Thomas White - A Life

Following the array of cardboard signs placed in yards and along the road for the last 2 miles, an old tan Toyota Tacoma finally rumbled to a stop in front a house who's yard was filled with all sorts of odds and ends on display. A sign at the end of the driveway stated obviously enough "YARD SALE, 12-4 TODAY", though the driver knew this was the house he was searching for from he moment he turned onto the street. Lumbering out of the truck, the man took his sunglasses and placed them atop his head in one swift move as if to see the second-hand items perfectly unobscured. He produced from his pocket a small cylindrical tin and pulled out a pinch of dark chewing tobacco, promptly placing it into his bottom lip before walking among the tables sat on the lawn.

On and around the tables were sights not unfamiliar to the average yard sale. The other shoppers were primarily older women, as was the seller herself, and the items themselves dull, outdated, and for the most part worthless. After perusing a box filled with VHS tapes (the majority of which just covers, the actual tapes long lost or destroyed), the man spit a brown glob into the yard and lifted away the box to reveal a second one underneath. This box was very likely older than the man who had unveiled it, despite he himself having just reached 51 years of age.

Yellowed tape, once clear, sealed the box at the top while the corners and sides sank inward and showed water stains from years, even decades past. He gently pulled the tape back, which gave zero resistance, and upon opening the cardboard panels saw the beautiful leather spines of novels known the world over. The box was double, perhaps triple stacked with books and the top layer alone showed old leather-bound copies of Treasure Island, Frankenstein, Robinson Crusoe, Don Quixote, and a number of others who's title was not printed upon the spine. The man spat upon the grass again, looked about, and grabbed the box from below so that the timeworn cardboard would not give way under the weight of the novels. He placed the box upon the folding plastic table that the seller was running her register off of and spit a third time into the grass.

"How much for the whole box of books?"

The old woman looked at the top layer of novels within the box and adjusted her glasses, which were connected around the back of her neck with a chain if that is to give any indication of the elder-ness of this individual. "Hmmm. Well, most the books I got out are 50 cent apiece right now. Considering this a whole box, and some good'uns too, how's about $20 for the whole thing?"

The man spat again.

"Ma'am, you got yourself a deal," and saying this rifled through his pockets and handed the woman two crumpled ten dollar bills.

The old Tacoma once again ground to a stop, this time on a gravel driveway that sat outside of a single-wide trailer home. The man carried the box as delicately as before up the worn and broken wooden porch steps and into the dim, musty trailer. Placing the box upon a small and crowded dining table he crossed the width of the trailer, all of about 12 feet, and grabbed a can of Busch Light from a refrigerator which seemingly held nothing else.

"Alright books. One of ya's gotta be worth somethin'," and with this he began pulling out the top layer of books to reveal those below. To the voracious reader and collector alike the box may well have been the Ark of the Covenant. Inside were treasures unmatched in the greatest libraries of the world: brittle rolled Arabic manuscripts containing stories from the 1001 Nights, leather bound western classics such as those mentioned afore and more, first editions of Dickens and of Dumas and Shelly and novels from the East which contained scripts that the man could not understand, and nor did he care to. He knew that this box held for him a new wealth, and one that would be spent invariably upon vice.

At the bottom of this box lay one final book, not stored vertically in row with the rest but instead flat with cover facing up. He picked this book up and turned it over in his hands. It was bound in black leather, the pages roughly cut and earth-toned with age. Neither the front nor back cover contained any information, and the spine was blank as well. He opened the front cover and on the first page were the centered words "THOMAS WHITE - A LIFE". He threw the book to the ground.

"What the fuck?"

The man looked around the small trailer and saw that he was obviously alone. He quickly walked to the window beside the front door and looked out. From there he could see his truck sitting on the gravel driveway as he had left it, while further behind were the trailers of other residents in the park. He was, again, of course, alone.

"No way, there's no fuckin way," he muttered under his breath, slowly walking back to the book where he had thrown it down. He picked it up again and opened to the title page to see the same words "THOMAS WHITE - A LIFE".

"There's just no way..."

He began flipping through the pages and found that there was in fact, a way. The book he held detailed his own life, in full, from a biographers perspective, and contained details that he had told no other soul. It talked about his childhood, his first love, the death of his parents, his time in the military, even his darkest days and memories while giving no distinctive bias. The book was ribbon-marked at present day, the most recent entry detailing his trip to the yard sale and his purchase of the box.

Opening another beer, he saddled up onto the couch and began to read. In the book he found no factual errors at all, at least from his own recollection. It told of his extremely average performance in school, his decision to join the Army, and described with detail how he killed a man in the Gulf War. It told about how the action weighed on Tom back then, and still did to this day. It talked of his return home to find his parents, both with their own cancer and near-death, and of his marriage and prompt divorce due to struggles with vice and anger. It carried on detailing the story of his life with no bias and no omission, instead a clear report of the facts of Thomas White's life as it had been lived to this point.

He reached present day and saw that the remaining pages were blank. Natural, of course, as the remainder of life is an unwritten tale for us all. But upon closer inspection he saw that the book did not have very much room for story left; the first 51 years of his life had taken up roughly 140 pages of filled text, and yet there remained perhaps only a dozen blank pages left to fill. He flipped through the blank pages time and time again, each time counting to find the same number as before: exactly twelve pages left to be filled.

"So what the fuck, am I just gonna die then?" and with this he dropped the book beside him on the couch and stood up to pace the room.

"How the fuck does any of this make sense? How the fuck do they know any of that about me? Who wrote this shit?!"

He threw the half-empty beer can that was in his hand against the wall with an explosion of foam and the scent of yeast. He was not done. He continued throwing various items that were strewn about the trailer. Plates, cups, countless empty cans of beer and dipping tobacco until he was sufficiently exhausted and sat back on the couch. He picked up the book once again and counted the final blank pages. Thirteen. Wait, thirteen? He counted again and confirmed there were now thirteen blank pages to be filled, front and back.

"What the..." and he stood up again. Pacing the room, he looked around as if there would be some clue to unlock the mystery before him. He counted two more times and twice again came to the number of thirteen. The smell of yeast was getting heavier in the air and Thomas glanced over to the wall where his beer can had impacted. There was a wet and explosive imprint from the initial impact which had dragged down to the floor where the last few heady bubbles of foam were popping on the carpet. He opened the fridge and took from inside seven beer cans, as many as he could hold in his arms, and brought them outside and into the trash can. He repeated this action twice more until his fridge was substantially emptier, though not entirely. He sat down again and checked the number of pages until the end of the book. After counting and re-counting he found fourteen pages were left blank. Additionally, another section from the present had been filled out detailing his outrage and destruction from hours previous.

"My first half beer was worth one whole page and that 18-pack I pitched was the same? Some damn conversion that is," and saying this he opened the fridge and pulled one of the remaining beverages, a cherry wine cooler, and drank it upon the couch. Soon after this he was into the state of unconsciousness that was his typical "sleep".

Tom's next day began as dawn cast her golden fingers through the windows of his trailer, leaving elongated squares of gold where the rays fell unobstructed. He rose slowly and with the usual headache and quickly took from the table his dipping tobacco and packed himself a lip. His attention turned to the book which now sat on the floor before the couch and he once again counted the pages. Thirteen. Again. He quickly closed the book and cast the dipping tobacco from his mouth. Recounting the pages again showed fourteen.

"Aw so what, I gotta keep starting and stopping shit? I spent a damn lifetime tryin' to get it right. How's 'bout I just quit dippin', how's about that?" He took up the can of tobacco and attempted to throw it into the garbage can across the room and missed. Rising, he grabbed the rest of the full containers and took them to the trash and disposed of them. He sat down and counted the pages to find they had in fact increased, there were now seventeen blank pages ending the book, and a small new section detailing his attempt to quit dipping tobacco.

"Nows I got you..." and he began rummaging through the trailer to find any loose dipping tobacco tins. After spending the better part of the morning searching for, seizing, and removing any traces of vice, he had collected a reasonably sized bag and disposed of this in the community dumpster at the center of the park. Arriving back home he sat down and again counted the pages. Nineteen. There again was an addition to the present:

Tom set forth with a fervor on this day to remove any temptations tying him to his nicotine addiction, and in doing so began on the difficult and rewarding journey of overcoming vice. While temperance may still be yet to come regarding alcohol, if ever, the vice of nicotine henceforth would not provide the same satisfaction it once had. For with this satisfaction, there will too come the shame of failing the self.

During the next days Tom was irritable, irrational, and irregular. He did not leave the house to avoid any temptation and thankfully did not have any job to report to in the first place. He was constantly looking for ways to add to his lifespan, and became a crazed with attempting anything that would get the pages to increase. He had returned to the trash and taken the beer he had previously thrown away, but despite this his remaining pages did not lessen. On the fifth day in this state he was extraordinarily drunk and proposed his idea to get out of this house for the first time in nearly a week.

"I sureee would loooove to go to the bar right now. That'd be alright, wouldn't it? Just one night out on the town? It ain't much of a drive and I'm sure the guys all miss meeee?" and then he would count the pages to see if they would change. They would not. With this assurance he drunkenly stumbled and grabbed his keys and put on his shoes at the door. He made a hand gesture to the book which signified 'I'm watching you' as he closed the front door of the trailer, while the biography sat motionless on the couch. Once he started the truck in the driveway, he could not see as the number of pages fell.

He drove drunkenly across town to his usual haunt, a nasty and dark dive bar that was usually filled with walks of life similar to himself. It was there that he drank himself even stupider and accepted the offer of cigarettes from another patron, all the while declaring to any woman within earshot that he had a 'magical book back at home, if they were interested in seeing'. When these attempts had surprisingly failed with all the available dames and last call was given, he moseyed back to his truck and threw it recklessly into drive before setting out down the dark and wooded country before him.

Behind the wheel of his truck Thomas White nodded in and out of wakefulness, thinking about the book that was back home. He wondered what the rest of his life would entail, and thought of all the ways he might be able to add years onto it. As his mind wandered, so too did the truck. It drifted smoothly and slowly across the middle of the road, unnoticed by it's driver, and came to an instant stop after slamming directly into the base of a great oak tree. The old tree bent but did not break, standing tall and punishing the metal body which had attempted to uproot it. Thomas White died instantly, drunk and unaware, and his biography had said so the moment that it happened.