live while we can, and. And also knowing that there probably will be a tomorrow and we need to be prepared for it. You probably shouldn't book a private jet and go to Vegas tonight, but it might not be bad to close the laptop and put the work away and read your child a story before bed. Stop scrolling and have a conversation, go outside and do something instead of telling yourself you will someday. It's also interesting how Henry didn't seem content to work toward his goal. Little by little, he wanted to sit down and read a whole novel, cover to cover, which most people don't do in a single sitting. It's just not reasonable. But since Henry could never read a whole book at once or a whole magazine at once, he missed out altogether. Instead of sitting down to read an article or two, he spent his available time dreaming about reading, not actually reading. I'm still thinking about this and I hope it makes you think as well. That's all for this week. Today's story was inspired by Time Enough At Last by Len Venable. First published in if Worlds of Science fiction magazine in 1953, this episode was written by Carissa Weiser and I'm Jason Weiser. Our theme song is by the brilliant Breakmaster Cylinder next week. It's a story about a man who loves his life and you know that because he has to tell himself how much he loves his life so many times each day. Fictional is a narrative podcast and next pop production created by us, the wisers. Thank you so much for listening, and we'll see you next time. The glorious public line. That's weird. Okay, got that.