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    The Civilian
    The Civilian
    The Civilian
    Ebook179 pages1 hour

    The Civilian

    By Michael Bickel

    ()

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    About this ebook

    NATIONAL SILVER MEDAL WINNER "READERS FAVORITE".
    The Civilian is a psychological adventure thriller about Robert Caron, an ordinary man, who has lived a cautious life. He's never pushed the limits of his security or taken the risks to truly make his life meaningful.

    Caron is presented a unique opportunity by the government – one that could save thousands of lives, while giving some purpose to his own. However, it's a mission from which the most highly-trained agents have not returned.

    Author Michael Bickel takes you on an unforgettable emotional voyage through the mind of Robert Caron – a man facing the tragic physical and mental toll of his illness, all alone, in a dangerous foreign land.

    CAN A CIVILIAN TAKE DOWN THE WORLD'S MOST WANTED MAN –
    BEFORE HIS TIME RUNS OUT?
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherBookBaby
    Release dateApr 27, 2015
    ISBN9780986093524
    The Civilian

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      Book preview

      The Civilian - Michael Bickel

      leave.

      Jiggy

      Imagination is a pretty amazing thing. When you’re a kid, you imagine you’re a sports star or maybe even a superhero. As you get older, you can imagine you’re having sex with the most beautiful woman on earth. There are times, in your darkest moments when you can even imagine what it would be like to be told you’re going to die soon. However, I could never imagine having to arrange a funeral for myself.

      I’ve passed this place every day for years—Rifkin & Sons. Unlike the furniture store on one side or even the day-spa next door, when I passed those places I would look in to see what was going on in there.

      I never did that when I passed Rifkin & Sons.

      I walk in, and though I have never thought about it until today, it turns out to look exactly like I would have thought. It’s dark, old, and quiet. There are a lot of brochures on ornate tables, mostly with caring thoughts and very sincere writing that are really well disguised funeral ‘upsells’. Around the corner, in the office there’s a man with his feet on a large oak desk. He’s young, about my age, and so I’m guessing he is one of the and Sons.

      I tap on the door. Hello.

      Hi. He quickly sits up in his chair and puts back on the black jacket he had crumpled on the side. Hello, come in. How can I help you?

      I need to arrange a funeral.

      Oh, certainly, sir.

      I can see he quickly tries to get into ‘business mode’, which seems a little unnatural for him. He fumbles around to get a piece of paper. As like any sales call, he jumps right into his script.

      I’m sorry to hear about your loss. Please sit down. What’s the name of the deceased?

      I sit. Robert Caron. C-a-r-o-n.

      He writes. Robert C-a-r-o-n. Age?

      Thirty-two. Um, by then, maybe thirty-three.

      He slowly stops writing; he looks up from his paper. You’re Robert?

      I nod.

      Shit! He quickly looks to see if anyone else is around. He lowers his voice. Shit.

      I nod. Yeah, shit.

      He drops his pen down. This place sucks. I get these dead bodies in here all the time, but for most part, they’re pretty old. Aw, I’m sorry man.

      Thanks. It’s fine. I catch myself this time; he knows I’m dying. He’s actually the one person right now who knows that me saying ‘fine’ is complete and utter bullshit. Look, it does suck, really bad. However, I need to have this all straightened out pretty quickly.

      Right. Well, you have to tell us what kind of funeral you want. Are you going to be buried or cremated?

      I probably should have thought about that one before I came. That’s kind of a big one. I’m going to have to think about that. What else do you need to know now?

      "What do you want to be wearing? Are you going to have pallbearers?

      No. No pallbearers. He starts to write that down. I don’t know that many people.

      He looks up. I can tell he now feels sorry for me. In a strange way, I think he almost feels sorrier for me now than when I told him I was dying.

      What about your obituary?

      What do I need that for?

      The newspaper prints it and we put it online. It lets people who might have known you that you… He gets uncomfortable, …well, you know, what happened. Besides, it’s a good thing to have—kind of a record of your whole life.

      I write that myself?

      Well, honestly, most people don’t. But that’s because they have shit for brains by then. Usually we help with it. They make it real easy. You fill in the blanks and suddenly you have your life story.

      He hands me the form, and I look at it. Name? Date of birth? Date of death? Accomplishments? I stop and think about that—accomplishments. I look up at him and see that he’s staring at me. God, even at the end, I need to spruce up my resume.

      We both feel a little awkward; he tries to change the topic. Do you have a song you’d want us to play for you? He leans forward in his chair. Hey, what was your favorite song growing up?

      My favorite song when I was a kid? That’s funny, because I actually know what it is, but it wouldn’t exactly be appropriate for a funeral.

      He smiles. Tell me.

      ‘Getting Jiggy With It’.

      He slaps the table. Love it! Okay, you ready? He starts singing. "Moving on up like…?"

      I laugh; of course, I know the next line, …like George and Wheezy!

      Yes!

      We’re both laughing. This is the first time I’ve laughed since I got the news. God, it’s probably the first time in the last couple of days I’ve even smiled. He’s a good guy. The kind of guy I could have been friends with. We stop laughing as we both, almost at the same time, remember again why I am here.

      "Don’t take this the wrong way, but I would go out on a limb to say you might be one of the worst funeral directors out there. Like anywhere."

      He smiles proudly at that.

      No, thank you! I know it. My father is a funeral director, so was his father. I was born with… He lowers his voice again to a strong whisper. I was born with my name on the fucking sign! You know, when you’re growing up, you’re told you can do anything. You get older and you start to realize, what fucking choices did I really truly have in this whole thing? For me, I had no choice. This is who I am; this is who I’m going to be.

      He looks around the office. His smile fades now. My obituary is already written. He hands me my file and nods. Go write yours, Mr. Caron.

      Aspirin

      I open the door to the drug store. I guess it was probably around the time I turned thirty, a couple of years ago, that I began to actually enjoy coming here. When I was younger, I never spent any time at a drug store. If I needed something, I would run in, grab it quickly, and then leave.

      Now, I go up and down every single aisle. I check out all the products. It’s not that I’m a hypochondriac or anything like that, but I do find myself seeing an item and thinking ‘Hey, I can actually use that’. Today, I only need to get some aspirin, but this antacid gum looks enticing.

      Excuse me, can you help me? An older man comes up to me. Where do you have the Gold Bond?

      For some reason this happens a lot to me. I don’t work here.

      Are you sure?

      Am I sure? There has to be something about me, maybe it’s the tint of my skin. However, if I’m at a drug store, or supermarket, or department of motor vehicles, someone will inevitably come up to me, assuming I work there. It’s kind of an insult, now that I think about it. No one ever mistakes me for a doctor or a banker; I must give off the vibe of a guy working for minimum

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