If anyone wants to know what has happened in The Secret Life of Hamel so far, this is the place to be.
Three of my blog postings (April 5, May 3 and June 3) summarize the daily posts to Twitter through May 31.
I will continue to post monthly summaries as I go.
If you are reading the Hamel novel (get a life!), thanks -- only 12 years to go and we'll see how this thing turns out.
I am more curious than you are.
Thursday, June 11, 2009
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
The Secret Life of Hamel: May, 2009 Posts
HERE IS THE CONTINUATION OF THE STORY AS POSTED DURNG MAY, 2009. PREVIOUS BLOG POSTINGS PROVIDE THE STORY FROM ITS FIRST TWEET ON FEBRUARY 5, 2009.
Hamel’s wife continued walking, tried to shake off her uneasiness. She was not successful. It clung to her like the heavy, damp air. Five days, she thought. And counting. With no end in sight. And each day bringing her closer to believing she would never see Hamel again.
She wondered, again, if there was anything more she should be doing. During the past week, she’d called a number of local hospitals. They were always polite. No, we have not admitted any male patients without identification. Have you spoken to the police? they’d ask.
Hamel’s wife knew that the hospital calls were a long shot. But she was haunted by the possibility that Hamel was, perhaps, in a coma, a victim of a violent robbery that had left him without his wallet and identification. She wondered how often that happened to people.
Hamel’s wife had handled — pretty well she thought — inquiries from Hamel’s boss, the vice president of logistics and the man who’d given Hamel his promotion several years ago. She’d told him that Hamel was very ill and would probably be out until Monday.
She’d listened as Hamel’s boss voiced appropriate but insincere concern. Please have him call me when he’s feeling better, he’d asked. But today was Sunday. If Hamel did not show up for work on Monday, his boss would be calling back. Then what?
By this point, Hamel’s wife was convinced that the police had forgotten all about Hamel. What was one missing man in a city of several hundred thousand? These were the thoughts that occupied her mind as Hamel’s wife continued to walk.
Looking up the block, Hamel’s wife became acutely aware of something she already knew, that Hamel’s bus stop lay directly ahead, across the street from the corner grocery that was her destination. It was marked by nothing more than a small sign on a post, not being worthy of one of the roofed shelters that the city had built along its bus routes to protect riders from inclement weather.
She kept her eyes on the bus stop as she walked, almost as if she could make Hamel re-appear by staring at it long and hard enough. Perhaps it was the staring — the obsessive scrutiny of every detail surrounding the area — that helped her notice a small object at the base of the signpost. What is that? she thought, squinting her eyes to get a better look. Hamel’s wife wore glasses but she’d needed new prescription lenses for several months. From her location on the block, she could not see the object clearly.
Yet each step — like turning the lens on a slide projector — brought the object more clearly into focus. And then, in an instant, she knew. Even though she was still a good thirty feet away, even though she could not have sworn to it in a court of law, she knew that she was staring at Hamel’s coffee mug, the same mug that he took with him to work every day and brought home with him every night.
Heart beating faster, Hamel’s wife quickly crossed the street, barely glancing to see whether there was any traffic to avoid. She was almost breathless from tension as she reached the bus stop.
She stared down at the coffee mug for several seconds, reluctant to pick it up. Was this evidence? she thought. Will there be fingerprints? Do I call the police?
Her hand was shaking slightly as she bent down, ignoring all the warnings in her head, and reached out for the coffee mug. It was nestled snugly against the post, standing upright. It looked as if it were carefully placed there, not simply discarded or thrown aside. What do I make of that? she thought.
Probably someone had seen the coffee mug lying on the ground, she decided, and was trying to help the rider who’d left it behind. Yes, that made sense. Some thoughtful person had placed it against the post to be retrieved eventually by whomever had left it. But what could have happened that made Hamel leave his coffee mug behind when he boarded the bus? He was not an absent-minded man.
Hamel’s wife continued walking, tried to shake off her uneasiness. She was not successful. It clung to her like the heavy, damp air. Five days, she thought. And counting. With no end in sight. And each day bringing her closer to believing she would never see Hamel again.
She wondered, again, if there was anything more she should be doing. During the past week, she’d called a number of local hospitals. They were always polite. No, we have not admitted any male patients without identification. Have you spoken to the police? they’d ask.
Hamel’s wife knew that the hospital calls were a long shot. But she was haunted by the possibility that Hamel was, perhaps, in a coma, a victim of a violent robbery that had left him without his wallet and identification. She wondered how often that happened to people.
Hamel’s wife had handled — pretty well she thought — inquiries from Hamel’s boss, the vice president of logistics and the man who’d given Hamel his promotion several years ago. She’d told him that Hamel was very ill and would probably be out until Monday.
She’d listened as Hamel’s boss voiced appropriate but insincere concern. Please have him call me when he’s feeling better, he’d asked. But today was Sunday. If Hamel did not show up for work on Monday, his boss would be calling back. Then what?
By this point, Hamel’s wife was convinced that the police had forgotten all about Hamel. What was one missing man in a city of several hundred thousand? These were the thoughts that occupied her mind as Hamel’s wife continued to walk.
Looking up the block, Hamel’s wife became acutely aware of something she already knew, that Hamel’s bus stop lay directly ahead, across the street from the corner grocery that was her destination. It was marked by nothing more than a small sign on a post, not being worthy of one of the roofed shelters that the city had built along its bus routes to protect riders from inclement weather.
She kept her eyes on the bus stop as she walked, almost as if she could make Hamel re-appear by staring at it long and hard enough. Perhaps it was the staring — the obsessive scrutiny of every detail surrounding the area — that helped her notice a small object at the base of the signpost. What is that? she thought, squinting her eyes to get a better look. Hamel’s wife wore glasses but she’d needed new prescription lenses for several months. From her location on the block, she could not see the object clearly.
Yet each step — like turning the lens on a slide projector — brought the object more clearly into focus. And then, in an instant, she knew. Even though she was still a good thirty feet away, even though she could not have sworn to it in a court of law, she knew that she was staring at Hamel’s coffee mug, the same mug that he took with him to work every day and brought home with him every night.
Heart beating faster, Hamel’s wife quickly crossed the street, barely glancing to see whether there was any traffic to avoid. She was almost breathless from tension as she reached the bus stop.
She stared down at the coffee mug for several seconds, reluctant to pick it up. Was this evidence? she thought. Will there be fingerprints? Do I call the police?
Her hand was shaking slightly as she bent down, ignoring all the warnings in her head, and reached out for the coffee mug. It was nestled snugly against the post, standing upright. It looked as if it were carefully placed there, not simply discarded or thrown aside. What do I make of that? she thought.
Probably someone had seen the coffee mug lying on the ground, she decided, and was trying to help the rider who’d left it behind. Yes, that made sense. Some thoughtful person had placed it against the post to be retrieved eventually by whomever had left it. But what could have happened that made Hamel leave his coffee mug behind when he boarded the bus? He was not an absent-minded man.
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