chirstmas over and new years yet to be
the office is still, barely a body to see
bless the vacationers for great gifts of silence
it's finally here, let the in-between time commence!
Monday, December 28, 2009
Sunday, November 1, 2009
He Entered the Room for the Last Time
He laid the briefcase on the table and the sound of it momentarily drowned out the central heat and the muffled banging of a construction site a block south and 32 floors below. He was grateful that the cushioning of the padded, Naugahyde side-panel masked the hollow, empty sound he'd expected. He wished, briefly, that he'd not eaten the apple and jelly sandwich he'd packed that morning as they'd added some weight and would have made his swinging the briefcase down onto the table look more authentic. This thought was followed by a surprisingly intense shame, and he did his best to push it out of his mind. Looking down he saw a bead of sweat land on the right-side, brass latch and resisted the urge to wipe it away. He sensed the stares coming at him from the men around the table but did not yet look up. He paused for a moment pondering, and quickly rejecting, the idea of opening the case and pretending to rummage through it. In the moments he had left he tried to accept that there were no answers, no solutions and no recourses. Then, he raised his head, and in a slow, soft voice began to speak
Friday, October 16, 2009
To the Peacemaker
Dear Richard,
This is a confession.
I broke the first rule. I told my mother. She wanted to know where I’d been and after she refused my usual story, I told her. She does not know who is involved. I want you to understand that. I wouldn’t tell her no matter how hard she tried or what she threatened. But she knows enough to understand what’s been going on.
After I told her, she sent me to my room. I’m here now. She’s on the phone. I don’t know who she’s talking to, but I can guess. There may be trouble. She’s a believer. I’ve known that in my heart all along. Until now I could pretend that she was faking, that she was just trying to survive it like the rest of us. But I know she’s a believer. I hear it in her voice through the door. There will be trouble.
It’s hard to describe how I feel. I'm sorry. She asked and asked. I lied as I always have, but you were right, the lying gets harder. Every day we studied I could feel the truth welling within me. I tried to be firm in the telling of it. I tried to remember the rules and why they are important. I tried to keep my head. I wasn’t successful, not completely. I did manage not to raise my voice in anger. I know that’s not enough, but it’s something. Isn’t it?
At this point, I have to make a decision. I knew this day would come. You always told us it would. It had to. I just never expected it so soon. Though I suppose we rarely know what to expect. As you say, it would have been nice of Fate to give us an outline.
I want to thank you for the peace you’ve helped me discover. Your guidance has meant more to me than I can express. I may never fully repay you, but I will try to use your lessons well. I know that now, no matter my decision, everything has changed. I know this is my time of trial. I think I understand now what you meant by that phrase. I feel ready.
As I have told you, as we’ve all told you, I’ve spend many sleepless nights thinking about what it’s like on the other side. I have the photo you gave me -- your mother’s family on the beach. It may be in black and white, but I swear I can see the blue of the ocean. I long to see that ocean, to really see it, and to feel its cool water roll over my feet. Does the beach have a scent? I want to find out. I want to feel the sun. I want to lie on the sand and watch the people – the free people – walk by in their swimsuits. I want a dog like your mother’s. I want to be as happy as she and her family seem.
There it is. I’ve made my decision. Maybe this letter is more of a goodbye than a confession, though I suppose it’s also a warning. I know putting this on paper is dangerous, but how could I not? You have to know. I hope you and the others are not harmed by my actions. My leaving is the best thing. If I’m gone I can’t answer their questions.
I’ll leave this letter in our usual place. When I’m not at practice tomorrow, I’m sure you’ll send someone to fetch it. Tell them not to look for me. Not to ask after me. Not to draw suspicion toward the group. Believe I made it. That’s the last thing I ask of you. No matter what, believe I made it.
Yours in love and gratitude,
Kate
This is a confession.
I broke the first rule. I told my mother. She wanted to know where I’d been and after she refused my usual story, I told her. She does not know who is involved. I want you to understand that. I wouldn’t tell her no matter how hard she tried or what she threatened. But she knows enough to understand what’s been going on.
After I told her, she sent me to my room. I’m here now. She’s on the phone. I don’t know who she’s talking to, but I can guess. There may be trouble. She’s a believer. I’ve known that in my heart all along. Until now I could pretend that she was faking, that she was just trying to survive it like the rest of us. But I know she’s a believer. I hear it in her voice through the door. There will be trouble.
It’s hard to describe how I feel. I'm sorry. She asked and asked. I lied as I always have, but you were right, the lying gets harder. Every day we studied I could feel the truth welling within me. I tried to be firm in the telling of it. I tried to remember the rules and why they are important. I tried to keep my head. I wasn’t successful, not completely. I did manage not to raise my voice in anger. I know that’s not enough, but it’s something. Isn’t it?
At this point, I have to make a decision. I knew this day would come. You always told us it would. It had to. I just never expected it so soon. Though I suppose we rarely know what to expect. As you say, it would have been nice of Fate to give us an outline.
I want to thank you for the peace you’ve helped me discover. Your guidance has meant more to me than I can express. I may never fully repay you, but I will try to use your lessons well. I know that now, no matter my decision, everything has changed. I know this is my time of trial. I think I understand now what you meant by that phrase. I feel ready.
As I have told you, as we’ve all told you, I’ve spend many sleepless nights thinking about what it’s like on the other side. I have the photo you gave me -- your mother’s family on the beach. It may be in black and white, but I swear I can see the blue of the ocean. I long to see that ocean, to really see it, and to feel its cool water roll over my feet. Does the beach have a scent? I want to find out. I want to feel the sun. I want to lie on the sand and watch the people – the free people – walk by in their swimsuits. I want a dog like your mother’s. I want to be as happy as she and her family seem.
There it is. I’ve made my decision. Maybe this letter is more of a goodbye than a confession, though I suppose it’s also a warning. I know putting this on paper is dangerous, but how could I not? You have to know. I hope you and the others are not harmed by my actions. My leaving is the best thing. If I’m gone I can’t answer their questions.
I’ll leave this letter in our usual place. When I’m not at practice tomorrow, I’m sure you’ll send someone to fetch it. Tell them not to look for me. Not to ask after me. Not to draw suspicion toward the group. Believe I made it. That’s the last thing I ask of you. No matter what, believe I made it.
Yours in love and gratitude,
Kate
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
Ice Poems
Ice cold crickets
In my lemonade
Ma'am!
Could you see to these
Crickets, please
precious icy-cold refreshment.
i sense resentment,
when i ask for a refill.
the water glass looked
like ice
cold in the moonlight
on the windowsill
where she'd left it
In my lemonade
Ma'am!
Could you see to these
Crickets, please
+++
precious icy-cold refreshment.
i sense resentment,
when i ask for a refill.
+++
the water glass looked
like ice
cold in the moonlight
on the windowsill
where she'd left it
Monday, October 12, 2009
Zombie Haiku
Heart, released from Mind,
sails not on winds passionate.
obeys Stomach now.
of mindless demands
"Respect" reigns above all else
destruction ensues
sails not on winds passionate.
obeys Stomach now.
of mindless demands
"Respect" reigns above all else
destruction ensues
Friday, August 21, 2009
Cycling
It was the last day of the world, but, of course, no one knew it. It was a normal day. Babies were fed. Beds were made and then, sometimes, abruptly unmade in the heat of love. Men cried. Women went to lunch with friends. Old and young alike died of thirst. Magnificent weddings where performed. Robberies were planned. A small Asian man stood atop Mt Everest. Children studied or pretended to. A homosexual parade was held in Madrid. Kisses were shared. Gods were worshiped. Loss was mourned. Bombs were planted beneath dusty roads. Courts sentenced the guilty and freed the innocent...mostly. An elephant was downed in northern India. Fires were extinguished. Homes were built. Guns were fired. In Michigan an old man climbed a tree and refused to come down until his children showed him some respect. Hats were bought. Rivers were forded. Jungles burned.
It is the last day of the world, but, of course, no one knows it. Dead rock, dust and vapor circle a nameless yellow star. Boulders collide and fly apart. Pieces of a world remembered only by the blinking lights and whirling gears of a few orphaned probes. Time passes and is not measured. A cloud forms. The star glows hazy-orange beneath it. After a while a spinning asteroids and dust condense into a ring around the star. Internal collisions cause some rocks to fly from the ring out into nothingness and sends others careening into the star causing spectacular fiery geysers to shoot forth into black space. As more and more chunks of rock ram into each other some begin to cling together forming ever larger dust-covered bodies. Time and chance eventually leave one of these bodies the victor for having collected the bulk of the circling debris. Gravity’s pressure squeezes its innermost depths into a thick, hot liquid, even as it continues to be pelted from above. At one point the pressure within threatens to tear the new planet apart, but a lucky impact frees just enough material and sends it shooting into the planet's orbit to reestablish stability.
Soon it will be the first day of the world, but, of course, no one will ever know it…
It is the last day of the world, but, of course, no one knows it. Dead rock, dust and vapor circle a nameless yellow star. Boulders collide and fly apart. Pieces of a world remembered only by the blinking lights and whirling gears of a few orphaned probes. Time passes and is not measured. A cloud forms. The star glows hazy-orange beneath it. After a while a spinning asteroids and dust condense into a ring around the star. Internal collisions cause some rocks to fly from the ring out into nothingness and sends others careening into the star causing spectacular fiery geysers to shoot forth into black space. As more and more chunks of rock ram into each other some begin to cling together forming ever larger dust-covered bodies. Time and chance eventually leave one of these bodies the victor for having collected the bulk of the circling debris. Gravity’s pressure squeezes its innermost depths into a thick, hot liquid, even as it continues to be pelted from above. At one point the pressure within threatens to tear the new planet apart, but a lucky impact frees just enough material and sends it shooting into the planet's orbit to reestablish stability.
Soon it will be the first day of the world, but, of course, no one will ever know it…
Boy's Adventure
It was a hard climb. The loose gravel lining the slope caused him to slip every few steps, kicking up dust that began to cover his new Nike low-tops. It was hard, but worth it. When he reached the top he could see exactly why his brother told him to never, ever climb onto the tracks.
It was a camp and he realized he could smell it. Burnt plastic, mostly, with a hint of sweat. On first glance he'd imagined the camp of a great army full of brave soldiers taking a brief, and surely deserved, rest before marching on to combat, and quite possibly, certain death. But reality set in quickly, and he knew this was no military camp. The tents, if you could call them that, where bright blue or mud-colored tarps like the one his uncle used to cover his boat after coming back from the lake. They hung down from trees, were propped up with pieces of white, plastic pipe and were secured to the ground by rocks, rusty hunks of iron or chunks of concrete block. The ground around each tent was dry, dusty earth with a few tall weeds here and there, but no grass. Instead of neat campfires surrounded by rocks, there were blackened oil drums filled with sharp flames stabbing their way into the early evening air.
When he noticed the man rumble awkwardly and slowly from behind a tattered tarp, he dove down behind the track leaving only the top of his head exposed so he could watch. The man was white and he was old. Really old. Not like the boy's father was old. Older than that. But maybe younger than his grandfather. He had a dusty blonde-gray beard and long kinked hair sliding from beneath an orange cap. He walked like one of those horses the boy's mother had taken him to see at the fair. High and thoughtful, each step a decision of it's own, but with a kind of wobble the horses hadn't had. His shoes didn't match. One was a brown loafer. Its sole had come detached both in the front and the back. The other was a high-top sneaker. It was gray with dirt, but looked to be in better shape than it's mate. There was a long strip hanging down from a hole in the seat of the old man's pants. Through the hole the boy could see stained, yellowed long underwear.
Suddenly the old man lunged forward grabbing his legs above his knees. He coughed in fits, violently, wheezing and bobbing his upper body up and down between each fit. He raised up and spit a dark red spray onto the ground in front of him, then leaned over and began again. The boy, seeing this, felt afraid. This man was sick. Bad sick. What if he died right there? Should he run for help? The boy's stomach began to tingle and swirl. The coughing continued. The sound of wet, rattling death filled his ears. He felt sweat on his palms and on the back of his neck. He should do something. He bowed his head for a moment to pray to Jesus to protect him, then poised himself to leap. He looked up. The camp appeared empty. The old man was gone.
Later that night at the supper table while his father went on, as usual, talking about work, the boy leaned over toward his brother.
“I went up on the railroad tracks,” he whispered.
His brother looked shocked, then angry and concerned. “I told you not to,” he whispered back.
“I saw a man. He looked sick,” the boy said.
“Don't go up there any more,” his brother said. “Ok? Promise.”
“OK, but wha-”
“What are you boys whispering about over there?” their mother asked.
“Nothing, mom,” the boy's brother said.
“Nothing, huh? Sure looked like a couple of thieves to me,” she said. “Plotting something, I bet.”
“No, mom, it's nothing.”
“Oh, honey, let the boys have their secrets,” their father said. “A secret or two can't hurt anybody. And we can't know EVERYTHING, can we? After all, we're only their parents.”
It was a camp and he realized he could smell it. Burnt plastic, mostly, with a hint of sweat. On first glance he'd imagined the camp of a great army full of brave soldiers taking a brief, and surely deserved, rest before marching on to combat, and quite possibly, certain death. But reality set in quickly, and he knew this was no military camp. The tents, if you could call them that, where bright blue or mud-colored tarps like the one his uncle used to cover his boat after coming back from the lake. They hung down from trees, were propped up with pieces of white, plastic pipe and were secured to the ground by rocks, rusty hunks of iron or chunks of concrete block. The ground around each tent was dry, dusty earth with a few tall weeds here and there, but no grass. Instead of neat campfires surrounded by rocks, there were blackened oil drums filled with sharp flames stabbing their way into the early evening air.
When he noticed the man rumble awkwardly and slowly from behind a tattered tarp, he dove down behind the track leaving only the top of his head exposed so he could watch. The man was white and he was old. Really old. Not like the boy's father was old. Older than that. But maybe younger than his grandfather. He had a dusty blonde-gray beard and long kinked hair sliding from beneath an orange cap. He walked like one of those horses the boy's mother had taken him to see at the fair. High and thoughtful, each step a decision of it's own, but with a kind of wobble the horses hadn't had. His shoes didn't match. One was a brown loafer. Its sole had come detached both in the front and the back. The other was a high-top sneaker. It was gray with dirt, but looked to be in better shape than it's mate. There was a long strip hanging down from a hole in the seat of the old man's pants. Through the hole the boy could see stained, yellowed long underwear.
Suddenly the old man lunged forward grabbing his legs above his knees. He coughed in fits, violently, wheezing and bobbing his upper body up and down between each fit. He raised up and spit a dark red spray onto the ground in front of him, then leaned over and began again. The boy, seeing this, felt afraid. This man was sick. Bad sick. What if he died right there? Should he run for help? The boy's stomach began to tingle and swirl. The coughing continued. The sound of wet, rattling death filled his ears. He felt sweat on his palms and on the back of his neck. He should do something. He bowed his head for a moment to pray to Jesus to protect him, then poised himself to leap. He looked up. The camp appeared empty. The old man was gone.
Later that night at the supper table while his father went on, as usual, talking about work, the boy leaned over toward his brother.
“I went up on the railroad tracks,” he whispered.
His brother looked shocked, then angry and concerned. “I told you not to,” he whispered back.
“I saw a man. He looked sick,” the boy said.
“Don't go up there any more,” his brother said. “Ok? Promise.”
“OK, but wha-”
“What are you boys whispering about over there?” their mother asked.
“Nothing, mom,” the boy's brother said.
“Nothing, huh? Sure looked like a couple of thieves to me,” she said. “Plotting something, I bet.”
“No, mom, it's nothing.”
“Oh, honey, let the boys have their secrets,” their father said. “A secret or two can't hurt anybody. And we can't know EVERYTHING, can we? After all, we're only their parents.”
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Very Short Stories
Medicine Is Useless
“Remember to take every one of these, even if you start to feel better.”
“Oh, I like to keep some around for if I get sick later.”
“No, you have to take them all or your sickness may return.”
“Really? It never has before. I've got a whole bunch of antibiotics in my kitchen.”
“Well, you seriously should take every one. I've prescribed the number you need. There aren't any extras.”
“Oh...Okay. I understand.”
“You're not going to take them all are you?”
“I might.”
“Listen, these are powerful antibiotics. It would be irresponsible for me to give you any more or any less than you need. You need all 18 of these pills. I'm not lying to you.”
“Yeah, sure, doc, I trust you.”
“Will you take them all?”
“Alright, if it means that much to you. I'll do it.”
“This is why I got into medicine.”
Don't Go in the Bathroom
Once he'd heard crying in the bathroom at the far end of the hall. Not regular kid crying either. Grown-up crying. Maybe even a teacher. He didn't go inside that day. He did not want to face anything that could make a teacher cry. So he held it and went out with the rest of the class for recess. His mother brought a change of clothes that afternoon.
Confused Ambition
Growing up, I wanted to read. I never wanted to take tap. This conflict wasn't a problem for my mother. “We all want this or that, but where we is is where we at,” she'd say. “We gonna get you some culture. You gonna be somebody.”
Madness from a Cold Awakening
The garage is cold. The fire must be burned out. Thank god, these covers are warm...ish. Moving them is certainly out of the question. Maybe father will come tend to the fire soon. Not impossible, but the house-filling roar of his snoring signals the chances of that happening. Perhaps brother? No, he's at the colder end of the house. He's locked in. The sun will be long up before he makes a move. That's hours away. This house will freeze if something isn't done. Time to ponder a dangerous mission. How can it be done? Wrapping up in the blankets...a cocoon of protection? The cold concrete floor awaits. Its chill longing to suck the life from a bare foot. No slippers. Where are the socks from yesterday? Could be anywhere. No light accessible from this bed. Options are running out. Sleep? Yes... not bad. Forget it all and sleep. Awake with the bright, warm dawn. Socks won't hide in the morning light. Sleep. But, wait! Sleep is the enemy! The long sleep. The deep, dark sleep. This sleep must be avoided. Drifting away with the cold may be a one way trip. No. Something must be done. This calls for... Bravery. Resolve and Bravery. And Quickness. For it must be done. It shall be done. The fire will, once again, come bursting to life. This house needs it and loyalty demands it. No time to waste now. The choice is made. On with it.
...Oh, shit...cold floor, cold floor, cold floor...
“Remember to take every one of these, even if you start to feel better.”
“Oh, I like to keep some around for if I get sick later.”
“No, you have to take them all or your sickness may return.”
“Really? It never has before. I've got a whole bunch of antibiotics in my kitchen.”
“Well, you seriously should take every one. I've prescribed the number you need. There aren't any extras.”
“Oh...Okay. I understand.”
“You're not going to take them all are you?”
“I might.”
“Listen, these are powerful antibiotics. It would be irresponsible for me to give you any more or any less than you need. You need all 18 of these pills. I'm not lying to you.”
“Yeah, sure, doc, I trust you.”
“Will you take them all?”
“Alright, if it means that much to you. I'll do it.”
“This is why I got into medicine.”
+ + +
Don't Go in the Bathroom
Once he'd heard crying in the bathroom at the far end of the hall. Not regular kid crying either. Grown-up crying. Maybe even a teacher. He didn't go inside that day. He did not want to face anything that could make a teacher cry. So he held it and went out with the rest of the class for recess. His mother brought a change of clothes that afternoon.
+ + +
Confused Ambition
Growing up, I wanted to read. I never wanted to take tap. This conflict wasn't a problem for my mother. “We all want this or that, but where we is is where we at,” she'd say. “We gonna get you some culture. You gonna be somebody.”
+ + +
Madness from a Cold Awakening
The garage is cold. The fire must be burned out. Thank god, these covers are warm...ish. Moving them is certainly out of the question. Maybe father will come tend to the fire soon. Not impossible, but the house-filling roar of his snoring signals the chances of that happening. Perhaps brother? No, he's at the colder end of the house. He's locked in. The sun will be long up before he makes a move. That's hours away. This house will freeze if something isn't done. Time to ponder a dangerous mission. How can it be done? Wrapping up in the blankets...a cocoon of protection? The cold concrete floor awaits. Its chill longing to suck the life from a bare foot. No slippers. Where are the socks from yesterday? Could be anywhere. No light accessible from this bed. Options are running out. Sleep? Yes... not bad. Forget it all and sleep. Awake with the bright, warm dawn. Socks won't hide in the morning light. Sleep. But, wait! Sleep is the enemy! The long sleep. The deep, dark sleep. This sleep must be avoided. Drifting away with the cold may be a one way trip. No. Something must be done. This calls for... Bravery. Resolve and Bravery. And Quickness. For it must be done. It shall be done. The fire will, once again, come bursting to life. This house needs it and loyalty demands it. No time to waste now. The choice is made. On with it.
...Oh, shit...cold floor, cold floor, cold floor...
Monday, July 13, 2009
The Short Day
People thought of them as short days, though, technically speaking they were just as long as any other. But the day before a holiday always seemed to hold a little less pressure to spend the day strictly working. Management, of course, was well aware and had made the decision that putting a stop to it was more trouble than it was worth. And even a manager enjoys some quiet once in a while.
Lots of people take vacation time the day before a holiday, but not Lucy. She would save her vacation for a regular day, thank you. There were plenty of people in the office she enjoyed talking to, and if she could get paid to come in and hang out with her friends, she wasn't about to miss out on it.
On a normal day Lucy would come in a little late, and having had no coffee or breakfast at home, immediately go to the deli cart in the building's lobby. She'd order a bagel and a large, proudly brewed starbucks coffee and chat for a few minutes with the cart's regular attendant, Carlos. Then she'd go upstairs and eat while she checked her email. She would work steadily until lunch, grab a quick bite with a friend or more often sit at her desk with a salad. She'd leave a few minutes early, always with an excuse ready were a member of management to spot her.
Short days were different, though. On short days she's come in early so she and her friends, Janice and Luke, could take a walk to the local coffee shop a block and a half from the building. There they'd sit and relax, and usually talk about work or, at least, about their coworkers. After a half-hour or so, they'd decide it was time to go back to the office, do a little something and wait for lunchtime to come around.
Lunch on a short day was a group trip to a restaurant and micro-brewery several blocks from the building. It was an extra long lunch that almost always involved a beer but almost never two. If no one beat her to it, Lucy would suggest taking the rest of the afternoon off and having a few more rounds. Everyone always agreed that this would be a great idea and that this was the perfect day to do just that, but soon thereafter someone, sometimes Lucy herself, would check his or her watch and announce that it was probably time to be getting back, and back they'd go.
Most people returned from lunch with every intention of making up for time lost slacking off in the morning. Lucy was no different. Everyone rushed into their cubes or offices, sat down at their desks and began to reacquaint themselves with the tasks they needed to get done. This generally lasted an hour, maybe two, but a craving for a diet coke or something sweet from the vending machine would eventually pull them away to the break room where they'd run into a friend, a coworker or a particularly interesting posting on the bulletin board. This signaled the end of work for the day.
People began to slip out about twenty or thirty minutes early on a short day, but not Lucy. She was the last to leave. She'd stay and say goodbye to everyone and wish them a happy holiday. After everyone had gone, she'd sit at her desk, maybe read and reply to an email or two, maybe surf the web a little for handbags or a new book to read. Finally she'd shut down her computer, gather her things, and, after taking a quick tour of the empty cube farm, wander toward the elevator, go down to her car and drive home.
Lots of people take vacation time the day before a holiday, but not Lucy. She would save her vacation for a regular day, thank you. There were plenty of people in the office she enjoyed talking to, and if she could get paid to come in and hang out with her friends, she wasn't about to miss out on it.
On a normal day Lucy would come in a little late, and having had no coffee or breakfast at home, immediately go to the deli cart in the building's lobby. She'd order a bagel and a large, proudly brewed starbucks coffee and chat for a few minutes with the cart's regular attendant, Carlos. Then she'd go upstairs and eat while she checked her email. She would work steadily until lunch, grab a quick bite with a friend or more often sit at her desk with a salad. She'd leave a few minutes early, always with an excuse ready were a member of management to spot her.
Short days were different, though. On short days she's come in early so she and her friends, Janice and Luke, could take a walk to the local coffee shop a block and a half from the building. There they'd sit and relax, and usually talk about work or, at least, about their coworkers. After a half-hour or so, they'd decide it was time to go back to the office, do a little something and wait for lunchtime to come around.
Lunch on a short day was a group trip to a restaurant and micro-brewery several blocks from the building. It was an extra long lunch that almost always involved a beer but almost never two. If no one beat her to it, Lucy would suggest taking the rest of the afternoon off and having a few more rounds. Everyone always agreed that this would be a great idea and that this was the perfect day to do just that, but soon thereafter someone, sometimes Lucy herself, would check his or her watch and announce that it was probably time to be getting back, and back they'd go.
Most people returned from lunch with every intention of making up for time lost slacking off in the morning. Lucy was no different. Everyone rushed into their cubes or offices, sat down at their desks and began to reacquaint themselves with the tasks they needed to get done. This generally lasted an hour, maybe two, but a craving for a diet coke or something sweet from the vending machine would eventually pull them away to the break room where they'd run into a friend, a coworker or a particularly interesting posting on the bulletin board. This signaled the end of work for the day.
People began to slip out about twenty or thirty minutes early on a short day, but not Lucy. She was the last to leave. She'd stay and say goodbye to everyone and wish them a happy holiday. After everyone had gone, she'd sit at her desk, maybe read and reply to an email or two, maybe surf the web a little for handbags or a new book to read. Finally she'd shut down her computer, gather her things, and, after taking a quick tour of the empty cube farm, wander toward the elevator, go down to her car and drive home.
Thursday, July 9, 2009
One Day This Stuff Happened
There was a book by the bed. He'd been reading it the night before. He picked it up now, surprised to find his bookmark nearly to the end. He did not remember a word. This did not surprise him.
Breakfast turned out to be a problem. At some point during the night, or perhaps the previous evening, he had poured a glass of milk and had neglected to put the milk back in the refrigerator, had, in fact, neglected to close the carton. He looked through the cabinets and through the refrigerator, but as expected the only food he found was cereal. Grape Nuts. He would not eat cereal with water.
He assumed, with good reason, that the shower was disgusting. This is why he always removed his glasses before pulling back the curtain.
It was an unexpected fortune to find he had clean socks. The right one, the one that ended up on his right foot, had a small hole near the big toe. With little trouble he could work his toe in line with the hole. He felt sure he could break through by mid morning.
The gray woman next to him would not stop smiling at the baby girl, asleep in her mother's arms, sitting in the seat in front of them. "Some god's miracle," she said and glanced at him. The bus was crowded. Standing room only. He'd taken the last seat. He wondered briefly how old the woman was, and then he wondered which one of them, the woman, the baby or himself, had created the odor surrounding them. He smiled a small smile, then turned to look at the child. There was something about her. He doubted it was miraculous, but he decided to pretend it could be, at least until the bus reached his stop.
As usual Molly was cheery. She stood in front of the brewing coffeemaker, humming. At regular, and short, intervals she bent down to check the coffee's progress. Each time she raised up from the inspection her enormous breasts bounced and jostled causing her silken blouse to rustle as if waves of perkiness were emanating from her breasts and reverberating through it and finally filling the entire break room. He did not hate her, but he did not enjoy being near her. Coffee could wait.
Work was straight-forward. Information flowed in. He reviewed it. He made additions. He corrected the most obvious mistakes. Information flowed out. At one time it had been part of his job to decide where to direct the information once he was finished with it. Software handled that now.
When Karl found him he was sitting at the small table in the break room eating Oreos and drinking a cup of coffee. Karl sat next to him and in a hushed and hurried tone told him of an email Regina had seen on the printer. The email had been sent to Curtis from Brenda. In it Brenda said she was coming by on Thursday and had some "office-wide issues" to discuss. She needed to discuss these issues in person.
For the most part his desk was empty of personal items, but he did have one toy. A small bit of corporate swag he had won as a door prize during the office holiday party two years before. It was plastic shaped into the form of a fortune cookie like those that come with the bill in a Chinese restaurant. The cookie was opened by pulling either end apart to reveal a small liquid crystal screen. A fortune then scrolled across the screen. He could see its small battery through the translucent plastic. There was no way to replace the battery. He opened it. It said, "You are friendly and outgoing."
At 11:34 he managed to force his toe through the hole. He felt the sock rip. It was satisfying.
He took a late lunch to make the afternoon shorter. He ate lunch alone. A Subway sandwich in a small park. On a nearby bench a homeless man slept. A passing jogger's dog sniffed at him and seemed to approve. Two benches down, as far from the sleeping homeless man as possible, sat a couple of middle-aged women. The chubby brunette was telling the enormous blonde about troubles with her son, Jesse. Jesse would not come home when he was supposed to. Jesse kept seeing that girl with the accent. Jesse burned "nose picker" into the assistant principal's front lawn.
Information in. Information out. He thought he could probably make a fortune selling the various identifying information that flowed past him each day. He did not know how to do this, but he felt sure he could learn how on the web. He kept this idea in the back pocket of his mind just in case he ever needed it. Plan B.
The elderly asian man behind the counter grunted at him as he walked in. It was a greeting and not an unfriendly one. The man was short and scrawny. He looked as though he could kill if the need arose and leave the body where it fell until he was sure not to miss any sales while he hauled it into the back room. There had been many evenings when he had seen the man in fierce, and very loud, verbal combat with an elderly asian woman, presumably, his wife. That, and his apparent ownership of this market, summed up his knowledge of the man. He bought beer, milk and pork rinds. He was unsure about the rules for carrying beer onto a city bus. He chose paper over plastic.
Other than the driver, he was the only person on the bus. He thought he remembered the same thing happening once before, but he could not be sure. He sat in the middle section and looked out the window. When a woman got on several blocks later and struck up a conversation with the driver, he turned his head to face the front.
He ate cereal and pork rinds in front to the television. One of his favorite programs was on. He laughed in all the right places. He flipped over to one of the religion channels during the commercials. It was showing a movie about the things people would be doing after the rapture. He considered calling the number at the bottom of the screen to see how long it would take before he was solicited for donations. He decided against it. He did not drink any beer.
His bed was unmade. He climbed in and adjusted the several sheets and blankets. He picked up the book from the night stand, then put it back down. He stared at the ceiling until he went to sleep. He dreamed he lived on a farm in California with a group of social scientists and a talking goose. He dreamed he was watching a movie in which Robin Hood was Batman's sidekick and kept stealing paintings from Wayne Manor to give to the poor. He dreamed he was having sex with his cousin, Linda. He dreamed he could fly.
Breakfast turned out to be a problem. At some point during the night, or perhaps the previous evening, he had poured a glass of milk and had neglected to put the milk back in the refrigerator, had, in fact, neglected to close the carton. He looked through the cabinets and through the refrigerator, but as expected the only food he found was cereal. Grape Nuts. He would not eat cereal with water.
He assumed, with good reason, that the shower was disgusting. This is why he always removed his glasses before pulling back the curtain.
It was an unexpected fortune to find he had clean socks. The right one, the one that ended up on his right foot, had a small hole near the big toe. With little trouble he could work his toe in line with the hole. He felt sure he could break through by mid morning.
The gray woman next to him would not stop smiling at the baby girl, asleep in her mother's arms, sitting in the seat in front of them. "Some god's miracle," she said and glanced at him. The bus was crowded. Standing room only. He'd taken the last seat. He wondered briefly how old the woman was, and then he wondered which one of them, the woman, the baby or himself, had created the odor surrounding them. He smiled a small smile, then turned to look at the child. There was something about her. He doubted it was miraculous, but he decided to pretend it could be, at least until the bus reached his stop.
As usual Molly was cheery. She stood in front of the brewing coffeemaker, humming. At regular, and short, intervals she bent down to check the coffee's progress. Each time she raised up from the inspection her enormous breasts bounced and jostled causing her silken blouse to rustle as if waves of perkiness were emanating from her breasts and reverberating through it and finally filling the entire break room. He did not hate her, but he did not enjoy being near her. Coffee could wait.
Work was straight-forward. Information flowed in. He reviewed it. He made additions. He corrected the most obvious mistakes. Information flowed out. At one time it had been part of his job to decide where to direct the information once he was finished with it. Software handled that now.
When Karl found him he was sitting at the small table in the break room eating Oreos and drinking a cup of coffee. Karl sat next to him and in a hushed and hurried tone told him of an email Regina had seen on the printer. The email had been sent to Curtis from Brenda. In it Brenda said she was coming by on Thursday and had some "office-wide issues" to discuss. She needed to discuss these issues in person.
For the most part his desk was empty of personal items, but he did have one toy. A small bit of corporate swag he had won as a door prize during the office holiday party two years before. It was plastic shaped into the form of a fortune cookie like those that come with the bill in a Chinese restaurant. The cookie was opened by pulling either end apart to reveal a small liquid crystal screen. A fortune then scrolled across the screen. He could see its small battery through the translucent plastic. There was no way to replace the battery. He opened it. It said, "You are friendly and outgoing."
At 11:34 he managed to force his toe through the hole. He felt the sock rip. It was satisfying.
He took a late lunch to make the afternoon shorter. He ate lunch alone. A Subway sandwich in a small park. On a nearby bench a homeless man slept. A passing jogger's dog sniffed at him and seemed to approve. Two benches down, as far from the sleeping homeless man as possible, sat a couple of middle-aged women. The chubby brunette was telling the enormous blonde about troubles with her son, Jesse. Jesse would not come home when he was supposed to. Jesse kept seeing that girl with the accent. Jesse burned "nose picker" into the assistant principal's front lawn.
Information in. Information out. He thought he could probably make a fortune selling the various identifying information that flowed past him each day. He did not know how to do this, but he felt sure he could learn how on the web. He kept this idea in the back pocket of his mind just in case he ever needed it. Plan B.
The elderly asian man behind the counter grunted at him as he walked in. It was a greeting and not an unfriendly one. The man was short and scrawny. He looked as though he could kill if the need arose and leave the body where it fell until he was sure not to miss any sales while he hauled it into the back room. There had been many evenings when he had seen the man in fierce, and very loud, verbal combat with an elderly asian woman, presumably, his wife. That, and his apparent ownership of this market, summed up his knowledge of the man. He bought beer, milk and pork rinds. He was unsure about the rules for carrying beer onto a city bus. He chose paper over plastic.
Other than the driver, he was the only person on the bus. He thought he remembered the same thing happening once before, but he could not be sure. He sat in the middle section and looked out the window. When a woman got on several blocks later and struck up a conversation with the driver, he turned his head to face the front.
He ate cereal and pork rinds in front to the television. One of his favorite programs was on. He laughed in all the right places. He flipped over to one of the religion channels during the commercials. It was showing a movie about the things people would be doing after the rapture. He considered calling the number at the bottom of the screen to see how long it would take before he was solicited for donations. He decided against it. He did not drink any beer.
His bed was unmade. He climbed in and adjusted the several sheets and blankets. He picked up the book from the night stand, then put it back down. He stared at the ceiling until he went to sleep. He dreamed he lived on a farm in California with a group of social scientists and a talking goose. He dreamed he was watching a movie in which Robin Hood was Batman's sidekick and kept stealing paintings from Wayne Manor to give to the poor. He dreamed he was having sex with his cousin, Linda. He dreamed he could fly.
First Post
This is a place I plan to post some things I've written and more I hope to write. It will be mostly fiction, but there could be a poem or an essay or a rant from time to time.
I apologize in advance for the spelling.
I apologize in advance for the spelling.
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