NaNoWriMo - Day 5 (11/05/2005)
Simon
Only ten after eight, I notice, looking at my watch, and I’m exhausted already. I wish I knew what I was doing with my life. I can’t seem to say or do the right things for Vanessa; my job is going nowhere; and I can’t seem to say the right things to anybody. ‘Try and have a good day?’ What kind of thing is that to say to a homeless man, especially after all I gave him was bloody seventy cents. Jesus Christ, Simon, what the hell are you thinking?
That’s the problem, I guess. Half the time I’m not thinking and the other half, I’m thinking about something totally unrelated to what I’m actually doing. I feel like I’m living half a life.
I amble along, letting my co-workers pass me, in no hurry to get to my desk and start another day. All I do is file reports, make preparations and clean up after other people’s messes. I want some action. I want to be in the middle, in the fray. I want to be actually doing something. Creating instead of consuming. That’s the definition of a great life. Creating instead of consuming. So much for a great life….
I approach the front doors and wait my turn to enter. Lining up to go to work seems … wrong. I enter the building and make my way over to my cubicle—fourteen rows down, first aisle on the left, desk number three. There it is, just as I left it last night, and just as it will be for the rest of the week/month/year. The way it will until I retire, unless something changes. And soon.
I pull out my chair and drop my briefcase underneath the desk. The duffel bag I drop on the chair and pull the zipper open. I’m not quite sure why I brought the bag with me, including a change of clothes. If anyone asked—if Vanessa asked—I would say it’s because I might need a change if my clothes got wet in the rain, that I couldn’t be too careful, especially with big clients coming in. But the truth is that I don’t really know why, except that I occasionally entertain the idea of going out to pick up milk and never going back. From the duffel bag I pull out my thermos, unscrew the top and go to pour myself a cup, only to remember that I gave most of it away to Eric, half filling his Starbucks cup, and the girl … Sara, I think.
I remember that I gave Sara my business card and offered her my couch if she couldn’t find a place to stay. She’ll probably go back to her boyfriend, I figure. They usually do. But what if she doesn’t? What if she shows up here, looking not only for a job, but for a place to stay as well? What will Vanessa say?
Trying to push the thought out of my mind, deciding its such a remote chance to begin with that there’s no point in worrying about it until something actually happens, I take my thermos and leave my desk area, to see if there’s any coffee I can refill my thermos with.
Elliot
“’Morning Simon. Already finished your thermos this morning?”
“Uh … yea, seems so. I guess getting up early requires a little more fuel than I thought,” he says with an embarrassed little smile. “Is there anything left?”
“Just waiting on a fresh pot. Don’t worry,” I say, seeing the crestfallen look on his face, “we were here first, so we get to fill up first. How much coffee does that thing hold, anyway?”
“Couple of cups, I guess. I don’t need to fill it all the way though. I’ll just take enough for a cup and leave the rest for someone else.”
“If I were you, Simon,” I say, leaning in closer and speaking in a whisper, “I’d take as much as you can get as quick as you can get it. You never know when someone in this fucking place is going to stab you in the back. You never know when it could all be gone, just like—that.” I snap my fingers for emphasis.
“What’re you saying?” he asks, his face screwed up with worry. I love taunting Simon. It’s so much fun; and it’s so easy.
“I’m not saying anything specifically, Simon, just that we all have to watch out for ourselves. And each other,” I quickly add, “which is what I’m trying to do for you.”
“You think I need looking out for? What have you heard? What is this all about, Elliot?”
“C’mon Simon, you know how things go around here. One minute, you’re flying high—on top of the world—and the next you’re at the bottom of the pile trying to figure out what went wrong. I know you’re a hard worker. You’ve been putting in extra effort with this whole Japanese thing, but I’m just saying you gotta watch your back. Sometimes it’s when you’re working hardest, when you’re expecting it the least that they come for you.” I put my hand on his back and lean in a little closer. “That’s what’s about to happen to Martha, over in accounting. But you didn’t hear that from me, okay buddy?”
He’s speechless, so he just nods. I grab the coffee pot, which has just finished brewing, and pour a cup for myself. I indicate with my head towards his thermos, which he holds up for me to fill for him. I fill it right up, almost to overflowing, and put the pot back on the coffee-maker. I let him go first as we walk out of the coffee room and as one of the other office workers, Bill, I think his name is, passes us, I indicate towards Simon’s dripping thermos and back towards the near-empty coffee pot with my head. I roll my eyes at Bill and give him a ‘Hey, what can I say?’ shrug.
“Okay buddy,” I tell him, patting him on the back, “I’ll catch up with you later. Have a good day.”
“You too, Elliot.”
“Remember what I told you Simon. Watch your back.”
“I will,” he says as he tries to set the overfilled thermos down on his desk. His hands are shaking though and he spills it, almost getting it all over his computer.
Smiling, and shaking my head, I walk away with my own coffee cup in hand. Too easy, I think. Sometimes it’s just too goddamn easy.
Today’s word count: 1097
Cumulative word count: 8175
Only ten after eight, I notice, looking at my watch, and I’m exhausted already. I wish I knew what I was doing with my life. I can’t seem to say or do the right things for Vanessa; my job is going nowhere; and I can’t seem to say the right things to anybody. ‘Try and have a good day?’ What kind of thing is that to say to a homeless man, especially after all I gave him was bloody seventy cents. Jesus Christ, Simon, what the hell are you thinking?
That’s the problem, I guess. Half the time I’m not thinking and the other half, I’m thinking about something totally unrelated to what I’m actually doing. I feel like I’m living half a life.
I amble along, letting my co-workers pass me, in no hurry to get to my desk and start another day. All I do is file reports, make preparations and clean up after other people’s messes. I want some action. I want to be in the middle, in the fray. I want to be actually doing something. Creating instead of consuming. That’s the definition of a great life. Creating instead of consuming. So much for a great life….
I approach the front doors and wait my turn to enter. Lining up to go to work seems … wrong. I enter the building and make my way over to my cubicle—fourteen rows down, first aisle on the left, desk number three. There it is, just as I left it last night, and just as it will be for the rest of the week/month/year. The way it will until I retire, unless something changes. And soon.
I pull out my chair and drop my briefcase underneath the desk. The duffel bag I drop on the chair and pull the zipper open. I’m not quite sure why I brought the bag with me, including a change of clothes. If anyone asked—if Vanessa asked—I would say it’s because I might need a change if my clothes got wet in the rain, that I couldn’t be too careful, especially with big clients coming in. But the truth is that I don’t really know why, except that I occasionally entertain the idea of going out to pick up milk and never going back. From the duffel bag I pull out my thermos, unscrew the top and go to pour myself a cup, only to remember that I gave most of it away to Eric, half filling his Starbucks cup, and the girl … Sara, I think.
I remember that I gave Sara my business card and offered her my couch if she couldn’t find a place to stay. She’ll probably go back to her boyfriend, I figure. They usually do. But what if she doesn’t? What if she shows up here, looking not only for a job, but for a place to stay as well? What will Vanessa say?
Trying to push the thought out of my mind, deciding its such a remote chance to begin with that there’s no point in worrying about it until something actually happens, I take my thermos and leave my desk area, to see if there’s any coffee I can refill my thermos with.
Elliot
“’Morning Simon. Already finished your thermos this morning?”
“Uh … yea, seems so. I guess getting up early requires a little more fuel than I thought,” he says with an embarrassed little smile. “Is there anything left?”
“Just waiting on a fresh pot. Don’t worry,” I say, seeing the crestfallen look on his face, “we were here first, so we get to fill up first. How much coffee does that thing hold, anyway?”
“Couple of cups, I guess. I don’t need to fill it all the way though. I’ll just take enough for a cup and leave the rest for someone else.”
“If I were you, Simon,” I say, leaning in closer and speaking in a whisper, “I’d take as much as you can get as quick as you can get it. You never know when someone in this fucking place is going to stab you in the back. You never know when it could all be gone, just like—that.” I snap my fingers for emphasis.
“What’re you saying?” he asks, his face screwed up with worry. I love taunting Simon. It’s so much fun; and it’s so easy.
“I’m not saying anything specifically, Simon, just that we all have to watch out for ourselves. And each other,” I quickly add, “which is what I’m trying to do for you.”
“You think I need looking out for? What have you heard? What is this all about, Elliot?”
“C’mon Simon, you know how things go around here. One minute, you’re flying high—on top of the world—and the next you’re at the bottom of the pile trying to figure out what went wrong. I know you’re a hard worker. You’ve been putting in extra effort with this whole Japanese thing, but I’m just saying you gotta watch your back. Sometimes it’s when you’re working hardest, when you’re expecting it the least that they come for you.” I put my hand on his back and lean in a little closer. “That’s what’s about to happen to Martha, over in accounting. But you didn’t hear that from me, okay buddy?”
He’s speechless, so he just nods. I grab the coffee pot, which has just finished brewing, and pour a cup for myself. I indicate with my head towards his thermos, which he holds up for me to fill for him. I fill it right up, almost to overflowing, and put the pot back on the coffee-maker. I let him go first as we walk out of the coffee room and as one of the other office workers, Bill, I think his name is, passes us, I indicate towards Simon’s dripping thermos and back towards the near-empty coffee pot with my head. I roll my eyes at Bill and give him a ‘Hey, what can I say?’ shrug.
“Okay buddy,” I tell him, patting him on the back, “I’ll catch up with you later. Have a good day.”
“You too, Elliot.”
“Remember what I told you Simon. Watch your back.”
“I will,” he says as he tries to set the overfilled thermos down on his desk. His hands are shaking though and he spills it, almost getting it all over his computer.
Smiling, and shaking my head, I walk away with my own coffee cup in hand. Too easy, I think. Sometimes it’s just too goddamn easy.
Today’s word count: 1097
Cumulative word count: 8175
posted by Paul Keetch at 3:38 PM
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