The Three Fates of Henrik Nordmark: A Novel by Christopher Meades Page A

Gollum cradling his precious ring.
    When it came time for his break, Henrik practically skipped out the doors. He purchased a pack of matches for two cents at the local mini-mart and found a secluded spot behind the building. Henrik lit up the joint and took his first puff. He immediately coughed out loud. Not once or twice, but a few dozen times. Henrik shook his head in amazement at the dedication it must take to smoke several packs of cigarettes every day. One really had to commit to getting one’s throat used to this corrosive pain.
    He sucked in again and this time he inhaled the smoke deep into his lungs. It was sickeningly sweet, not enjoyable at all, and the worst part was, he didn’t feel any different. Henrik polished off a full two thirds of the joint before he just couldn’t take it anymore. He tossed the remains down a drain and stood beside the Dumpster waiting for the pot to take effect. One minute passed and then another. Henrik didn’t feel different at all. The more time that went by, the more it appeared he was entirely immune to the effects of marijuana. Henrik instantly regretted the addiction he’d chosen and was busy making plans to try either irresponsible gambling or perhaps an incremental dependence on peach schnapps when he took a single step forward.
    Henrik’s foot felt as light as a feather. He took a second step and then a third. His legs, those short, stout tree trunks that had always affected his ability to play sports, suddenly filled with pins and needles. Henrik walked around, tentatively at first and then with confidence, his feet gathering momentum with each consecutive step. Henrik was truly amazed at this thing called walking. He imagined his ancestors from millennia ago, having crawled on all fours for centuries, finally discovering this mode of two-legged transportation and what a liberating feeling it must have been. Henrik felt as though he were walking on water. He glided along the surface like a back-alley Jesus while all manner of slippery eels and automaton fish swam underneath the concrete.
    Had an outsider happened to walk by and spot Henrik at this exact moment, they would have seen the most peculiar sight — a bald, middle-aged security guard with a look of unrestrained glee on his face, skipping around the alleyway, swinging his arms and stopping every few seconds to look down and imagine what kind of aquatic vertebrate lived beneath his feet.
    Henrik stopped abruptly to gaze up at the tall buildings. “Gravity,” he said. “Gravity doesn’t seem to be doing its job.” Why were all these buildings standing tall in the city when gravity was so powerful it could pull meteors out of the sky? Shouldn’t it have torn these skyscrapers down long ago? Concrete and pillars, glass windows, men in ties and women wearing pantsuits — all these things lived in the offices above and here dwelling on the land was Henrik Nordmark with his water balloon–shaped pot belly and ambitions to become unique. For the life of him, he couldn’t imagine why things weren’t constantly falling out of the sky.
    He checked his watch. The face looked huge, like someone had strapped a wall clock to his wrist. It was time to head back.
    Henrik took his post by the door and stood like a statue watching people go by. Even as he marveled at the strange sizes of their heads — some round, others bumpy, some that seemed to be missing chins and still others that had foreheads like battering rams — he regretted that he had yet to feel the pot take effect.
    Henrik was lamenting the loss of seventeen dollars to ineffective marijuana when suddenly the world slowed down to a standstill. Like molasses, the businessmen and couriers moved as though they were striving to climb steep hills. Henrik wanted to help them, to run over and push them in the small of the back. You can make it to the elevator! Keep trying! All is not lost! But Henrik couldn’t move. He froze in place, his mind occupied by