First, create a character, give him/her a goal and then write attempts about getting a goal. Then, someone counters against his/her goal with just as much cleverness/strength.
It couldn’t stay there. It couldn’t. The people walked through the museum with their drinks and food from the snack shop; they would drop crumbs and spill drinks. And if anyone spent any time watching the maintenance crew, with their unwashed bins and rice-paper-thin plastic gloves, they would know that the floor, the benches and the handrails were never clean.
Not really clean. Not like they should be.
And when the air conditioning clicked on, I watched dust and mold flutter through the air as little specs in streaming sunlight. It made me want to scream.
How could I leave George Washington’s pocket watch, the one Martha gave him after he retired from his presidency, in such filth? Seriously, how could I?
I know what my doctor would say. He would say I was imagining the filth because of my condition. He would tell me that I was hyperly aware of the lack of proper cleaning fluids and proper application of said cleaning fluids because of my OCD. He would write me another prescription. He would try to have me read another book.
But I’m not crazy. And I’m not a slave to my compulsions. I have valid reasons for staking out the museum. There’s a purpose to my timing the guards and learning their names and habits. The cause is just and righteous, even if I am the only one to see it.
Slipping in when the night janitor took the trash out the back door was simple. He was a retired security guard who should’ve been home enjoying his retirement and his grandchildren. His Coke-bottle glasses hid me from his line of sight as I turned sideways and walked through the closing metal door in the back.
I stopped to allow my eyes to adjust, even though I knew it was fourteen steps to the next door. I had walked the make-shift floor plan in my grandmother’s garage. Once I could see the shipping crates and empty garbage bins, I made my way to the set of doors that lead to the main, maintenance hallway. It wasn’t alarmed yet, so I turned the handle and walked in.
The hallway led past the offices of the security guards and minor administrators. Lights were off except for the few screen savers from the computers on ratty, disgustingly filthy desks. Ugh. I felt the muscles in my arms and shoulders twitch as the thought floated to my head. Clean. I could clean the desks. Maybe if I cleaned everything, George Washington’s pocket watch wouldn’t be at risk of deteriorating into history.
No. I had to stay focused. I had to stay on task. Even if I cleaned the desks up, even if I cleaned the whole museum, these animals would only drag their putridity back. It would start all over again.
I picked the lock at the end of the hall. It was a standard office lock - I found one online on eBay. It wasn’t as clean as mine, but I practiced in surgical gloves so I was finished before the janitor was back in the building.
The main hall was quiet. I’ve never heard such quiet before. It caught me off guard, leaving my brain to fill the silence with thoughts of what needed to be done and how fast it needed to be done. My heart rate picked up as I shifted the messenger bag hanging on my shoulder.
I had four minutes before the janitor would call it a night and lock me in. I didn’t have much time.
“Darin, stop.”
The voice echoed through the room like someone yelling into the Grand Canyon. I jumped. My sneakers squeaked against the floor as I landed and turned all the way around. For a second, I thought maybe I had finally cracked. That maybe all those things the police said about me were true.
And then George Washington stepped from the shadows.
“Darin, you don’t need to do this.” He stood in one of the security’s lights, but out of the reach of cameras. I froze where I stood. Was this what it was like to go crazy?
“I -” I stopped speaking because my mouth ran dry. What do you say to the first president of the United States? Even if he was wearing ratty Nike running shoes.
Wait a minute. I knew those shoes.
“George?” Ironically enough, there was a guy named George in my group. He had shoes just like the ones on George Washington.
“Yeah,” he said. He laughed that weird little quiet laugh of his that sounded more like wheezing that laughter. “It’s me.”
“What are you doing here?” I rattled my brain for why George was in group. He was thin with a big nose. He chewed his cuticles until they were red, but he stopped short of making them bleed. I could see him slouched in his chair with his legs kicked out into the center of the circle of chairs. With those shoes.
“I couldn’t let you do,” he said. He took another step towards me. “You’re a good guy, Darin. The next time they catch you, you will go to jail. For a long time this time. You won’t make it.”
“They wouldn’t catch me.”
“If I figured it out, the cops would too.”
It hit me. George was a single obsessive. He stalked his last boyfriend to the point of ending up in group rather than do jail time. He didn’t attack him or break into his house, which the police knew about, but there was notebooks filled with schedules, pictures and drawings when he was picked up.
“Listen, George, we have about three minutes to get the pocket watch and get out of here.” As I took a step towards the other end of the gallery, I watched George match it. We did our cha-cha for another half-a-dozen steps before I stopped.
“Darin, we could get out of here now. You and me. Go somewhere nice.” He smiled. “I’ll buy you dinner.”
(I ran out of time. So, yeah, sudden stop)
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