“Well, Julian?” The doctor shifted her notepad on her lap and peered over her bifocals at the thick, pale man on the opposite side of the glass. “I suppose I hardly need to tell you what day it is?”
Julian Day, the criminal known as Calendar Man, sat in shadow in the far side of his cell, his fingers steepled under his nose. This was Dr. Spade’s ninth attempt to speak with him, to offer counseling, in as many weeks. Every Tuesday since May 16. Nine in the morning. She was never early and never late. Nine o’clock on the nose. He could appreciate that. Very well... “Did you vote this morning?”
Dr. Spade stiffened in surprise. Day had offered her nothing more than arched eyebrows or disdainful sneers as responses in the previous eight (attempted) sessions. “In truth, I did not.”
“Hm. Primary elections are rarely granted the attention they deserve.” He lifted his head, the dim light in the hallway reflecting off his shaved scalp. “Naturally, I cannot vote while serving my sentence. Sad that so many neglect their civil duties until it’s time to choose a new president every four years.”
“It is sad.” Spade nodded in agreement. “Maybe I’ll run out on lunch.”
“Do you know why we vote on Tuesdays?”
“No, I can’t say that I do.” She tapped her pen against her palm.
“In the 19th-century, farmers often needed a full day to travel to the county seat to vote. Tuesday was established as election day because it didn't interfere with the Sabbath or with market day, which was on Wednesday in many towns.” He brought his hands away from his face and set them on his knees. He exhaled a sharp sigh as he lifted himself up, off his cot. “Congress passed a federal law in 1845 designating the first Tuesday subsequent to the first Monday in November as Election Day. The same rule is applied to primary elections, though the months will vary by state and purpose.”
“I see.” Dr. Spade scribbled a few lines of notes. “Save the primary election, does today have any special significance to you?”
“Every day has special significance to me.” He pointed to the calendar hung on the wall to his right. Prior to Arkham coming under heavy fire from groups such as the ACLU, AFSC, FIDH, and, most recently, Amnesty International, he hadn’t been allowed to have proper toilet paper in his cell, much less a calendar. Recent changes allowed certain amenities to low-risk patients, such as Day. “Today, though?” He cleared his throat before continuing. “Today is a Tuesday. Today is August 8, 2017. Today is International Cat Day and National Dollar Day.” He took a step towards the glass. “Today is the 32nd Tuesday and 220th day of the year. Today is the 49th day of Summer – and there are 45 days left until Fall. There are 145 days left in the year.”
“Tempus fugit,” she muttered, writing additional notes.
“Pardon?” Day took a second step towards her.
Spade cleared her throat. “Tempus fugit. It means-”
“I know what it means.” Another step forward. “Why did you say it?”
“Well...” She glanced back from Julian to her notes and back to Julian. “The year’s already half over, more than half over. It seems as though you blink and another hour, another day, another week, or another month has passed.”
“Precisely.” Day tilted his head. “And you mean to tell me that today has no special significance to you?”
“Point taken.”
“Mm.” He nodded. “There’s also your anniversary.”
“Excuse me?” Spade’s hand faltered and she dropped her pen. Her face flushed as she gave a nervous smile and leaned down to retrieve it. When she looked up, Calendar Man was standing directly on the other side of the glass, not three feet away. All color left her face.
“Your anniversary,” Julian purred, his voice a soft rasp. “Up until today, you’ve kept your dress to traditional business attire underneath your lovely, little, white coat. Yes, you like your skirts a touch high – and you certainly have the legs for it – but you always accompany it with a professional top and tights. Your heels are always a touch flashy, but always closed-toe.”
Spade tried to respond, but simply gasped, her mouth moving like that of a fish fresh out of the water.
“Today, however... No tights? Open-toe pumps? Meeee-ow.” Day grinned and took a step back. “I wasn’t going to comment on the neckline, but you just gave me a glimpse of what I had already suspected.” He winked before turning and walking back to his bed.
“I... I don’t understa-”
“You said you’d vote on lunch, not after your shift.” He continued without turning back to face her. “I was born in Gotham, Dr. Spade. You may be new to the city, but, surely, you know it’s next-to-impossible to get anywhere in thirty minutes, much less make it round-trip inside an hour. The only reason to immediately rule out the evening would be the fact that you have plans.” He held his left hand aloft and twitched his ring finger. “Considering your tan line, you’re either recently divorced or you remove your wedding ring while you’re on the clock.” He glanced back, over his shoulder. “I’m guessing the latter.”
She stood and said nothing. The color returned to her face, her cheeks ruddy.
“Let’s not forget the gold bracelet on your other hand. That’s new. You left the string on the band when you – or your significant other – tore off the price tag.” His grin turned into a mocking frown. “I hope that’s not real ivory. You’ll need to be careful where you flash that around.”
She instinctively covered her wrist.
“Traditional and modern anniversary gifts for…” He rubbed his nose in thought as he sat down. “Thirteen? No… Fourteen years.”
Spade threw her notepad to the floor and half-walked, half-ran down the hall, away from Day.
Julian chuckled. “All my best,” he called out after her.
Post by Julian Day on Aug 18, 2017 18:08:05 GMT -6
Minimum Security Wing:
Thursday...
Footsteps approaching. There was a brisk, telltale “click-click” of heels on stone.
“I must admit, I’m surprised to see you again, doctor.” Calendar Man looked up from his book. “I hope I didn’t put a damper on your dinner plans.” His tone was neither sincere nor mocking.
Dr. Spade retrieved a chair and set it opposite his cell. Her face was rigid, but not stern. “It was fine, thank you.” She opened the chain and sat, keeping her hands folded in her lap. “I wanted to… apologize for leaving so abruptly the other day.”
Julian blinked, closed his book, and set it on the bed. “This is indeed an interesting turn.”
She held up a hand. “It was rude. I shouldn’t have taken offense.”
“It’s to be expected,” he chuckled. “Your type loves to visit the zoo and stare at the animals, but you don’t like it when the lions stare back.”
“That’s fair.” Spade shifted in the folding chair. “Though I’ll thank you to refrain from looking down my blouse.”
“Noted,” he smiled. “Though, in all honesty, you’re not my type.”
“Noted.”
“And thank you for not filing a complaint,” Day said with an appreciative nod. “I likely would have lost my reading privileges, amongst other things.” He gestured to the book on the blanket. “Yesterday being National Book Lovers Day, that would have been unfortunate.”
“You need to understand, Julian,” Spade said, her voice even. “I’m here to help. I mean it. I truly mean it.”
“Mm.” He folded his hands and leaned forward, his eyes glittering. “You truly have no idea how many upstarts walk through those gates, doctor. Men and women, young and old, all doggedly determined to pick us apart.” Day gestured about him. “Write the next essay.” He raised an eyebrow. “Publish the next book.”
She blushed. “I assure you, that is not-”
“The Numerology of Neuropsychiatry.” Julian unfolded his hands, retrieved the book, and made an exaggerated examination of the spine and front cover. “A study on the philosophical dichotomy of mental disorders… by Dr. Diane Spade.”
“You read my book?” Her expression was an entanglement of embarrassment and interest.
“Twice.” Day’s hollow gaze bore into her eyes. “Am I correct in assuming my obsessive-compulsive tendencies regarding calendars, chronology, and corresponding numerological significance brought you tap-tap-tapping on my window pane?”
There was a pause, but, after a few moments, Spade gave a curt nod. Her face was no longer flushed, but her ears yet belied her chagrin. “If I say ‘yes?’”
Calendar Man shrugged. “I’m willing grant you a peek, as Tetch would say, ‘down the rabbit hole,’ but offer no promises of profound effectuation.”
“You would do that?”
“The Calendar Man has been forgotten, Dr. Spade.” Julian approached and set a hand on the glass. “Let’s see if we can remedy that.”
Welcome to City of Gotham; a Batman RPG!
This game consists of multiple forum topics for different locations, but it's all part of the same story. You can apply for both heroes and villains, and interact them with other characters to build the world and story! Sound fun? Ready to satisfy your Batman writing muses? Awesome! We're glad to have you!
