George and the Angels
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About this ebook
Businessman George Richards lives in a gray world. The walls he hides behind in his office are gray. The carpeting is gray. His life is gray.
But George hears angels—angels who call to him, sing to him. Angels who beg him to come to them, to help them. George’s wife, Elaine, believes that George is suffering a nervous breakdown and he is committed to a mental institution. When he is allowed to return home, George falls back into his old life, his old habits. And the voices return, too. This time, George is unable to resist their call. . .
On this irresistible night, the voices call George to the sea. He follows and climbs aboard a small boat which he rows out to the middle of the ocean. The angels tell George to jump. And he does. . .
Glenn Meganck
Glenn Eric Meganck is a nationally best-selling novelist and musician. In addition to writing novels as Glenn Meganck, he has written under numerous pen names, including JR Ripley, Nick Lucas and Marie Celine and more. As JR Ripley he currently writes the Todd Jones comic capers, A Bird Lover’s Mystery series and the Maggie Miller mysteries. As Marie Celine, he writes the Kitty Karlyle mysteries. Unfit for the real world and unable to hold a real job for long, prior to writing full-time, he worked at a multitude of occupations including archaeologist, cook, factory worker, copywriter, technical writer, editor, musician, entrepreneur, window washer and more – all grist for the writer’s mill. He currently resides in Florida and North Carolina. Visit www.GlennEric.com for more info.
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George and the Angels - Glenn Meganck
Businessman George Richards lives in a gray world. The walls he hides behind in his office are gray. The carpeting is gray. His life is gray.
But George hears angels—angels who call to him, sing to him. Angels who beg him to come to them, to help them. George’s wife, Elaine, believes that George is suffering a nervous breakdown and he is committed to a mental institution. When he is allowed to return home, George falls back into his old life, his old habits. And the voices return, too. This time, George is unable to resist their call…
On this irresistible night, the voices call George to the sea. He follows and climbs aboard a small boat, which he rows out to the middle of the ocean. The angels tell George to jump. And he does…
George and the Angels is the story of a solitary man, caught in an existence without apparent meaning, who is suddenly thrust into a world of inexplicable events and inescapable dangers. It is the story of a man coming to grips with his own identity and place in this universe. George and the Angels challenges our concepts of what is real and what is not and what one man can do to shape his destiny.
Praise for Glenn Meganck’s George And The Angels
A very good read.
— Janwillem Van de Wetering,Bestselling author of the Gripstra and DeGier Mysteries
George and the Angels
is intriguing, funny, and plays with notions of reality in ways that bend your mind. It's both a romp and a quest through a world that may or may not be real, with a quirky protagonist who may or may not be crazy. So pull up a chair and get lost for an afternoon!"
— T.J. MacGregor, 2003 Edgar Award Winner, author of Total Silence
Glenn Meganck's George And The Angels is an outstanding novel about George Richard's terribly mundane, tedious, and seemingly aimless existence. As George progressively becomes disappointed in his life, the gray surrounding him becomes ever more appropriate, and the calling of what seems to be angels brings him briefly to his wife's decision to commit him to a hospital. Readers follow the voices of angels as they beckon him irresistibly to a small boat in the middle of an ocean, which soon becomes his greatest challenge. A truly timeless and well-crafted story of one man's decision to create his own fate in life and pursue even the most disillusioned dreams, George And The Angels is very strongly recommended and entertaining reading. An outstanding novel... A truly timeless and well-crafted story...very strongly recommended and entertaining reading.
— Midwest Book Review
…Novels that actually defy description in many ways because they just aren’t the usual kind of stories one encounters. If the metaphysical interests you, this story will too. I’ll finish with two novels that actually defy description in many ways because they just aren’t the usual kind of stories one encounters…George and the Angels by Glenn Meganck is the story of a man who hears angels. An initially grey and colorless life is traced in this story where the main character is committed to an asylum, believed to have suffered a nervous breakdown, and after being released hears them yet again, only to embark on a journey filled with inexplicable events and dangers. If the metaphysical interests you, this story will too.
— Bookviews
Look for these other great Beachfront Entertainment titles:
By Glenn Meganck–
George And The Angels
It’s A Young, Young World
After the Fall
For Children
Big Deal
Big Deal At The Center Of The Earth
No Big Deal
The Adventures of Jimmy Deal
Aliens In The Greenhouse
By J.R. Ripley–
A Bird Lover’s Mystery Series
Die, Die Birdie
Towhee Get Your Gun
Maggie Miller Mystery Series
Buried in Beignets
Beignets, Brides and Bodies
Tony Kozol Mysteries
Stiff In The Freezer
Skulls Of Sedona
Lost In Austin
The Body from Ipanema
Bum Rap In Branson
Gunfight In Gatlinburg
Gendarme Charles Trenet novels
Murder In St. Barts
Death Of A Cheat
By Marie Celine–
Gourmet Pet Chef Mystery Series
Dishing Up Death
Lights, Camera, Murder!
Pet in Peril
By Nick Lucas–
Five Minutes
—Beachfront Entertainment—
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblances to actual places or events, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2006 Glenn Meganck
All rights reserved under international and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by Beachfront Entertainment.
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without the written consent of the publisher, with the exception of brief passages contained in critical articles or reviews.
Beachfront Entertainment, Raleigh, NC. Correspond with Beachfront via email at: Info@BeachfrontEntertainment.com
First print edition March 2006/ebook April 2011
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Meganck, Glenn, date
George and the Angels / Glenn Meganck
p. cm.
ISBN: 978-1-892339-59-1/1-892339-17-x
1. Psychiatric hospital patients B Fiction. 2. Auditory hallucinations B Fiction. 3. Angels B Fiction. I. Title.
PS3613.E38 G46 2006
813'.54 B dc222005053095
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
George and the Angels
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Prologue
1
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3
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More from Beachfront Entertainment
Prologue
I really, honestly, do not believe in time. Except as a conceptual crutch that helps us hobble through this world. And there’s nothing wrong with that. However, I believe that everything exists at all times. Really, I do. I don’t believe in evolution either. And I’m not speaking about creationism vs. evolution, so let’s not go there. I’m speaking about change for the better. Things change, sure. For the better? That’s pretty subjective.
I do believe that reality is what each and every one of us create for ourselves. No two are alike. Like snowflakes, if you believe that. And we form it, mend it and amend it a bit each day; some days more dramatically than others.
Of course, when five billion realities pressed together on one chunk of rock collide, things can get rather chaotic. How could they not? Nonetheless, we’re all pretty much alike, though some of us may be labeled more crazy, cruel, lazy or indifferent, than the norm. That’s okay, too.
What follows on these pages is exactly what happened as best as I can remember. That’s important. I did not create the story, I remembered it. This is important to the story, so I hope you will remember this, whether you believe the tale or not.
So. Crazy, cruel, lazy, indifferent? Fiction, fantasy, autobiography? Okay, so I should add insane rambling. There, does that make some of you happy? Labels are great for pasting to cans of green beans. Beyond that, they seem rather dubious to me.
But then, at this point in time, I could be labeled crazy—
G
1
I am not crazy I am not crazy I am not crazy I am not—
Mr. Richards?
—crazy I am not crazy I am not crazy I am not crazy I am not crazy I—
The attendant cleared her throat. Her hand clutched the door handle tentatively as a skittish dragonfly. Mr. Richards’ back was to her and he was facing the open window. Sunlight bathed his front side while his back was as dark as the dark side of the moon.
She could tell he was speaking, but it was a low drone and the words indistinguishable. Mr. Richards . . .
—am not crazy I am not crazy I am not crazy I am—
She spoke more loudly this time. George.
Mr. Richards turned, his mouth half open. He looked at her for a moment, as though lost, and then spoke. Yes?
The attendant tilted her head toward the open hallway. It’s time to go.
Go?
Yes, it’s time to go, George.
George took a last look out the window. Biscayne Bay, pounded by the southern light, dazzled the eyes like the liquid shimmering of a blue-skinned alien. Or was he the alien?
He turned to go. Are you sure, Mary?
With a pale hand and a weak grip, George picked up the beaten little suitcase he’d brought with him to the sanitarium. He had sympathy for the little suitcase. They had both been beaten by forces never seen.
Mary nodded. Yes, George.
He obediently followed the officious attendant along the echoing corridors of the Miami Institute of Health. A polite name for a place that kept loonies under lock and key. The suitcase slapped against his right leg as Mary turned a corner, passed a nurses’ station and held open a door that normally stood bolted—keeping damaged people like George from the real people on the other side.
George stopped several paces behind, set down his little suitcase, adjusted his thin brown tie, took a little breath, remembering what Dr. Grossman had said about breathing exercises—slow and easy, George. . .slow and easy. . .I am not crazy I am not crazy. . .
He looked at his feet. Were his dull brown shoes speaking to him? I am not crazy I am not crazy. . .
George?
George looked up. There was Elaine, his wife. Looking like she always did.
In twenty-three years of marriage, she’d barely aged at all. She’d been pretty when he’d met her and she was pretty still. Her eyes were the color of raked autumn leaves. Brown hair fell naturally past her shoulders. Her face was soft and well-chiseled, with barely a wrinkle, except when she was concerned or worried. Like she appeared now and the space between her eyebrows dug itself a furrow that a finger could trace even in the dark.
George jiggled his suitcase and stopped in the open doorway. Thank you, Mary.
You take care of yourself, George.
She gave him a friendly pat on the arm, straightening the edges of his coat. Have some fun now.
George smiled weakly. Fun. Yes. Goodbye.
Goodbye, George. Goodbye, Mrs. Richards.
Mrs. Richards said goodbye to the aide, then hugged her husband. He opened his arms wide, suspending the suitcase in the air. It’s good to see you, darling. You look well.
George knew Elaine was only saying this. He looked well? Was that supposed to make him well? Inside? In his head, where it mattered the most? Thanks.
Tim is outside with the car.
Tim? You brought Tim here?
Yes, he wanted to see you.
George was shaking his head. I wish you hadn’t done that, Elaine. I don’t want him to see me. . .
he paused, then said, like this. You know that.
He’s your son, and he’s missed you. It’s been over a month. I couldn’t tell him no, could I? And I didn’t bring him inside. Besides, he thinks you were ill. That’s all anyone’s told him—
I have been ill,
George said, his tone scoffing.
You know what I mean, George. We told Tim and Claire that you were sick, contagious.
George, shoulders bent, head down, started for the door. Don’t worry, one thing I am not is contagious.
Elaine sighed and ran to keep up. This was not the reunion she’d rehearsed over and over in her head. Why couldn’t life stick to the plan once in a while?
George let Tim do the driving. After all, the kid had turned sixteen and was now the proud possessor of a driver’s license. Besides, George felt guilty. He’d missed Tim’s sixteenth birthday two weeks ago because he’d been in treatment. Doc Grossman had even forbidden him to call his son to wish him a happy birthday. Grossman said it might be too depressing for both Tim and George. So, not a word. Mum’s the word.
How depressing was that?
It was going to be a good, solid hour of driving from Miami to Boca Raton. I-95 ran from one town to the other like a jagged, clogged and narrow artery with tens of thousands of deadly, four-wheeled blood cells running rampant, running blind. George was just as glad not to be doing the driving.
He shut his eyes and tilted his head back until it touched the headrest, stretched out his legs in the roomy backseat, while his son wrestled with the wheel of the Mercedes. It was the big one. The flagship of Mercedes Benz; polished Almandine black exterior with java Nappa leather interior and burl walnut trim. It was the best, of course, with more bells and whistles than he could keep track of or even remember how to use without checking the thick, Byzantine owner’s manual.
The Richards always had the best. The best that their money could buy, in any case. And why shouldn’t they? as Elaine was always saying. They were quite well-to-do and all the neighbors drove expensive, elitist automobiles. Why shouldn’t they? And how would it look if they didn’t?
George now and again threatened to buy a Honda Accord or maybe a Toyota Camry. How about a four door Hyundai? That always got Elaine churned up. The only folks with cars of that caliber in their neighborhood were the domestic workers. Porsche, Mercedes, Lexus and BMWs were all common as tap water in Boca Raton, Florida. George sometimes wondered how his kids would handle the real world when the time came.
And it would, of course.
His wife sat beside him, droning on and on, like a one-person reenactment of the events of the month he’d been away. It didn’t sound like he’d missed much—his wife’s aunt had some minor health troubles, stuff about the kids’ school, some day to day office difficulties that he wouldn’t have cared about on the best of days—a whole lot of nothing.
Nothing.
The tires droned on over the pavement. Over a whole lot of Nothing.
Spinning.
Spinning over a whole lot of nothing. Spinning spinning spinning. Nowhere nowhere nowhere. I am not crazy I am not—
He closed his eyes more tightly, trying to drown out the sound of her voice and the agony of his son’s tentative driving.
I’m just so glad you’ll be home for Thanksgiving,
Elaine was saying.
Gobble, gobble,
said George.
What?
I’m practicing. I was thinking maybe I’d get a big turkey suit and dress up for Thanksgiving. Hey, I could come down the chimney,
he said, with a sack full of stuffing!
Tim snorted. Funny, Dad.
Elaine shook her head. You keep your eyes on the road, please,
she exhorted.
Tim released a half-scowl. He figured Mom should lighten up on his dad. So what if the guy had a few problems? Didn’t everybody? He was still a great guy and a great dad. Tim tightened his grip on the wheel. It was cool to drive, especially such a great machine. When he was old enough, he was going to get a cool car, too. Maybe a Mercedes SL or a 911 Carrera.
Everybody’s coming,
Elaine said to her husband.
Really,
replied George. His eyes were still closed. How exciting for everybody.
You know what I mean. I’ve invited your mother, both your sisters . . .
His wife’s cloying voice faded into the distance as George’s mind drifted in other directions. How lucky Elaine was that her mother and father were gone and her siblings far away. He’d never gotten on with his family. Talk about aliens. He wouldn’t be surprised if some biologist took skin samples of the bunch of them and discovered that George was of a different species altogether from his Richards’ kin.
He opened his eyes. You know I don’t get along with them.
Elaine set a hand on his thigh. But it’s the holidays. You have to try.
George looked at her blankly. Why?
Inwardly he smiled. That had stopped her. After all, why the hell did he have to try? Because it was the holidays? So the hell what? He’d been trying to one degree or another for forty long years. Wasn’t that enough?
George.
According to George, Elaine had a sixteen page dictionary full of Georges, sixteen Georges to a page; and each and every George was said with a different inflection and possessed a unique definition all its own, only the spelling remained consistently the same. This was George Number 73, page 5, line 9. Definition: Oh, come on now. That’s no way to behave. I’m making an effort. Why can’t you?
George shut his eyes and nodded. Can we stop somewhere?
What did you have in mind?
The ocean? How about the Pompano Fishing Pier?
George didn’t fish. Didn’t even like the idea. But he loved to walk out on the boards and smell the sea, watch the egrets, seagulls, and pelicans, feel himself bathed by the cool breeze that swept across from Africa somewhere.
Sure, Dad.
I’m afraid there’s no time for that.
Elaine tapped her platinum Piaget watch. I have to get back to the office. Two of the girls are out. I thought you’d want to go also. But maybe you’d like Tim to drop you off at the house instead?
No,
answered George with a voice as flat-lined as his spirit. The office. The office will be fine.
The office, headquarters of Richards Medical Transcription Services, Incorporated, was fifteen hundred square feet of space which, from George’s point of view, was an annex of Hell itself. Leased, of course. There were three, gray stuccoed, gray roofed, one story buildings in the small office park, forming a U around a long, central fountain. RMTS occupied approximately half of building three, at the bottom of the U.
Tim parked the car in the space reserved for Elaine and George put on his happy face.
You’d better pick up Claire from school,
Mrs. Richards told her son. Then you go straight home.
Yes, Mom.
Pick us up at five. No, wait.
She kissed Tim on the cheek. Make that five-fifteen. We’ll all go out to dinner, so dress and make sure Claire does, too.
Okay, Mom.
Tim jumped behind the wheel and closed the car door before she could say anymore.
Elaine took her husband’s arm. I thought we’d go to that new Chinese place. Won’t that be fun?
George nodded. He held open the office door, then paused, realizing he’d already lost his happy face. He looked at the ground—the sidewalk was gray—swallowed, slapped on his happy face, and entered his own little piece of Hell. Leased, of course, triple net.
The flat, office carpet was gray as an elephant’s hide. The desks were gray and two of the employees had gray hair. As George and Elaine walked in, heads looked up from their computer screens—the computers were gray—and welcomed George back.
George forced himself to be sociable for a minute or two and then the faces returned to their computer screens and headphones went back in the ladies’ ears and feet went back to the ladies’ pedals. The