Kort Explores conundrums of the human condition

Jacob Lieber awoke to the jangle of the alarm clock. Reaching over with longtime familiarity, he gently tapped the button and the racket stopped. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he squinted at the clock and saw that it said 6:18. Twenty years, he thought to himself. Twenty years that clock has been waking me up in the morning. Once or twice it goes to the shop maybe, but still, they don't make clocks like that any more.

He lay back down on the pillow to think for a moment. It seemed to take longer to collect his thoughts these days. Everything seemed to slow down as the years passed. Or maybe it was just that he had more thoughts to collect. He certainly had more memories. And every day there were new ones. Yesterday it was a birthday party for...now which one was it...it was a granddaughter...one of the new ones...Samantha! That's the one. And just one year old at that. But he was getting distracted again. That was probably why it took longer to get started in the morning these days - too much remembering. Plenty of time for that in a few years when he closed the store and retired.

Jacob leaned over and gently shook the woman in the bed next to him. When she stirred, he kissed her on the cheek and said, "Time to get up, Martha. It's already 6:25." As he said this, he thought of how many mornings he'd awoken with her next to him. In thirtyseven years, that's a lot of mornings, he told himself. And as he looked at her sleep-tangled gray hair, her age-wrinkled cheeks, her eyes puffy with sleep, he still wasn't tired of her. When he stopped to think about it, he could still feel the love that drew him to her all those years ago. Not many people their age could say that.

Jacob's thoughts were interrupted as Martha got up. As she pulled on her robe and shuffled into her slippers, she said, "6:25 already! Jacob, you're going to have to set the alarm clock earlier if you're going to lie there and think for so long every morning!"

"I was thinking of you," Jacob protested.

Martha paused and looked at him from the foot of the bed. "Such a silver tongue might melt a woman's heart, but it won't turn back the time. You'd better get moving yourself if you're going to get the store open on time."

"Time! Time!" he replied, thinking that there never seems to be enough of it. "If I could get some in bottles and cans to stock in the store, customers would be lined up all the way to MacMillian's hardware."

When he heard Martha leave the bathroom and go down the hall to start breakfast, Jacob reluctantly got out of bed and shuffled down the hall. The fixtures in the bathroom were old and worn - just like the people who used them, he thought. But scoff as he might, the place had a comfortable, lived-in feeling. Or maybe with all the changes in the city around them, he liked to see something that remained constant through the years. The mirror was becoming fogged around the edges, but the center still gave a good image. The shaving cup was chipped and cracked, but it still held the soap. He shaved with cold water because it took so long for the hot to rattle and bang its way up to the third floor. He'd been doing it that way for so long he hardly remembered any other. Slightly more civilized, he returned to the bedroom and finished dressing. Then, drawn by the fragrant odors of cooking, he headed for the kitchen.

Stopping at the front door, Jacob disengaged the four locks and retrieved the morning paper from the hall. Carefully re-locking the door, he was working the rubber band off the paper when he entered the kitchen. Martha was just laying out the eggs, bacon, and toast. Handing her all but the front page and the sports section, he sat down and started to eat and read. After all the years, they didn't have much to talk about before reading the paper. After the news, they could argue and discuss for hours, but before, silence.

The front page was full of the usual murders and scandals, and none of his favorite teams were mentioned in the sports pages. Finishing his last piece of toast, He glanced out the window and noticed that the weather was clear and dry. The clock in the face of the stove said that he still had plenty of time, so he abandoned the last of the paper to Martha, and announced, "...think I'll walk to the store this morning."

Pulling on his overcoat and putting on his hat, he kissed Martha goodbye and stepped out into the hall. As he reached the head of the stairs, he heard the four locks on the front door clatter home. Grasping the banister carefully, he descended the three flights. The stair treads creaked, and the banister flexed and groaned, but they were old familiar sounds that had developed over the years, and he hardly noticed them.

As he stepped out the front door of the old brownstone, Jacob scanned his gaze both up and down the old neighborhood. Nearly identical brownstone buildings with front steps reaching down to the sidewalk lined the street in both directions. The sun was just high enough to clear the apartment building across the street, but its rays lacked the intensity of summer. He turned up his collar to ward off the dry chill in the air that warned of the coming winter. He knew that it was still early fall, and that later in the day the sun would make itself felt, but the early morning air had a briskness that carried the taste of change.

The trees lining the avenue were in the last stages of their yearly display of color, with some of them already dropping their dead leaves. The gusty wind rustled its load of dry leaves and tumbled them around the cars and the legs of the pedestrians. The sidewalks were lightly filled with the early risers of the city - men and women going off to work, children going to school. The traffic on the street was still light. Soon the pace of the city would pick up and reach its stride, but this early it was just stretching and yawning, waking up slowly.

As he stepped out on the sidewalk, Jacob savored the sensations - dry leaves crunching underfoot, the siren screaming in the distance, the sound of children playing tag on the way to school filtering down the street, and a bus roaring around the corner. With the taste of the coming winter quiet in the air, he wanted to drink in as many sensations as he could. The cold and snow would soon keep him from his walks, and he wanted to store up memories to last until spring.

At the small park, Jacob stopped and pulled a paper sack of bread crumbs from his coat pocket. The nighttime inhabitants of the park were just rousing themselves and giving way before the day time users. Finding an unoccupied bench, he rested his feet and tossed crumbs to the pigeons. The pigeons chuckled and cooed as they milled around his feet, squabbling over the crumbs. The affection of the pigeons was completely transparent, but he made sure he had bread crumbs in his pocket when ever he went for a walk anyway. He'd heard all the reports that the pigeon population in the city was growing rapidly, but in his heart, he was sure that they must lead a hard life in the concrete canyons. So he fed them. After the last of his bread crumbs were distributed to his greedy admirers, he waited until the last crumb had been discovered and his fickle audience left to find a new supplier, before he resumed his walk.

The store was only two blocks past the park. As he approached, Jacob admired for the thousandth time the sign that said LIEBER'S GROCERY. He stopped at the side of the store front, fishing around in his pocket until he found his key ring. The lock on the iron security screen snicked open in response to a twist of the key. The rusty grill shrieked and groaned as it folded into the storage slot. The lock on the front door opened with a solid clunk, and he entered the dark store.

A flip of the light switches behind the counter brought the lights flickering and blinking to life. As the brilliant illumination washed down from above, splashes of color leaped out of the darkness. Passing his eye down the neatly stacked rows of brightly colored boxes, bottles, and cans, he felt a surge of pride in his little store. It might not be as big as one of those supermarkets, but it was clean, and it had a warm friendly feeling born of its long years. So many pounds of coffee had been ground in the old grinder in the back that the smell of coffee had penetrated the walls. In the produce section, the sacks of fresh onions dominated. He tried to avoid walking through the bread section before lunch.

Thinking of the legions of housewives who had shopped for their families over the years, and the endless stream of little boys and girls who had raced in to buy a sweet, gave Jacob a warm feeling. The store had been an integral part in the fabric of the neighborhood, and he was proud of having been part of so many lives.

Jacob hung up his overcoat and put on his white apron. Then he opened the till and the safe. He removed the money pouch from the safe, distributing the contents in the slots in the till. He only put a couple of bills and coins in each slot - memories of the robbery last year at the cleaners next door coming unbidden to his mind. Walking over to the produce section, he sprayed the vegetables with cold water and adjusted the arrangement of the oranges. With store ready to open, he walked up to the front window and switched on the OPEN sign. Picking up the broom behind the counter, he stepped out and began sweeping the sidewalk.

When Jacob was satisfied with the sidewalk, he paused for a moment, leaning on the broom and surveying the neighborhood. The store had been there for 30 years, and he'd seen changes come and go on the old street. It was April the first day he'd opened the store, and the newness of spring mingled with the feel of the new store. Somehow, no springtime since had quite the excitement, quite the feeling of growth and renewal as that first spring.

He and Martha worked and saved for years until they'd put aside enough money to set up the store. They didn't stock many items in those early years, but they scrimped by. Their business improved as they were accepted in the neighborhood and they could stock more on their shelves. Now, after all these years, the store was stuffed to the ceiling with different items but the neighborhood had changed.

Jacob thought how the chill wind of fall fit the feel of the old street these days. The close-knit sense of togetherness of the early days had departed with the earlier inhabitants. Years of struggle and hardship had paid off, and they moved to better sections of the city. The people who now occupied the shabby apartment buildings were for the most part living on welfare, some of them for generations. As far a Jacob could see, they would continue to live off the system for generations more. These new people didn't have the spark and drive to achieve that the earlier residents had. When he opened the store for the first time, people had to work to survive. Nowadays, people seemed to expect life to be handed to them on a platter.

Jacob remembered when he and Martha worked hard for a few dollars a day in order to save up enough to start the store. Now, when he wanted to hire a stock-boy, none of the local kids were willing to work for a salary he could afford to pay. He had to watch them every second while they were in the store or they would steal him blind. Back in the early days he could leave the store completely unattended while he talked with the cleaner or the baker, and nothing would be taken. Kids today had no concept of the value of money - what with the government giving it to them free - and they thought nothing of shoplifting.

The police wouldn't do anything about it - the thieves were back on the street before he'd even finished filling out the all the forms - forms he suspected were intended more as punishment for bothering the police with a complaint, than for any useful purpose. And when they learned that the law was unwilling to hold them accountable, the young toughs turned malicious. "Ah, well," he said to himself pushing the old complaints out of his mind, "There's nothing I can do about it. In a few more years I'll close the store, and the young toughs can turn this building into a gutted hulk like all the others. Then there won't be any grocery stores left in the neighborhood. But what do they care."

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Jacob's day passed in the usual way. He chatted with the few customers that he still knew by name - while lamenting that at one time he knew them all. He watched the youngsters - especially those who gravitated to the darker corners of the store. The sun was getting low in the sky and he was beginning to think about closing time when the man came in.

The customer wore an overcoat with the collar turned up to meet a wide brimmed hat. His face was covered by a beard and large set of sun glasses. He kept his hands in his pockets and kept looking furtively about. He walked to the back of the store and studied the label on a can of peas. Jacob thought the man was acting suspiciously, so he tried to keep an eye on him. But he had to wait on a woman with a basket full of groceries.

When the woman left, the man was the last customer in the store. Jacob watched the man put the can of peas back on the shelf and walk up to the counter. He noticed that the man was wearing gloves, and he felt a sudden stab of fear as the man reached into his pocket and pulled out black object. With a snick, a glistening blade shot out of the object and locked into place. It was long, slender blade, sharpened on both sides. Jacob pushed the silent alarm button under the counter as the man jumped over and grabbed him by the collar.

"Ok, old man," the man snarled in Jacob's ear. "Open the till, and be quick about it or I'll open your guts with this pig sticker." The man flashed the blade in front of Jacob's face with cruel pleasure as Jacob, trembling with fear, quickly moved to comply.

Finding only the few bills in the till, the man said angrily, "Where's the rest of it, old man? I know you got lots of money stashed away somewhere. Now where is it?"

"In the safe," croaked out Jacob, struggling to breath past the man's grip on his collar. "There's a little more in the safe."

"Open it."

With the point of the knife pricking him painfully in the side, Jacob spun the dial on the safe through the combination and pulled open the door. The man grabbed up the money pouch and ripped it open. "This ain't hardly nothin'! Where's the rest?"

"That's all there is," replied Jacob honestly. "I'm not a rich man. All I've got is this store. Take the money and go. Just don't hurt anybody."

Jacob's meekness only seemed to spur the man on. Jacob felt the blows to his cheeks and his head snapped from side to side as the man slapped him. "Where's the stash, old man? Tell me where the money's hidden or I'll beat it out of you."

Trying to raise his arms to ward off the blows, Jacob pleaded, "That's all I have! Take it and go!"

A siren sounded in the distance heading this way. The man listened for a moment and then demanded, "You call the cops?" When Jacob nodded dumbly, the man exploded, "I'll teach you to screw around with me!"

Jacob felt a terrible pain in his gut, and heard the curious scraping sound of a blade on bone. He felt the man's grip on his collar release as he slumped to the floor. He put his hands on the source of his pain and it felt hot and wet. Looking down in disbelief, he saw the stream of blood soaking the front of his white apron with a growing red stain. Looking up, he saw the man backing away, blood on his hand and the knife it held. Stuffing the money in his pocket, the man jumped over the counter and ran out the door. Jacob tried to get up, but found he couldn't move.

Jacob suddenly realized that this was the end, that even as he thought of it, life was slipping away. His eyes swept around the store, wanting to take in one last look. As his vision began to fade, he thought of Martha, the children, the grandchildren, and their life together. He thought of all the things he still wanted to do in life, and how they were all lost now. He thought of all the things he'd been meaning to say to Martha that would now go unsaid. He thought of his grandchildren growing up without him, and he felt the loss. He saw scenes of his life, both the scenes he remembered with fondness and the scenes that he would rather have forgotten. As the darkness closed in, he railed against it, crying out, "No, I don't want to go yet! I have too much living yet to do!" And then it was over.

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A light pierced the darkness and feeling began to return to his body. A voice sounded, saying, "All right Clemens, you're done for the day. Get up and go back to your cell."

At first he ignored the voice, but there was something disturbingly familiar about the name Clemens. A hand roughly shook his shoulder and he opened his eyes. A man in a uniform was shaking him. "I said you're done," the man insisted. "Get up and go back to your cell."

Leveraging himself up on his elbows, he was about to protest that he had get back to his grocery store when he caught sight of his reflection in the full length mirror on the facing wall. Gone were the white hairs and extra pounds. The man in the mirror didn't look anything like the face he remembered so clearly shaving this morning.

Then it all came back to him in a flash. The beard was gone, as were the sunglasses and hat, but he recognized the image now. He wasn't Lieber, he was Clemens - the one who had come to Leiber's Grocery that day thinking only of the money he was going to take from the old man. In his arrogant contempt for his victim, he'd considered the old grocer nothing more than a source of easy money, a thing to be used and thrown away.

As Clemens levered himself off the thinly padded bed, his eyes were drawn with ill-concealed loathing to the box of blinking lights in the corner of the room. The box that contained the dying memories of his victim, memories he was condemned to relive every day of his sentence.

The box transformed the criminal justice system. Before the box, power-hungry judges and prosecutors had progressively displaced the victim as the aggrieved party, turning acts against individuals into acts against the state. Crime had been transformed from a debt owned to the victim into an opportunity for the state to acquire the rights of the accused - and the hunger of the state for the rights of the citizens knew no bounds. Having eliminated the need for a victim in order for there to be a crime, the state filled its statutes and prisons with victimless crimes.

The judges and prosecutors fought tooth and nail to preserve the arbitrary power they'd acquired in the old system. But it was hard to argue that forcing a criminal to relive their crime through the eyes of their victim was cruel and unusual punishment - or that criminals should be protected from the same pain and anguish they willfully imposed on their victims. For the first time, it was possible for the punishment to truly fit the crime.

The box rapidly turned overcrowded prisons into echoing rows of empty cell blocks. Using the box to "punish" those convicted of victimless crimes of pleasure finally made the absurdity of sex and drug laws too obvious for even the most obsessed prohibitionist to defend. Denied the corrupting distractions of windfall profits from seizing property, and the intoxicating power that flows all too easily from having criminalized so much of normal human nature that everyone was guilty of something, a much shrunken legal system was obliged to justify its continued existence by actually seeking some measure of justice for those who had suffered real harm.

There were still a few hard cases and slow learners inhabiting the cell blocks, but the irresistible reality of the box quickly swept away the belligerent posturing, self-denials, and arrogant contempt for the world that made them unfit for life outside. No contrived justification for violence could survive repeatedly experiencing first hand the perspective of the victim.

The years of reliving his crime made Clemens nostalgic for the old days of capital punishment. Back then they could only have killed him once. He thought of all the days left in his sentence. All the once a day trips to the room. All the times he would have to suffer his own vicious cruelty. All the times he would have to die for the way he'd lived.