DO OVER
A short story by Stephen Spignesi
© 2011 Stephen Spignesi. All rights reserved.
“And what would you like to change today?”
“Last month.” The man fidgeted. “Saturday the ninth.”
“I see. And what happened on Saturday the ninth last month?”
The man twitched. “I slapped my son.”
The repairman checked off a box on a sheet on a clipboard. “And how old is your son?”
“He’s twelve.”
“And how hard did you hit him?”
“Not hard.” The man frowned. “Why are you asking me these questions? I thought I could just come in and repair my mistake.”
The repairman smiled. “You can. But we’re required by law to ask certain questions when violence against a child is one of the repairs being made.”
“Oh.” The man continued to frown. “Okay. I guess.”
“Continuing. Was there permanent injury?”
“It was just a slap, for heaven’s sake.” The repairman said nothing and continued to smile and stare at the man. “No, there was no permanent injury.”
“Was medical attention rendered?”
“No.”
“Were there any witnesses to the blow?”
“It wasn’t a ‘blow.’ That makes it sound like a punch. It was a simple slap. And yes, my wife was in the room.”
“Why did you strike your son?”
“Jesus, do we have to get into that? Can’t I just pay my fifty grand and make it like it never happened?”
The repairman said nothing and continued to smile and stare at the man. “He mouthed off to me.”
“I see. And what did he say?”
The man fidgeted, twitched, and frowned.
“He called me a pathetic loser.”
The man wrote something on the clipboard sheet.
“Where did the assault take place?”
“Assault?” The man scoffed. “You guys are beautiful. It was not an assault.”
The repairman said nothing and continued to smile and stare at the man. “In the kitchen.”
“And where were you and your son immediately prior to the confrontation?”
“He had been upstairs in his bedroom, and I was sitting in the living room.”
“All right.” The repairman put down the clipboard. “We’re done.”
The man smiled. “We can erase it?”
The repairman nodded. “Yes. We can erase the slap with our patented Do Over Time Reclamation technology. But before we proceed, I must ask you, are you absolutely certain you wish to reclaim the moment of the slap?”
The man nodded. “I do. I regret doing it. And I want it to have never happened.”
The repairman’s expression was much more serious than it had been during the interview. “Do you understand — fully and clearly — that by changing the past, the present and the future can be affected? And not always in a positive manner?”
“I do. I read your literature. But I’m confident that only good can come from removing this regrettable incident from my and my family’s lives.”
The repairman stood. “Very well. Follow me.”
The repairman led the customer out the door and down a hall. He opened the door of a room at the end of the hall and the man could see inside. In the center of the otherwise empty room was a simple wooden chair with two arms.
“Please take a seat.”
The man walked inside and sat down. From the doorway, the repairman said, “I’ll be watching from the control room. If all goes well, I’ll come get you when it’s over.”
“What does that mean? ‘If all goes well?’ What can go wrong?”
The repairman chuckled. “Lots.” And he closed the door.
The repairman walked to another door and opened it. Inside was a bank of computers. A technician sat at a terminal. On a giant wall monitor the client could be seen sitting in the plain wooden chair in the reclamation room.
“So?” the repairman asked as he closed the door behind him.
The technician shook his head. “Bad.” He pointed at a monitor in front of him that showed the customer’s kitchen and living room. “When the kid comes downstairs, he’s carrying a gun. If the father doesn’t confront him in the kitchen and slap him, the kid creeps up behind him as he’s sitting in the living room and puts a bullet in his head.”
The repairman chuckled. “Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah,” the technician said with a smile.
“Oops. Not a great way to spend fifty grand, eh?”
The technician laughed. “Nope.”
The repairman’s face darkened. “Do it.”
The technician pushed some buttons, turned a dial, and flipped a switch. A red button lit up. The repairman stared at the screen. The customer looked nervous. The technician looked at the repairman. The repairman did not take his eyes off the screen. He liked the moment. “Execute.”
The tech pressed the red button. The repairman smiled. On the monitor, the chair was empty.
“God, to me, is a verb,” the repairman said.
A short story by Stephen Spignesi
© 2011 Stephen Spignesi. All rights reserved.
“And what would you like to change today?”
“Last month.” The man fidgeted. “Saturday the ninth.”
“I see. And what happened on Saturday the ninth last month?”
The man twitched. “I slapped my son.”
The repairman checked off a box on a sheet on a clipboard. “And how old is your son?”
“He’s twelve.”
“And how hard did you hit him?”
“Not hard.” The man frowned. “Why are you asking me these questions? I thought I could just come in and repair my mistake.”
The repairman smiled. “You can. But we’re required by law to ask certain questions when violence against a child is one of the repairs being made.”
“Oh.” The man continued to frown. “Okay. I guess.”
“Continuing. Was there permanent injury?”
“It was just a slap, for heaven’s sake.” The repairman said nothing and continued to smile and stare at the man. “No, there was no permanent injury.”
“Was medical attention rendered?”
“No.”
“Were there any witnesses to the blow?”
“It wasn’t a ‘blow.’ That makes it sound like a punch. It was a simple slap. And yes, my wife was in the room.”
“Why did you strike your son?”
“Jesus, do we have to get into that? Can’t I just pay my fifty grand and make it like it never happened?”
The repairman said nothing and continued to smile and stare at the man. “He mouthed off to me.”
“I see. And what did he say?”
The man fidgeted, twitched, and frowned.
“He called me a pathetic loser.”
The man wrote something on the clipboard sheet.
“Where did the assault take place?”
“Assault?” The man scoffed. “You guys are beautiful. It was not an assault.”
The repairman said nothing and continued to smile and stare at the man. “In the kitchen.”
“And where were you and your son immediately prior to the confrontation?”
“He had been upstairs in his bedroom, and I was sitting in the living room.”
“All right.” The repairman put down the clipboard. “We’re done.”
The man smiled. “We can erase it?”
The repairman nodded. “Yes. We can erase the slap with our patented Do Over Time Reclamation technology. But before we proceed, I must ask you, are you absolutely certain you wish to reclaim the moment of the slap?”
The man nodded. “I do. I regret doing it. And I want it to have never happened.”
The repairman’s expression was much more serious than it had been during the interview. “Do you understand — fully and clearly — that by changing the past, the present and the future can be affected? And not always in a positive manner?”
“I do. I read your literature. But I’m confident that only good can come from removing this regrettable incident from my and my family’s lives.”
The repairman stood. “Very well. Follow me.”
The repairman led the customer out the door and down a hall. He opened the door of a room at the end of the hall and the man could see inside. In the center of the otherwise empty room was a simple wooden chair with two arms.
“Please take a seat.”
The man walked inside and sat down. From the doorway, the repairman said, “I’ll be watching from the control room. If all goes well, I’ll come get you when it’s over.”
“What does that mean? ‘If all goes well?’ What can go wrong?”
The repairman chuckled. “Lots.” And he closed the door.
The repairman walked to another door and opened it. Inside was a bank of computers. A technician sat at a terminal. On a giant wall monitor the client could be seen sitting in the plain wooden chair in the reclamation room.
“So?” the repairman asked as he closed the door behind him.
The technician shook his head. “Bad.” He pointed at a monitor in front of him that showed the customer’s kitchen and living room. “When the kid comes downstairs, he’s carrying a gun. If the father doesn’t confront him in the kitchen and slap him, the kid creeps up behind him as he’s sitting in the living room and puts a bullet in his head.”
The repairman chuckled. “Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah,” the technician said with a smile.
“Oops. Not a great way to spend fifty grand, eh?”
The technician laughed. “Nope.”
The repairman’s face darkened. “Do it.”
The technician pushed some buttons, turned a dial, and flipped a switch. A red button lit up. The repairman stared at the screen. The customer looked nervous. The technician looked at the repairman. The repairman did not take his eyes off the screen. He liked the moment. “Execute.”
The tech pressed the red button. The repairman smiled. On the monitor, the chair was empty.
“God, to me, is a verb,” the repairman said.
