Maybe Tomorrow

First, there was WWF wrestling, then there was Powerboat Racing, and
then Ducks Unlimited followed by American Shooter. The sun peeked in
through the blinds and cast bars of light that crept slowly across the
living room floor as the TV droned on and on. Wendell sat motionless
with a warm can of beer in his hand; half of a peanut butter sandwich
sat on a plate beside him, forgotten.
Later, there was Best of TNN Outdoors and Horsepower TV and the sun
gave up on that side of the house. During a commercial, Wendell got up
and stretched, and walked stiffly to the bathroom where he relieved his
very full bladder, then returned to the couch. He stood for a moment,
looking out the window onto a bright summer day. Cars slid quietly up
and down the street in front of his house and children played hopscotch
on the neighbor's sidewalk. He sighed and turned his back to the
window, sitting back down on the couch.
The sun made shadows on the opposite side of the room for a while. They
grew longer and longer as they inched their way along the floor, then
up the adjacent wall. Wendell picked up the remote, pointed it at the
TV like a gun, and executed one rerun after another. After cycling
through the channels a dozen times, he finally gave up, moved the plate
with the forgotten sandwich to the floor and stretched out on the
couch, propping his head on a stack of pillows. Clint Eastwood asked
some punk if he felt lucky and Wendell closed his eyes, knowing what
the answer was.
When Wendell woke up, the three stooges were botching a plumbing job
and he knew that a bucket would soon to fall on Moe's head and it
wouldn't be long before Curley's head would be bonked with a monkey
wrench. Wendell blinked and pointed the remote at the television once
again, this time he killed it.
Wendell groaned and rolled off of the couch, standing in the dark, he
looked out the window. This time, the scene was still, lit only by the
bright light of a full moon. Wendell looked around to see what time it
was. The red numerals on the clock said it was 3:24.
The house was silent. With the television off, he could hear strange
and unusual sounds. Somewhere in the neighborhood, a dog barked. Closer
by, he heard the air conditioning click off and the fan whirred to a
stop. Water dripped in the sink.
Wendell stood still. The thought occurred to him that the weekend was
half gone. Had he really been so eager on Friday to hurry home for
this? What had he accomplished? What was the good of it?
Slowly, he felt his way to the recliner where he sat down, feeling
first to see whether or not there was anything in the seat. He sat for
minutes, or maybe hours, looking out at the moonlit street. What had he
done with his day?
He looked at the couch where he had spent the last sixteen or eighteen
hours, then he looked at the dead eye of the television, then back at
the couch, the island where he has spent the biggest part of the last
few years. He had spent so much time on that couch that he could see an
outline of himself where the cushions had slowly given way under his
weight, molding themselves around him over the slow passage of
time.
It's just one day, he told himself. No big deal. Just one.
It is, too a big deal, he reprimanded himself. Look at yourself there,
getting wider and wider. The only time you see the light of day is when
you go to work or get up to take a leak. "Just one day?" How many days
do you have? How many can you afford to throw away?
His outline lay there, silent, without an answer.
Wendell looked again at the dead TV. What good are you, he asked.
Again, no reply. You're no help.
"You're throwing your life away on that couch," he said out loud,
without looking at the dim outline. "When was the last time you saw
anybody on TV watching television? You see them climbing mountains,
racing cars, playing basketball, fighting wars, living and loving, but
when was the last time you saw a show about a guy watching
television?
"Are you listening to me?" he demanded, turning to the image still
lying on the couch. "You need to go out and do some of those things! Do
them now while you still can! How long will it be before you can't get
out anymore? How many nursing homes are filled with old folks sitting
around staring at the boob tube? Do you want to end up just like them
at this point in your life?
"You'll be there one day, buddy boy! A whole lot sooner than you think,
if you keep on living like you've been living!"
The Wendell on the couch finally looked at him, then slowly, almost
painfully, sat up. "What would I do if I did go out there? Where would
I go, what would I do?"
"I don't have many friends," he argued. "The ones I do have, I see
every day at work. I see enough of them as it is. What would I
do?"
"There's plenty you could do! You have friends out there."
The Wendell on the couch shook his head, "The only friends I have
outside of work are Jessica's friends. They won't want to do anything
with me; I'm sure she's got them all convinced that I'm a piece of
crap. Bob doesn't even come by anymore, now that the divorce is final.
Jessica is still good friends with his wife and he says that she
doesn't like him coming over. She tells him it would make things
awkward if he were to stay friends with me."
"You're just feeling sorry for yourself now. You're making excuses." He
turned and pulled the footstool closer to the couch and sat down.
Sitting face to face with his image seemed a bit strange yet there was
some comfort in having him there. He was a little disturbed to see just
how sallow he looked in the ghostly light that filtered in through the
window.
"What if I did go out there," asked the man on the couch. "Where would
I go? What would I do?"
"Go anywhere! Do anything! Don't throw your life away watching other
people on television! Think man&;#8230; think! Imagine doing
something outside! Think what it would be like to go into a bar and
have some hot wings or some fries. Talk to the guy next to you.
Challenge him to a game of pool. You could even go to the library or to
the mall, for God's sake! You've got to get out there and live!"
There was a slight change in the expression on the face of the man on
the couch. Wendell could see that he was considering the possibilities.
"Maybe I could," the expression said.
Encouraged, Wendell continued, "There are people out there right now
who are living just like you are! They sit for hours doing nothing,
wishing they were somewhere else doing anything but what they were
doing. We keep ourselves boxed up in this house waiting for Monday to
come, then we slug through another week, wishing for the weekend. Then
what?"
"Wendell," he said, looking square into the face of the man on the
couch, "there are people out there looking for something to do... just
like you. Go out there and find some of them and get started living
your life while you still can. Otherwise you're going to die here in
this house with beer stains on your shirt and no one will ever miss
you!"
The expression on the man's face said that his words were sinking
in.
"I could do that!" he said.
"Yes! You can!" Wendell rejoiced, standing up. "Yes, you can!"
"I'll do that," he said, "tomorrow. I'll do it tomorrow." Then he
stretched back out on the couch and closed his eyes. "I'll do it
tomorrow," he muttered to himself.
"You better," said Wendell from across the room, a bit deflated. "You
better."

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The next time he opened his eyes, the morning sun was slanting in
through the window across the room, shining directly into his face. He
struggled to push something off of his face. His chest throbbed and
ached.
"Breathe, Mr. Morrow. Are you with us?"
"I'm here," he whispered hoarsely. "What's going on?"
"We thought we had lost you, Mr. Morrow. Your ex-wife had apparently
come by to check on you after you didn't answering her phone calls this
morning. When we got here, you were barely breathing. Your heart had
all but stopped. If she hadn't called 9-1-1 when she did, you probably
wouldn't be talking to us right now. You are a very lucky man Mr.
Morrow."
"Let me up," he said, pulling at wires that were stuck to his chest
with adhesive.
"Hold your horses, Mr. Morrow, you're going to have to take it easy for
a while."
"I don't have a while," Wendell exclaimed. I've taken it easy for too
long! I've got to get out there! I've got some living to do!"