Saturday, December 13, 2014

Untitled NaNoWriMo - Chapter One

James I glance through the space between the stall door and the divider as I count the minutes as they pass. My watch reads 2:45 p.m, and I know that if I make it a little bit longer then I could spend some time at the water cooler during the afternoon “Consulting Meeting”. That would be another 15 minutes, then I could get away with a half an hour of catching up on emails and internet things, then another half hour at the coffee station and water cooler, 10 minutes back in the bathroom, and by then it’ll be practically punch-out time! No one works the last half hour, or at least I don’t. So I can get by this afternoon with maybe 15 good minutes of productive activity. I get up from my throne of procrastination, and flush, despite there being no reason to, appearances to keep I guess. I wash my hands in another purely ceremonial fashion, and head out the door. I spot Dave from a couple cubicles down from me staring blankly ahead while sipping water from the cooler. “Hey Dave, how’s about them Steelers?” I offer, remembering him recounting his favorite team. “Huh what?” he asks, and I repeat. “Hey Dave, how’s about them Steelers?” “Oh man, they’re up, they’re down, without a solid secondary there’s no way they’ll go far in the playoffs,” he returns, a little glow finding its way into his eyes. “Yeah, I have them as my Fantasy Football defense, and they’re killing me,” I reply. “Totally,” “Totally,” The weight of the awkward tension would bog down nearly anyone else, but not me. I’m here for the long-haul, or at least the next 13 minutes haul. I wait for him to balk, for him to waiver, and give up this social stamina contest, but his gaze goes blank again, staring at the sea of cubicles. I see that he’s a master, I’ve only been playing this game for the past three years, so I prepare to dip out to his obvious supremacy, but then he wanders away. “Well, good luck this weekend!” my words chase after him as he drags down the corridor. “With what?” he asks, genuinely concerned for a moment. “With the game,” I respond. “Oh yeah, thanks,” he says, turning back around. Man, that was disheartening, but I won the great water cooler war, and now I can spend the remaining 6 minutes without the pressure of forced conversation looming. For a second I wonder what I’m going to have for dinner tonight; I don’t think I have anything leftover in my fridge, and I definitely didn’t thaw anything from the freezer. Maybe I could grab some take-out, but I ate take-out last night. But really, what other options do I have? I wonder if that Mediterranean place will still be open by the time I get off my train. Oh shit, I have to pick up more cat food anyways, I guess I’ll just go to the grocery store, and pick myself up a rotisserie chicken or something, maybe some bread and other things for when I finally remember to start packing my lunch, instead of eating out everyday. “Hey Jimbo, how about them Ravens?” “Sorry, say that again?” I ask, and he repeats. “Hey Jimbo, how about them Ravens?” “Oh yeah, we look pretty good this season, but we’ll probably choke like we always do,” I respond. I my leave, checking my watch, and I stop by the coffee pot to grab a stale cup before returning to my desk. I see that there’s a covered platter of doughnuts on the counter with an emphatic note reading “PLEASE EAT ME”. I briefly consider, before complying, twice. I wipe my chocolate frosting fingers on a napkin that was hanging around from my fast food lunch that day. I open my company email, and then another browser tab for my personal email. I check the filter on my personal email labeled “Fantasy”, and look at my roster. All of my players seem healthy, and my pending trade for a different defense for the week was accepted. I silently celebrate my imminent victory, and close the window to check on pressing work matters. Who keeps leaving the creamer out on the counter? URGENT: Need reports in for the Consulting Meeting this afternoon Party Planning Committee requires new members! Important Member of the Owner’s Family Site Visit James, read this. I click on the last email, and begin to read its contents. Dear James, How have you been? It’s been since college that we last spoke! Well, me and Jennifer ended up getting married, it was a really small ceremony, and that’s why you weren’t invited. Lies, I saw the pictures on Facebook, and their wedding rivaled the royal one. Even the weird kid Billy that lived down the hall from us, and his odd colored hair choices were spotted in some pictures. I just wanted to let you know that we’re planning on moving into the area, and wanted to see if you’d like to grab a bite to eat. Sorry about the dramatic email subject, I just thought that it’d get lost in your work email archives if I didn’t make it sound so serious, and we all know that you just use your personal email for fantasy football. I hope all is well, and look forward to catching up soon! Cheers, Trent --- Trent Landon Associate Financial Officer - Charles Ingram Financial Trent Landon, my college roommate that ended up marrying my college girlfriend. Honestly, I don’t hate him or her anymore, but I had comfortably removed myself from their friend circle soon after they had sat me down at a small coffee shop “to have a little talk.” I begin to type: Hey Trent! You’re right, it has been a long while, too long some would say, some would, but I wouldn’t. I jam on the backspace key, and try again several times before giving up. I then open the urgent email and its attached file. I search through my filing cabinet, and find the note sheets that I had filled out during the last consultation. One of my current clients was this up-and-coming cell phone app that allowed people to post pictures of their meals and would be matched with people based upon their similarities. They were workshopping the name, but currently it’s called “Heart Through The Stomach”. I hate it, but my job is advertising, so I have to make it sound like its the next instagram. I watched T.V. shows about marketing and advertising when I was in school, and it seemed so sleek, so cool. Episodes considering the immense responsibility it was to come up with the perfect slogan for a brand. Swirling expensive bourbon while inappropriately hitting on tight-skirted secretaries, and planning happy hour drinks with clients that looked always like movie stars and never like overweight businessman. The smell of mahogany and cigars practically oozes out of your screen while you watch these shows, and they never have florescent lighting in their immaculate corner offices. I quickly search the name of our client’s app on the internet, and note the first few links that pop up. Nowadays this game was about internet searches and keywords; “all about those clicks and downloads.” my boss had said during the last consultation. I found it hilarious that he couldn’t even make it sound remotely clever. The slogan truly is dead I guess. The company that had contracted us had bought the app from a couple of entrepreneurs had no plan for the app beyond three years, and was hoping to resell it to one of the big companies before the end of the year. I swirl the sad coffee in the bottom of my “Hardly Working” mug, and look at my administrative assistant, a nice college grad from the local university named Ted. Ted likes dogs and reality T.V., and doesn’t care much for sports. We haven’t exchanged many words since our initial meeting. I reach my hands to the ceiling and open my mouth wide, sucking in air and hopefully energy. I briefly stand up from my Officesmart Econo-comfort Chair, and see a dozen other people over the cubicle walls doing the same thing. I smile for a moment, thinking of a science channel special I had watched some nights ago about prairie dogs. I spot middle management getting off the elevator, and signal to the others to get down before we were spotted. The clock reads 4:00, and I prepare myself for my next bathroom break. I unlock my top desk drawer, and retrieve my personal cell. I also grab a fun-sized candy bar. I give my polite goodbyes and little jokes about the grind to my office companions as I left. Tough crowd, but they can’t help it. I gotta try to bring a little light into this place. The first train is bustling, and I wasn’t able to get a seat. I stare blankly at my phone, despite its serviceless state. I scroll through my screens of apps, some personal and some demos from potential clients. I grab a copy of today’s paper to read while waiting in between stops. I notice a young man pondering over one of the station maps. I consider helping him, but I hear my train pulling in behind me. I get off at my stop, I buy a bag of nuts from a street vendor, and stop to give them to Chuck the homeless guy that lives a couple blocks from my place. “How about them Steelers?” I ask him. “Same shit, different names, they’ll be alright though,” he replies. I walk a couple more blocks before I get to my building. It’s an older model, but has been taken over by 20-somethings and bohemians. I don’t really care, because I don’t spend much time there anyways. All I know is that within the three years I’ve lived here, two different coffee shops, and a microbrewery/used bookstore have sprung up. I put my key into the lock of my small studio apartment, and remember that I had forgotten to go grocery shopping. I look at my watch, and decide that it can wait another day. Take-out at this time would take another hour, and by then I am hoping to be at most half-conscious on the couch watching a show about how gumballs are made or something. The door swings open and Trig, my cat, brushes my leg, and looks up at me expectantly. Breaking my heart with every molecule in his little feline being. “Shit, sorry dude, I totally forgot to buy you food, and much less importantly myself any food,” I tell him. I open my freezer, and grab a bag of frozen chicken thighs and run them under water in the sink. Once they’re thawed enough to get out of the bag I put them on a plastic plate and in my microwave. I contemplate actually calculating the amount of defrosting it should require, but I end up frustrated, and just hit the comp-u-defrost setting trusting that the magic of technology will help me. I sit down on my rundown old couch, the same couch that hid ping pong balls and quarters during my college days, the same couch where I had first met Jennifer, and the first couch that I had to move up flights of stairs into my own place. I mean to turn on the T.V., but I wake to the sound of my microwave chirping at me. I remove the rubbery, half-cooked chicken, and then toss it in a frying pan with some salt and pepper. I start boiling water for rice, and grab a can of salsa from my refrigerator. The chicken is already practically cooked, so it doesn’t take long in the pan. I take a thigh out for Trig, cutting it into very small pieces, and smash some rice into a paste for him. He digs in without hesitation; I remember reading about cats that are picky eaters, and then pet Trig, suddenly feeling more appreciative to have him. I eat as procedure, to fill a necessity, and the metal clang of my fork hitting the bowl marks the end of my meal. I catch an hour of T.V. before looking at Trig and asking. “Well, bout that time eh?” I make sure my alarm is ready, and pick out a tie for tomorrow.

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