One of the things I have maintained about 7th Heaven since I first saw it is that the show has the potential to be really good. This may come as a surprise to those of you who have heard me criticize it, because many of my criticisms have been harsh indeed, but this is nonetheless true. Indeed, this opinion has inspired much of my fanfiction; there are plenty of shows out there that I see no potential in whatsoever, and I've never considered even for a moment writing fanfiction about them.
That being said, 7th Heaven is exasperating because the writers of the show so often fail to capitalize on dramatic opportunities that the show presents. As a case in point I present the episode "Smoking", upon which the story here is based. This is not an alternate reading of the episode, mind you, but is rather what I think the writers should have recognized as being worth writing about, rather than an anti-smoking message that was so melodramatic that it failed to be convincing.
As always, characters who appear on the show are the property of the WB and other Hollywood big shots, while other characters are my own. The story itself is (c) 2003 by Hans the bold.
Dedication for this story must go out to all the posters on the 7th Heaven boards at Television Without Pity (http://www.televisionwithoutpity.com/), whose posts and e-mails following a bit of personal misfortune brought me back to watching 7th Heaven, and more particularly, "Smoking", which I probably would have ignored were it not for their kindness and support.
ONE
* * *
It was when he arrived that he decided he didn't want to go.
This, of course, was just typical; it always seemed to work this way when it came to Dad. He wanted one thing, you wanted another, you did what you were going to do and no matter what you felt like hell for it, because no matter what he wasn't happy about it.
Hell. Should I be saying hell? Wouldn't "heck" be more appropriate for a minister?
No. In this case, there's no other word that fits.
He'd told no one he was coming, and now, as he stepped off the plane and went for his bag Chandler Hampton felt that old, tight anger in his chest. Stupid, this was. Just stupid. Why are you here? Because that idiot Camden gave you a ticket so he could feel better about what an asshole he's been? Because Lou feels sorry for you? Sure, do what they want -- do what everyone else always wants, so they can think you and Dad embraced and hugged and forgave and everything is all right now, all wrapped up neatly like some bad TV drama.
What crap.
Chandler had reached the baggage claim now, and was standing with his hands in his pockets as the first bags came tumbling up of the conveyer belt. He watched as the woman beside him saw her bag come out and reached for it. She struggled with it a bit and without thinking he reached over to help her. She looked at him with a smile.
"Thank you."
Chandler nodded. His bag would come last. It always did. He wondered sometimes about people whose bags came first. Did it become a story, an event to be recalled over Christmas dinner, the day my suitcase was first at baggage claim? Maybe then the tale would become a part of family tradition: I remember that time when Uncle Fred's bag was the first one out. It was in Buffalo, in the winter of '97 ....
Chandler chuckled in spite of his mood.
And near the end, true to form, there was his suitcase. He picked it up, stood there for a moment.
This was stupid, he thought again. A waste of time. Everyone's chasing that happy ending and no one sees that sometimes you just don't get one. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out his ticket, looked it over. Open ended, it said. Go whenever you want, come back whenever you want. It's family; we understand.
No you don't. I have no family except Sid. Even when he was totally screwed up Sid was always honest with me. He was always my brother. Mom was ....
To hell with it.
Chandler took his bag and caught the escalator back up to the ticket counter.
Come back whenever you want.
All right then. I will.
#
The line at the counter was long and Chandler had to set his bag down after a while and rest his hand, flexing his fingers into and out of a fist. The others in the line were quiet, a few talking amongst themselves, but they pretty much left him alone. It had been this way at airports since 9-11, some more than others, but not like it had been before. Every now and again someone would throw a tantrum because the focus was on security first and service second, but for the most part people appreciated why the security was there and so said nothing.
I guess we all lose our innocence eventually, he thought.
He reached the counter, laid his ticket and ID on the counter. "I'd like the next flight to Glenoak International," he said.
The counter agent was a slightly heavy man whose tie looked just a bit too tight. He glanced at the ticket, nodded, and began to peck at the keyboard in front of him. After a moment he looked up.
"Sorry. Next flight's all booked up. Looks like tomorrow's is too."
Chandler sighed, flexed his fingers into a fist, forced himself to relax them. "Anything you can do?" he asked.
The man shook his head. "Sorry. Your ticket's an open end one. But you still need a reservation for a specific flight." He glanced at the ticket again. "Looks like you just got here. Why the hurry to go back?"
"Never mind." Chandler scooped up his ticket and ID. "Thanks anyway."
"No problem."
It crossed Chandler's mind then that the man probably had him pegged as suspicious, so he moved quickly down to the rental car desks. If the police questioned him word would probably get back to Glenoak and then it would be all over town in a minute, because that's the way Glenoak was.
Fine, then. I'll go see the old son-of-a-bitch. Then when I come home they'll all feel worse for having insisted I go, because it won't have solved anything.
He got his rental car and drove into the city.
That being said, 7th Heaven is exasperating because the writers of the show so often fail to capitalize on dramatic opportunities that the show presents. As a case in point I present the episode "Smoking", upon which the story here is based. This is not an alternate reading of the episode, mind you, but is rather what I think the writers should have recognized as being worth writing about, rather than an anti-smoking message that was so melodramatic that it failed to be convincing.
As always, characters who appear on the show are the property of the WB and other Hollywood big shots, while other characters are my own. The story itself is (c) 2003 by Hans the bold.
Dedication for this story must go out to all the posters on the 7th Heaven boards at Television Without Pity (http://www.televisionwithoutpity.com/), whose posts and e-mails following a bit of personal misfortune brought me back to watching 7th Heaven, and more particularly, "Smoking", which I probably would have ignored were it not for their kindness and support.
ONE
* * *
It was when he arrived that he decided he didn't want to go.
This, of course, was just typical; it always seemed to work this way when it came to Dad. He wanted one thing, you wanted another, you did what you were going to do and no matter what you felt like hell for it, because no matter what he wasn't happy about it.
Hell. Should I be saying hell? Wouldn't "heck" be more appropriate for a minister?
No. In this case, there's no other word that fits.
He'd told no one he was coming, and now, as he stepped off the plane and went for his bag Chandler Hampton felt that old, tight anger in his chest. Stupid, this was. Just stupid. Why are you here? Because that idiot Camden gave you a ticket so he could feel better about what an asshole he's been? Because Lou feels sorry for you? Sure, do what they want -- do what everyone else always wants, so they can think you and Dad embraced and hugged and forgave and everything is all right now, all wrapped up neatly like some bad TV drama.
What crap.
Chandler had reached the baggage claim now, and was standing with his hands in his pockets as the first bags came tumbling up of the conveyer belt. He watched as the woman beside him saw her bag come out and reached for it. She struggled with it a bit and without thinking he reached over to help her. She looked at him with a smile.
"Thank you."
Chandler nodded. His bag would come last. It always did. He wondered sometimes about people whose bags came first. Did it become a story, an event to be recalled over Christmas dinner, the day my suitcase was first at baggage claim? Maybe then the tale would become a part of family tradition: I remember that time when Uncle Fred's bag was the first one out. It was in Buffalo, in the winter of '97 ....
Chandler chuckled in spite of his mood.
And near the end, true to form, there was his suitcase. He picked it up, stood there for a moment.
This was stupid, he thought again. A waste of time. Everyone's chasing that happy ending and no one sees that sometimes you just don't get one. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out his ticket, looked it over. Open ended, it said. Go whenever you want, come back whenever you want. It's family; we understand.
No you don't. I have no family except Sid. Even when he was totally screwed up Sid was always honest with me. He was always my brother. Mom was ....
To hell with it.
Chandler took his bag and caught the escalator back up to the ticket counter.
Come back whenever you want.
All right then. I will.
#
The line at the counter was long and Chandler had to set his bag down after a while and rest his hand, flexing his fingers into and out of a fist. The others in the line were quiet, a few talking amongst themselves, but they pretty much left him alone. It had been this way at airports since 9-11, some more than others, but not like it had been before. Every now and again someone would throw a tantrum because the focus was on security first and service second, but for the most part people appreciated why the security was there and so said nothing.
I guess we all lose our innocence eventually, he thought.
He reached the counter, laid his ticket and ID on the counter. "I'd like the next flight to Glenoak International," he said.
The counter agent was a slightly heavy man whose tie looked just a bit too tight. He glanced at the ticket, nodded, and began to peck at the keyboard in front of him. After a moment he looked up.
"Sorry. Next flight's all booked up. Looks like tomorrow's is too."
Chandler sighed, flexed his fingers into a fist, forced himself to relax them. "Anything you can do?" he asked.
The man shook his head. "Sorry. Your ticket's an open end one. But you still need a reservation for a specific flight." He glanced at the ticket again. "Looks like you just got here. Why the hurry to go back?"
"Never mind." Chandler scooped up his ticket and ID. "Thanks anyway."
"No problem."
It crossed Chandler's mind then that the man probably had him pegged as suspicious, so he moved quickly down to the rental car desks. If the police questioned him word would probably get back to Glenoak and then it would be all over town in a minute, because that's the way Glenoak was.
Fine, then. I'll go see the old son-of-a-bitch. Then when I come home they'll all feel worse for having insisted I go, because it won't have solved anything.
He got his rental car and drove into the city.