The Overlook
Recently, I was struggling with adjusting some margins on a new document. We’ve all been there. I was attempting to set up a template for future use, and what would seem pretty straight forward was far less intuitive than it probably should have been. I also needed some sample writing and paragraphs from which to work with to verify that my adjustments were what I wanted.
I could have copied and pasted text from any previous documents to use as a test sample, but for whatever reason I thought, where is the fun in that? So to amuse myself I went ahead and typed up another document of a few pages using the default 8.5 x 11 defaults, and then set about attempting to manipulate the default settings to bend to my liking. I was successful, and pleased with the final result. However, the process to exercise the mind over the holiday break by writing nonsense seems wasteful to leave abandoned on a hard drive, and so I’ve decided to share the text here. Don’t expect much, and good luck reading until the end.
The Overlook
The solitary figure stood at the end of a long pier that stretched out into the icy lake. The wind, barely noticeable on land, was more malicious on the exposed appendage that reached out into deeper water. In the summer it would be filled with signs of life: emerald algae, various insects, and fish cracking the surface. Now it all appeared ominous. Dirty gray up-welling showing signs of pollution; turbulent winter wear caused by rough seas – broken up by begrudging random ice sheets that stood defiant among the waves.
Looking out across the bitter scene Ritter had the mixed feelings of exhilarating freshness along with a pang of lonely isolation from the prickly air. In spite of the recent warming temperatures, and the crunchy snow melt that produced sharp imprints marking his footsteps to where he now stood, the immense lake in front of him held the aura of cool gunmetal that is commonly associated with the danger of hypothermia from one false step on buried ice under the snow patches. For that reason he kept a couple feet between himself and the end of the dock.
It is always important to remember the past, Ritter thought. Sometimes to pay homage and respect for the treasures of today, and sometimes with more trepidation to avoid the repetition of past sins. Ritter inwardly smirked at the passing thought. Too often human arrogance failed to grasp that second part, and the proof of that was apparent in any news headline.
Ritter noted the shadow of the large shipping vessel hanging at the horizon’s edge – appearing motionless – where the choppy waves slapped the gray leaden sky. Mother Nature had eased back the winter throttle just a bit – perhaps out of mercy? – after assaulting the region with a harsh mixture of sleet and snow over the previous few days. Ritter had in fact originally planned making this private excursion some forty eight hours prior, but out of an abundance of caution and respect for narrow serpentine roads through forested areas and black ice he had postponed the drive. There was no deadline after all. He had made the trek to close a chapter, and nothing more. Certainly not to be annotation to it by laying inside his SUV in some ditch.
Ritter glanced at his watch – a battered Russian Командирские “tank” on a thin black leather strap he had purchased in Moscow during his Air Force days. 2.00. With good roads and weather he’d be back home by 5.00, and the estimate included stopping at that hidden roadside diner he had discovered on one of his initial pilgrimages into the deep woods. It was one of those wonderful places with usually three or four pick-up trucks parked out front, strong coffee, and soft scrambled eggs – usually served with freshly baked rye bread, by the owner. The thought of which now tantalized Ritter as another gust of wind swept by, and he now re-gripped the small burlap bag he held in his right hand in an involuntary reflex.
Nothing is going to happen if I keep standing here, Ritter thought. He shook the bag a couple more times to gauge that he had provided enough weight – a handful of rustic fishing sinkers from an old tackle box in the basement, threaded by string through the metal eye-holes at the top of the bag. Ritter thought about the contents one final time, and from the end of the pier cocked his arm and flung the burlap towards the foam crests made by the five foot swells. At its apex a narrow beam of sunlight that had broken through the cloud cover glinted once off one of the sinkers before hitting the water. The momentary twinkle seemed symbolic – a final goodbye. For a few seconds, which seemed a lifetime to Ritter, the bag road the waves and he thought it wouldn’t sink. He panicked, but then slowly the bag sank below the water line. A few additional seconds passed and it was gone completely, and the anxiety that had at once constricted his chest began to subside, but far more gradual than the initial onslaught.
After he recovered Ritter took in a deep breath of cold wet air that needled his lungs. If the temperature was rising it certainly wasn’t noticeable standing next to the water. He then turned on his heel and looked back down the vacant dock; his eyes once again scanned the surrounding shoreline to verify he hadn’t been seen. Nothing immediately stood out. Good. He didn’t want to have to provide awkward explanations for his presence on the dock by nosy townsfolk, worse yet a bored sheriff, or what he had tossed into the lake.
With his hands in the pockets of his brown leather jacket he began walking back down the dock in the direction of his black SUV parked on the overlook high above the shoreline. The past was behind him, or rather more accurately, on the lake bed, and now his thoughts were only of the hot coffee and scrambled eggs that lay ahead.
From the sanctuary of the driver’s seat, and out of the wind, Ritter pressed the starter button and the vehicle roared to life. He tossed his gloves on the passenger seat, and slowly pulled out of the overlook parking area onto the main road that would take him back to the main route south and the small roadside diner.
A few minutes later a white pick-up truck with noticeable rust around the wheel wells, which had been parked deep in the adjacent yacht club next to the large white storage shed with an unobstructed view of the overlook, pulled out heading in the same direction.