notes from the drawing table:the following story has occupied all of my free time for the past week. It is a sad one. All reviews read with a smile. DTaC

"And We're Clear"

Two Old Friends

October 15th, 2075

An elderly man in a long overcoat and gray fedora, shuffled along the sidewalk through a light mid-morning Seattle drizzle. He leaned heavily on his cane as he walked.

"Here we are," he said, looking up at the three-story, angular glass building.

Escaping the wet weather, he entered the alcove and approached the ticketing kiosk. An unsteady touch from a gnarled finger awakened the machine. Fumbling with his credit chip, he passed it over the scanner and a computerized voice said:

"Welcome to the Seattle Museum of Contemporary Art. Membership level – Platinum."

He entered through the automated glass doors and proceeded straight through the lobby to the elevator beyond the front desk, his wet sneakers squeaking on the tile floor as he walked. Getting off at the second floor and following the same route as he'd done many times before, he headed purposefully to the building's North Wing - home to the museum's permanent collection of modern sculpture. None of the other works of art along the way held any interest for him.

A middle-aged museum guard greeted him as he arrived at his destination. "Hello, Sir. Welcome back. How are you today"?

"Same as usual, Vic," he answered morosely, continuing by.

"Interactive Sculpture Gallery - Welcome," the computerized voice greeted when he passed through the wide entranceway.

A few patrons roamed the enormous room while others sat in front of interactive exhibits watching holographic videos emanating from hidden projectors. The museumgoers viewing the vids appeared to be reacting to the talking and laughing holo-images, but no sound carried beyond the invisible barriers into the main room. He'd gotten an explanation as to how the sound dampening technology worked but he never understood it.

What he came to see was midway down the large gallery. A familiar holo-image blinked out of existence just as he got there and a mother and her tween daughter got up to leave.

"They were so funny, mom," the girl said. "I want to watch again."

"Sure honey . . . a little later. There is a lot more to see first," the mother replied, mindless of the elderly man as they passed.

From just outside the exhibit's edge, he stood and admired the work of art. The life-sized statue, cast in bronze, depicted three teenagers, a boy and two girls. The young male figure had short hair and wore a long-sleeved shirt and long pants. He held an old type video camera from the early part of the century casually in his right hand. He appeared to be saying something to the girls, whom he faced. The girls stood close to each other, bent slightly as if they had just released from an embrace. The shorter girl on the left was wearing old-style board shorts that reached below her knees and had long, wavy hair, half of which hung in front of her shoulder, obscuring the words sculpted into her t-shirt. The taller girl had straight hair and was wearing a short-sleeved shirt, a short frilly skirt and calf-high boots with many buckles. Wide, sculpted smiles lit up their faces.

Removing his overcoat and hat, the old man placed them on the centermost of the five curved benches that formed a semi-circle around the specially designed floor where the holo-images came to life when activated. He didn't notice the folded sheet of paper fall from his overcoat pocket to the museum floor. Crossing the twenty feet of open 'stage' to the low podium, which housed the holo-projection controls, he studied the statue through thick glasses. The little details like shoelaces, bracelets, necklaces, rings and earrings thrilled him as if he was seeing them for the first time. Plaid and striped patterns were easily discernable on the clothing in the beautifully detailed bronze. Glints from the overhead lights sparkled off the top edges. Tapping the screen, requesting 'read only', it displayed information about the artist and the statue, which he read, visibly mouthing the words. He knew every line by heart.

Done reading, he dug a small cloth out of the pocket of his grey suit jacket and shuffled over to the statue. Holding on to the male figure's right arm for support, he pulled himself on to the low platform upon which the three figures stood. It took great effort. With each visit, this became more difficult. He hung his cane on the handle of the video camera and began to wipe away dust that only his mind could see.

A fresh-faced museum guard came rushing over.

"Sir, you cannot be up there. There is no touching any of the works of art. Please get down."

The old man either didn't hear or chose to ignore the warning.

"Sir," he began again but before he could finish, the guard from earlier came hurriedly from the front of the gallery.

"Kenny - leave him be. Don't worry about it. It's alright."

"But Vic," the younger guard protested.

Barely looking up from his task, the elderly offender spoke.

"The new ones are always the same, aren't they Vic - they act like this thing is going to burst into flames or something," he said in a weak, disinterested voice.

"I know. I'm sorry Mr. Shay. It's only his first week on the floor. Enjoy your visit, Sir," he replied, leading the younger man away.

"Don't worry about it, Kenny. That's the artist – Spencer Shay. You don't understand. He can't hurt anything, anyway."

Left alone, Spencer continued to brush away imaginary dust for the next twenty minutes. With aged fingers, he caressed the cool bronze surface, feeling every curve, every groove, every fold in the clothes, remembering the wet clay from which they sprang. This sculpture, of all the pieces he'd created over his six decades as an artist, was his favorite. It brought him back in time more than sixty years to its creation every time he visited it.

The original, which he'd entered in to the art show all those years ago, was less than one quarter of the size. The curator for a local children's museum saw and loved the piece and commissioned the large-scale bronze casting. For more than forty years, it remained on view in one of the courtyards at that museum. It was eventually purchased and incorporated in to the interactive holo-imaging display at its current location.

The phantom dust banished, he retrieved his cane and gingerly climbed off the platform. He hadn't noticed the robust, older gentleman leaning on the low, curved wall that bordered the exhibit. The wrinkled paper, which Spencer had dropped early, hung loosely in his left hand.

"It looks as amazing as ever."

Recognizing the voice but tired from all the exertion, Spencer made his way slowly across the open space and lowered himself heavily onto one of the padded benches before answering.

"Hello, Freddie."

"Hi Spencer," he replied, taking the seat next to him. "You know you are the only person who calls me 'Freddie' anymore. Since . . . well . . . you know," his voice trailing off. He handed the paper back to his lifelong friend, who took it solemnly. The headline read:

Scientists to announce latest Creutzfeldt-Jakob's research findings at world conference.

Carly had succumbed to the rare brain disease less than a year after being diagnosed. Spencer tried to keep up on the research, somehow hoping a cure would bring his little sister back to him

They sat in silence for a long time. A few visitors passed through but no one activated the holo-imaging program, for which they were thankful.

"Is Gibby coming," the older man finally asked, blankly staring ahead.

"Spencer . . . don't you remember . . . Gibby passed almost four years ago."

"Oh . . . yeah . . . I'm sorry . . . I can't remember anything anymore," he replied quietly, hanging his head. "I'm just an empty-headed old fool."

"You may be old, but you're no fool," Freddie assured him.

They didn't speak for several minutes before Freddie broke the silence. "You haven't heard from . . . Sam . . . have you"?

This brought a sharp look from the elderly sculptor. "No. I would have called you, you old nerd. Have you"? He asked, agitated.

"No . . . of course not. I'm still searching for her but . . . nothing."

Both men fell back to silence.

It all started the day after Carly's funeral, twelve years ago. Spencer insisted on coming to the museum to see his sculpture and to watch the holo-vids. He wanted to remember his little sister the way she was when she was young. Before she got sick. When they all were young, he said. .

During that visit, they agreed to meet here every year, on the anniversary of Carly's funeral, to honor her and to share memories. A tradition they kept, along with Gibby, until he too passed.

Soon after, Spencer sunk into despair. Gibby, Sam and Freddie started spending a lot of time with him, hoping to relieve his anguish, if even for just for a short time. He had no one else. Spencer's wife had died three years prior. They had no kids. As artists, pursuing their passion took up all of their time. Our sculptures are our kids; they used to say, jokingly. Freddie always found that a bit sad. He knew that Spencer and Ellie would have made great parents.

One day, three weeks in, Sam was a no show. Freddie called her but got no answer and no response. A few days later, he went to her house but she was gone and so was her car. No one he asked, including her daughter, knew where she was. She'd disappeared with no explanation. A week later, he found a note in a small envelope under the windshield wiper of his car.

"I'm sorry. Life will never be the same. I can't do this anymore. - S."

Freddie did what he could to find her over the next few months but had no luck. All of her social networking accounts on 'Nets, were dormant. On one of his regular drives past her house, he saw the 'sold' sign. Inquiries with the real estate company provided no clues. Sam Puckett was masterfully covering her tracks. Why, Freddie wondered constantly. It made less than no sense. No one had seen nor heard from her since. Carly's passing affected them all deeply, but he couldn't understand why Sam would abandon her family and her closest friends when she needed them, and they needed her, most. Freddie vowed to never give up searching until he found her – whether she was dead or alive.

"Why, Freddie? Why her? My . . . little sister," Spencer spoke in the strongest voice he could muster. "She was a good person. It should have been me"!

Ah, 'It should have been me' - the constant refrain. Freddie couldn't count how many times Spencer had said this over the last decade plus. Studying his old friend, he only saw fragility where there once was boundless vitality. Even the death of his wife of more than forty years, hadn't affected Spencer as profoundly. He never talked about her. It was always Carly.

"I tell you the same thing all the time, old buddy. The world isn't fair - it was just her time. I know how much you loved her. We all loved her."

Nothing helped. No matter what he said or did, he could never alleviate Spencer's pain. Moving close, he put his hand on the older man's shoulder. There was a time when he thought of Spencer as an older brother, but in recent years, the roles had been reversed. Freddie wondered how much longer his nearly ninety-four year old friend could last like this - enveloped in a sadness that just wouldn't lift.

Unable to control himself, Spencer broke down and sobbed. Freddie expected this and was ready with a handkerchief. It happened every time they met at the museum or talked about Carly. Then he too, succumbed and silently cried.

Pulling himself together after several minutes, Freddie decided it was time to go. A few patrons were giving them curious looks and he didn't feel like explaining.

"C-mon Spencer – let's go. Two old fools sobbing in the middle of the museum are going to chase away the paying customers."

Not really acknowledging the request, Spencer pushed himself slowly to his feet. Replacing his hat and overcoat, he looked to the beautiful statue one more time:

"Bye Carly. I love you so much. Wherever you are Sam . . . we love you too."

"Miss you Carly. I love you," Freddie said. "And Puckett, I love you too. Come back to us," he added.

As they were about to leave, three teen girls bounced up to the holo-imaging controls and poked at the screen.

The computerized voice began its familiar speech: 'Artist: Spencer Shay Born: 1981 – United States. Medium: Bronze. Title: 'And We're Clea -'

"No! Not that," the youngest of the three said as she smacked her hand down on the controls, silencing the computer. She quickly examined the options and tapped the screen again. "I only want to watch the show."

"Hurry," the oldest girl said, "we gotta go sit or we'll be in the middle of the vid." They dashed across to the just vacated bench and crashed down in fits and giggles.

Freddie waited and watched to see his two best friends and the old iCarly set spring to life in front of the trio of eager teens. Sam and Carly, seventeen years old and full of life – in amazing holographic detail. Just the way he remembered them.

"Hi . . . I'm Carly! I'm Sam! And this is iCarly"!

That was enough for Freddie. He'd seen the vids many times. His company used the old iCarly shows to develop the technology. Heck, he was there holding the camera sixty plus years ago when they originally happened. Gathering Spencer who was wandering absentmindedly, he took his old friend by the elbow. "Ok Spence . . . let's go get some lunch."

Spencer's only response was a weak nod of his head.

Epilogue

An elderly woman, who had been lurking in the exhibit across the gallery, watched as the two old men walked towards the exit. She was wearing a wide-brimmed hat, large sunglasses and carrying an umbrella. Her long raincoat reached her ankles, only leaving a pair of old school, red converse high-tops exposed.

"I love you guys too."

~end~

under the table: I set out to tell a story about Spencer and the bronze sculpture. Don't know how it turned sad. I have a possibly SADDER, much shorter version, also. The happy version isn't quite finished. In this one originally, Sam had also passed, but I changed it. I know her running away doesn't really make sense. It just added something different. The epilogue was a last minute addition. I didn't know where to end it. Let me know what you think. Thanks for reading. DTaC