inconvenience — task o2
The happenings of the day were a little fuzzy to Stanley. Blame it on lack of sleep, or worry, or just general lack of interest. Of course, no one would be impudent enough to blame it on the last one, even less after the foul mood left on the island. Three waves had hit them, three separate but very similar attacks to the isle and its inhabitants, three times were dread spread around them, reminding Stan of an event he had read about so long ago. Pompeii had been a beautiful city, blessed with many sights as well as cursed with a terrible fate. The city had fallen victim of a natural disaster, the eruption of a volcano immediately beginning its path of destruction, although never of misery since the whole place had been left covered in ashes. The Sergeant almost laughed at the lack of humorous content in the day’s event. And although he did not laugh, Stand however did wonder, which situation was more horrific? The lost of an entire city with presumably no misery afterwards? Of course everyone had been dead so there was no one left to be engulfed by pain at the catastrophe, only the morbid curiosity that impulsed strangers to investigate the natural disaster, their fascination so at odds with the evoked feelings that it could hardly be considered sickening to their personas. Or had the destruction caused by three waves of planes set to destroy been more appalling than Pompeii’s fate? If anyone were to ask Stanley he would deem both as nightmarish and he would additionally inform them that he would not wish either occurrence to his worst enemy-- of course, he would later without hesitation enlist for war, which would ultimately lead him to causing this pain to his country’s worst enemy. Although, America’s leaders and military superiors would assure them it was all for the best and for peace, so how could he, a simple man from some town in the middle of nowhere Oklahoma, disagree with these educated men on what was best for their country?
But before any of this even happened, before he even thought about that one book he had read long ago with Pompeii’s story in it, the one that would ultimately provide him with the darkest humour he had ever evoked, and that he would, finally without an ounce of that perversion remember amid some battle in the future, Stanley stretched at his home after a night spent reading, preparing for the day that was to be the 7th of December of 1941. He did, indeed, spend the night before reading-- he’d recommend John Steinbeck’s The Grapes of Wrath to anyone who asked-- until the woo hours, getting what he calculated was a total three hours of sleep to accompany him during the day that was to come. He stretched on his bed, changed his pajama pants for some running ones and put on a shirt and his sneakers, ready to start his routine. As he ran through the dark streets-- the sun had not even rose yet-- he passed another man running, this other man with darker skin than his although not as dark to be considered completely black seemed to be deeply lost in the works of his mind, so the little nod of recognition on Stan’s behalf went unnoticed. Stanley continued with his merry way, observant of the small changes in the hues of the sky. At seven o’clock in the morning he was back in the house and ten minutes later, after a quick shower, he was dressed in his uniform and on his way to work.
The day began without much ado, Stan falling into the same, old routine he had found himself in since arrival. It was not exciting nor extremely boring, so he had deemed it a fine way to live in this place-- balance was after all one of his many delights in life. He was simply working, doing whatever task his superiors pinned him with and following the orders he so adored. He was doing just that, awaiting for his next command, standing outside and enjoying the morning sun, fantasizing about maybe, just maybe visiting the beach for the first time this afternoon. To relax and allow himself be at ease of this structured life for a few minutes, maybe even a whole hour. A smile played at the corner of his mouth, tantalizing and daring him to let loose for a moment, to merely pretend he was once again a little boy in his hometown, watching upwards towards the sky with a goofy grin on his face-- was he, perhaps, yearning for that old life back? Impossible, unthinkable and unreasonable-- when the first shadow flew above him. Blinking confused, he stared as that shadow was soon accompanied by others, destruction inevitably following their targets.
Stanley stood dumbfounded as the sights registered in his mind. Shock was clouding his reasoning and he could not conjure a single rational thought to explain himself why such a thing was happening. He would lie to himself afterwards, claim to himself that his first thought of Pompeii had been after the whole spectacle-- if he was allowed to refer to this as such-- but the truth was that the city’s name slipped into his mind right this second, so sure had he been of the world burning and the falling victim to its suffocating ashes. What a real inconvenience this historical event would present to his planned hour on the beach this afternoon.
