Hey! I found a big chunk of the Vic story, which I was writing during college. It’s enough to give you a flavor of what it’s about (this might be all that I’ve actually written). The concept of the Vic story is — a janitor at a college imagines that he’s sort of mythical, like a knight.
This passage contains slightly expanded versions of the two Vic memories that I previously posted.
It’s interesting because the paper on which it is printed is old tractor-feed paper with the tear-off perforated edges along the sides. Those of you who are my age will know what I mean.
One interesting Vic note — I started writing this a couple of years before the Calvin and Hobbes comic strip gained wide exposure. Once everyone was reading Calvin’s imaginary adventures, I was worried that they would see the Vic story as a knockoff — so I shelved Vic — until now.
It is late at night, in the twilight time between when the last of the night people retire and the first of the morning people awaken. The stars twinkle coldly with a chill that foreshadows the coming winter. On the streets of the college campus there is no movement, no sound. Everything seems frozen in time. All the school buildings are dark, save one. A lone figure can be seen darting down deserted hallways, ducking in and out of doorways, pausing occasionally to listen, then hurrying on. The jangle of a large ring of keys at his belt contradict the figure’s imagined stealth…
Still running, Vic dives into the classroom and rolls, ending up behind the teacher’s desk. “Settle with your God, varlet!” he screams to the darkened room and, rising quickly to his knees, flips a chalk eraser toward a student’s desk in the second row. Vic pauses a moment to listen but hears nothing. Still haven’t lost the touch, he thinks. Chuckling triumphantly, he goes to retrieve the dagger, pulling it out of his opponent’s eye, wiping it off, and returning it to its sheath. With eraser tucked under his belt, Vic strides from the room.
But wait, what is this? Vic looks down the deserted hallway. A joust? He surveys the brightly-costumed spectators in the stands on both sides of the jousting green. The morning sun shines golden on the multi-colored pennants which mark the sidelines. One hundred paces away, the Black Knight, his heavy armor blue-black in the afternoon sunshine, sits astride a restless black charger. It is a huge animal, perhaps a hand taller and a few stone heavier than his own steed. The excitement of the upcoming event along with the smell of the freshly trimmed lawn and the musk odor of his beast’s own nervousness combine to make Vic feel somewhat light-headed.
Vic can’t make out the blazon on the Black Knight’s shield at this distance. It appears to be a large black animal with red eyes on a deep blue field. A bear perhaps, or one of the large cats of the tropics, or maybe… something worse.
Vic clears the rags and bottles of cleaner from the top of the cart he had left in the hall. His squire hands him his lance and shield, makes sure he is firmly seated, and steps aside. The Black Knight’s squire does the same. Ready flags are waved. Vic looks to his left toward the royal grandstand as the fanfare begins. His eyes are drawn to the princess and, as always, he marvels at her beauty. Their eyes meet across the distance and he gives her a confident smile. When the trumpeters finish, the king pauses, then, with a great flourish, signals to begin. The field judge drops the white flag. Vic lowers his visor and runs, pushing the cart ahead of him. Jumping on, he points a mop at his adversary with the mop’s head against his right shoulder. The Black Knight gallops forward, his own lance aimed at Vic’s breastplate.
As the riders draw nearer, Vic concentrates on form as his instructor, old Gabel, had taught him to do. Shield angled to deflect the blow, body leaning forward to minimize the chance of being de-horsed. Now only a few yards away, Vic can see red eyes gleaming through the eye-slit of the Black Knight’s visor. All sound is drowned out by Vic’s ragged breathing echoing within his helm and the heavy pounding of hooves.
They meet with a bone-jarring crash which sends Vic flying as the cart spins out from under him, crashes into a wall and tips over, the contents of the lower shelf tumbling out onto the floor. Vic shakes his head to clear it and gets slowly to his feet.
Looking at the mess, Vic shakes his head again, this time in disgust. He rights the cart and starts replacing the cans and bottles. Still shaking his head, he carefully scoops together the shattered remains of one broken bottle and absently reaches toward his back pocket for a rag to soak up the spill.
A younger Vic and his father at a vacant lot near their house.
The autumn breeze ruffles the boy’s hair as his father, tall and dark, squints in the sunshine.
“This is the baseball and this is a bat. You take the bat and hit the ball with it. Like this.” Vic’s father tosses the ball up, swings gently, and hits it about twenty feet. He smiles hopefully at Vic. “Okay, now you try it.”
Vic with bat in hand and father twenty feet away.
Vic swings the broadsword, testing its balance. Not bad, he decides. Vic’s father does an exaggerated windup, and tosses the ball. Suddenly, Vic looks up and catches sight of the brightly-plumed roc winging toward him, talons spread in anticipation, eyes riveted on his throat. With one mighty swing, Vic cleaves the monster in two.
“Good!” Vic’s father calls and turns to get the ball, which flew over his head.
The roc is no more, Vic reflects; best to vanquish the evil magician before he can summon another. With sword raised, Vic lets out a fearsome battle cry and charges.
Cart intact, a whistling Vic pushes it leisurely down the hall and around the corner. The sound of the cart’s wheels on the tiled floor echoes the length of the corridor. Looking down, he stops and, smiling at his find, bends over to pick up dime. A hint of movement jerks his head up and his eyes meet those of an enormous serpent slithering out of its lair in the wall. Its scales gleam a polished ivory, and from its fangs fall drops of clear venom that pop and sizzle as they hit the floor. Treasure forgotten, Vic leaps backwards reaching for his dagger – but discovers it gone. The serpent strikes out, misses, yet succeeds in entangling Vic’s feet. He falls and struggles frantically to drag himself away as the serpent coils its way relentlessly up his body…
A younger Vic lying in his bed, his mother and father arguing in the next room.
The lamp on his night table casts a circle of light on the far wall. Some evenings, Vic occupies himself by casting hand-shadows in the light of creatures both real and mythical. He always conjures the creatures in the same order, one after another, each more terrible than the last, always stopping before the final creature with red eyes. Not quite cat, not quite bear, but something much worse — a shadow-pattern his hands know well — though they have never before made it. Most nights, like tonight, he is afraid to form the shadows for fear that the creatures won’t disappear when the light goes out.
“He is not crazy!” his mother‘s voice is the screeching of harpies, “I’m not going to let you put our son in an institution!”
“Take it easy. I didn’t say anything about an institution. There’s this psychiatrist…”
“Aaagh!”
“You didn’t see the look in his eyes when he came at me with the bat. Jesus, Gloria, the kid scares me.” Their voices fade in and out as Vic drifts off to dreams of knights and dragons and kingdoms to conquer. Tonight his dreams are uneasy — blended pictures and colors – and always just out of sight is the cat-bear-thing. Shifting in his sleep, his brow creases and he lets out a small cry.
The screeching of harpies reaches deep into his dreams and drags him awake. “You’re not going to send him away!” Vic’s mother wails as she rushes into his bedroom to protect him.
Vic looks up to see his mother swooping toward him in the dimness, her eyes red and puffy from tears, hair in disarray. The screeching of harpies echoes in his ears as the filthy beast stretches out its claws. Eyes wide with terror, Vic screams.
Vic stares impotently at the cart three feet out of his reach. The serpent is coiled around most of his body, leaving only his right arm and head free. Breathing becomes difficult as the monster squeezes tighter with every exhalation. The serpent’s head bobs before him, noxious venom dripping from its fangs. Watching the venom eat small craters in the floor, Vic wonders if the serpent itself is immune to its own venom. If only he had…
Vic turns his head and notices a rag lying against the wall. Eyes fixed on the serpent, Vic slowly stretches, closes his hand around the rag, and draws back his arm. Taking aim at the serpent’s mouth and silently praying his plan will work, he lets all the air out of his lungs. Acting quickly while the serpent hurries to tighten its coils, Vic thrusts the rag deep into the serpent’s open mouth. Vic struggles to retain consciousness as the serpent suddenly squeezes even tighter threatening to crack his ribs. Vic’s lungs scream for air and the world spins and goes dark.
A younger Vic hops down from the leather chair and looks about.
Brass and cannons. Here a brass cannon. And here. Here, here, and here brass sailing ships, their rigging finely-drawn wire. The walls are Escher prints and Rorscharkesque abstracts. A pair of nondescript seascapes signed ‘LeChrist’ frame a heavily curtained north window. What draws Vic’s attention though is the west wall. Corner to corner, carpet to ceiling, the wall is covered with a mural — a slice of forest so rich in detail that it appears real. The leaves filter golden sunlight and the widely-spaced trees rise smooth-barked and true. The overall flavor is European. He half expects to see a mounted knight appear thundering along the blanketed path. Thah-thump, thah-thump, thah…
“Very realistic, isn’t it?” Dr. LeChrist closing the office door behind him. Vic turns back to the wall. LeChist continues, “Almost feels as if you can step right into it.” Vic has that feeling so strongly that he is afraid to reach out and touch the wall for fear of breaking the spell.
After what seems like an eternity, the serpent’s coils loosen and Vic dazedly crawls free. The serpent convulses violently, shudders once, and lays still. Vic closes his eyes and painfully breathes a sigh of relief.
Vic dusts himself off and bends to collect the unrolled fire-hose to roll it back onto its reel. Removing the rag from the end of the nozzle, he mops up the drips of water that had fallen, and then goes to pick up the dime.
Bent over, Vic stiffens. He senses something behind him. Afraid of what it might be, he breaks out in a cold sweat. His heart beats faster and his breathing quickens. He turns slowly and peers down the length of the darkened hall. He catches his breath and puts his hand to his mouth to stifle a scream. There in the blackness at the far end of the hall are the pair of glowing red eyes that he had only fleetingly seen in his worst nightmares. Vic is nearly overcome with fear. Trying desperately to keep quiet, he walks slowly and deliberately back in the direction from which he had come. Unable to help himself, he turns to look again just before turning the corner. The eyes are gone.
