I'll Seize the Day Tomorrow Read Online Free Page A

distraction.
    â€œI’ve only a few days to go,” he’d say in a sweat.
    And then the day arrived. By now Chalchas was an old man, but mostly he felt okay, no major pains or issues. So when he awoke he looked around, took a few breaths, waited, and then, realizing he was still alive, Chalchas the Greek began to laugh.
    â€œHa ha,” he chortled. “Hee hee.”
    So great was his merriment over having fooled the fates that Chalchas threw his arms up in the air and executed a jig.
    â€œHardee har. Hoo hoo ha hee hee hee. How absurd to have worried!” he exclaimed through his laughter. “What do oracles know?” Oracle! The very word was ridiculous and enough to make him twice as giggly.
    No longer able to contain himself, Chalchas fell
    to the ground and pounded the earth with all his might. He laughed and laughed and punched and punched until his fists failed to clench, his lungs ceased to inflate, his throat could produce no sound, and his mind became free of all things, even thoughts of his own death.

Atonement
    (48 weeks)
    WEDNESDAY.
    The evening finds me squatting in front of a gumball machine, cursing. In want of one more treat before beginning the Yom Kippur fast, I’ve inserted a quarter and nothing’s happened. As much as I assure myself that my outrage is not about the money but about the broken social compact, I still cannot help feeling that bear-hugging a gumball machine on my knees might actually be the first thing I’ve discovered in quite some time to truly be beneath my dignity.
    Who would be the perfect person to walk by at this moment? An old schoolteacher who never thought I’d amount to much? An ex-girlfriend’s father who could never stand my guts?
    When I was a kid, my parents had a needlepoint of Moses. In it, he’s giving the commandments to the childrenof Israel. Despite many important moments in Moses’s life, that one is probably the signature one. I can’t help thinking that wrestling this gumball machine might be mine.
    And as I continue to work, my finger up the gum hole, I cannot help imagining what this would look like as a needlepoint.
    THURSDAY, 2:00 A.M.
    I lie awake, hungry and thinking about God. I wonder: Am I a good enough person to get into Heaven? How does it all get tallied up anyway? Is my love of processed meat counterbalanced by the fastidious recycling of my scotch bottles? In gas stations and convenience stores, I take a penny more often than I leave a penny, but I am a more than generous tipper—even in buffet-type situations.
    3:45 A.M.
    For all we know about the workings of the universe, entry into Heaven might depend solely on shoe size. Nines go to hell and elevens go to Heaven, where their snowshoe-like feet are able to tromp atop clouds without falling through.
    I am reminded of Grushenka in The Brothers Karamazov, who thinks she’ll be saved because she once gave a peasant an onion. All it takes is a single pure deed, she believes. I wish I had her confidence.
    4:30 A.M.
    I’ve always held on to the irrational hope that in my final days I might suddenly transform into one of those Zorba-the-Greek kind of guys. I wonder if you can spend your whole life never coming ten thousand miles within seizing the day and then finally, at the last minute, turn it all around and redeem everything. In my final hours, I want to wander into the backyard in my deathbed bathrobe and, despite everything left undone—the European vacations, the Ski-Doo rides over the tundra—spread out my arms and do one of those life-embracing Zorba dances.
    â€œLook at the big dancing phony,” God will probably say, watching in Heaven. “It’s going to take more than showmanship to get into paradise on my watch.”
    4:45 A.M.
    Fasting does funny things to a man’s faith. An inner dialogue takes place in which you argue for and against the existence of God based solely on how in the mood you are for a