Sneaky preview
It's an extremely odd sensation, hearing someone else play the soundtrack to your thoughts.
“It's almost as odd as when you're the one doing the playing,” he mumbled under his breath.
And with that, Michael turned the lights out on himself.
CHAPTER 1:
The gentle tiptoe of rain down his window in the midmorning nudged him awake. It was a wonder it happened, really, considering how little sleep he'd gotten the night before. Even so, trained to run on four or fewer hours a day, waking up without an alarm was some sort of feat. Not magic, quite, but something very near to it.
And then, he glanced at the clock.
“K-Fuck!”
He hit the ground running, the way only someone two and a half hours late to their seventh day of work could. He needed this job. He needed it, in part because rent was due. It was due before he'd get his first paycheck, but he'd decided to just let the account overdraw. The thirty dollar fee from his bank was a hassle, but nothing out of the ordinary. It was a fact of life for him, these days. An unpleasant fact, certainly, but a fact, nevertheless. The other reason he needed the job was slightly more base.
He was sick of Jolly Ranchers.
Sick to death of them. The insipid faux-grape flavor, still clawing at the back of his mouth from the last one he choked down the night before, killed him just a little bit inside, each time he took notice of it. That was less and less often, lately, as the pan-chromatic candies slowly ate away any sense of taste he'd once had. To be fair, the cherry and blue raspberry flavored ones, while tasting absolutely nothing even half-heartedly resembling their real life counterparts, were still enjoyable on some minor level, but those had been gone for days now. Days. Wait. What day was it? A week, now.
His thoughts drifted fleetingly to the two remaining items in his cupboard, as he slammed his foot into the closet door, vainly grasping for his twice worn khakis before the intense pain registered and made damn sure he paid it notice.
“K-F-FUCK!” he managed, as his remaining good foot slipped on one of the slew of t-shirts underneath, littering the floor like some sort of textile massacre, sending him tumbling floorward, sprawled spread eagle, in a way simultaneously reminiscent of both the Creation of Adam and Hustler's latest spread.
Still, the knot in his stomach was enough to overcome his temporary pedial problems, as it was locked in an ongoing battle to convince him to eat some actual and substantial foodstuffs. Again, his mind wandered toward his nearly barren cupboard, and his already drab day became moreso. Of course, it was a losing battle his stomach was fighting, but through no real fault of its own. He really wanted to eat something real. He simply lacked the means. He complicatedly lacked the means to obtain sustenance in a legal and timely manner.
Not that he had time to make, or even eat some, for that matter, but all he had left resembling food was a partial canister of oatmeal.
Why canisters? I mean, seriously. Wouldn't a box work? And then, just maybe, it would fit in the bloody cabinet.
It was familiar territory for an early morning mental musing. Still, it puzzled him. Did oats somehow better retain nutritional value or flavor with the can than they would a box? Not that they really had much flavor to begin with. They're oats, ferchrissakes. He could barely choke them down anyway, and that was after loading them with enough sugar and cinnamon to kill a medium sized Clydesdale, then send its thoroughly spiced cadaver into diabetic shock.
Man, I wish I had some sugar, again.
Not an unheard of ante-meridial wonder, either. Before some unnamed saint donated the 5 lb. bag of Jolly Ranchers to the space under the counter in back at work the other day, he'd been getting the bulk of his drastically reduced (time of famine, and all) caloric intake from straight sugar. Ridiculous? Positively. But it worked. It's a strange thing, at first, but it's not too difficult to get used to. Relatively cheap, just barely functional, and that was enough for him. If only he had some vitamins left, he'd actually be set. Atkins dieters demonize sugar as though it's out to claim their first born, but, in reality, most of your daily calories should be comprised of carbs in their various forms. Of course, this was an incredibly basic way to get them, but as long as it was enough to keep him relatively alive, that was what counted.
Alive. Ha.
Ah, cynicism. It had started early today. Earlier than most, anyway. There were very few times he wasn't cynical, really. Technically, it's hard to be cynical while you sleep, because dreams get in the way of all that. However, seeing as how dreams generally don't start for a few hours after you hit the pillow, he'd not been dreaming much, of late. Of course, he hadn't been sleeping all that much lately, for that matter, but there were good reasons.
There were reasons, at least. None of them were particularly good, to tell the truth, but rationalizations and excuses so rarely are. It wasn't his fault, he always told himself. A tragic case of classical conditioning, he'd always thought of it. In reality, the problem had more to do with motivation.
Michael had a severe motivation problem. Well, no. To be perfectly fair, it really wasn't at all what would normally be referred to as severe. It was deadly. It was a trait he'd inherited years before from his mother. Procrastination to the point of absurdity; tragic and constant lateness, no matter how much time was allowed for preparation; and a desperate, cloying need for someone, anyone, to just tell him to do something. He had no trouble helping someone with any of their problems. He could offer advice most people would gladly pay their therapist double for, but was somehow entirely unable to give his own life direction. He could do favors for friends, go out of his way to help random strangers, and would bend over backwards to make positive that everyone was as happy as he could physically make them be. He just couldn't do anything for himself. He needed permission that he wasn't capable of. Permission from someone else. Permission that wasn't coming.
He pulled on the first dress shirt he could find. It was the pale purple one he'd liked so much when she'd given it to him.
She.
He reached for the polka-bedotted tie that matched, but his hand came back empty. Down. Crumpled into an expensive little pile on the floor, once more. He would have to work on a better method for storing his ties, but that would need to come later, because his main priority at the moment was finding the other argyle sock he'd worn the day before.
Sure, there were plenty of socks in the dresser drawer, no more than a meter from him as he tore apart the clothing and books splayed across the carpet, but those simply wouldn't do. He had a fondness for argyle that somehow lent it import above and beyond any afforded to the fact that he would be over three hours late for work at this point.
Bingo.
He pulled it on and grabbed for his uncomfortable dress shoes under the edge of the bed, while he dismissed the ache he suddenly felt in his feet. Phantom pains, he told himself.
You only want the attention.
They did. Nearly as much as his back, and that nearly as much as his stomach. He spent a disproportionate amount of his time at his newfound place of employment on his feet, running from the office at one end of the room, through the maze of cubicles, to the copy center at the opposite end, and back. Never mind that Jason had a photocopier not two feet to the left of his massive desk. Never mind that it worked much better, faster, and more reliably than the ancient relic still sucking power in the copy center. It was brand new, and would remain that way for another year, because it would never once be forced to operate in the way it was designed to, because, after all, why should he use up his paper and toner when the copy center's would do just fine, and Jason would never be so put out as to actually maintain it?
Ah, Jason. A tall, tanned, blond man, clean shaven and sickeningly good looking, in a way that you expect only from models in razor ads. He was in his early thirties and successful, in the pattern of everyone's self-imaginings from their childhoods. He'd gotten to this lucrative and oft coveted post using the familiar mix of ass kissing, plagiarism, and being born into the same family as a senior vice president.
That everything?
Check.
He'd closed the door behind him halfway before he realized he didn't have his wallet, not that any money would be there. Nothing to do during lunch except lament “Green Apple” and read one of the novels he kept stashed in his bottom left desk drawer for just such an occasion. No, sadly, the only thing of use tucked into that leather tri-fold was his ID card, to get past security without most of the hassle they so loved to provide those unfortunate enough to have forgotten their badges.
Dashing inside and nearly taking another spill as the door swung open quicker than he'd anticipated, he snatched at the missing item with all the deft dexterity of a hoofed mammal, dropping it three times and nearly a fourth, before he was on his way back outside.
It's going to be a long week today.
And with that, he slammed the door to his apartment and bolted down the stairs.
Again, he couldn't help but let his thoughts drift toward his kitchen, and all that was left in it. This time, though, it wasn't the oatmeal on his mind; it was the remaining half bottle of cheap tequila.
I could use a drink.
“It's almost as odd as when you're the one doing the playing,” he mumbled under his breath.
And with that, Michael turned the lights out on himself.
CHAPTER 1:
The gentle tiptoe of rain down his window in the midmorning nudged him awake. It was a wonder it happened, really, considering how little sleep he'd gotten the night before. Even so, trained to run on four or fewer hours a day, waking up without an alarm was some sort of feat. Not magic, quite, but something very near to it.
And then, he glanced at the clock.
“K-Fuck!”
He hit the ground running, the way only someone two and a half hours late to their seventh day of work could. He needed this job. He needed it, in part because rent was due. It was due before he'd get his first paycheck, but he'd decided to just let the account overdraw. The thirty dollar fee from his bank was a hassle, but nothing out of the ordinary. It was a fact of life for him, these days. An unpleasant fact, certainly, but a fact, nevertheless. The other reason he needed the job was slightly more base.
He was sick of Jolly Ranchers.
Sick to death of them. The insipid faux-grape flavor, still clawing at the back of his mouth from the last one he choked down the night before, killed him just a little bit inside, each time he took notice of it. That was less and less often, lately, as the pan-chromatic candies slowly ate away any sense of taste he'd once had. To be fair, the cherry and blue raspberry flavored ones, while tasting absolutely nothing even half-heartedly resembling their real life counterparts, were still enjoyable on some minor level, but those had been gone for days now. Days. Wait. What day was it? A week, now.
His thoughts drifted fleetingly to the two remaining items in his cupboard, as he slammed his foot into the closet door, vainly grasping for his twice worn khakis before the intense pain registered and made damn sure he paid it notice.
“K-F-FUCK!” he managed, as his remaining good foot slipped on one of the slew of t-shirts underneath, littering the floor like some sort of textile massacre, sending him tumbling floorward, sprawled spread eagle, in a way simultaneously reminiscent of both the Creation of Adam and Hustler's latest spread.
Still, the knot in his stomach was enough to overcome his temporary pedial problems, as it was locked in an ongoing battle to convince him to eat some actual and substantial foodstuffs. Again, his mind wandered toward his nearly barren cupboard, and his already drab day became moreso. Of course, it was a losing battle his stomach was fighting, but through no real fault of its own. He really wanted to eat something real. He simply lacked the means. He complicatedly lacked the means to obtain sustenance in a legal and timely manner.
Not that he had time to make, or even eat some, for that matter, but all he had left resembling food was a partial canister of oatmeal.
Why canisters? I mean, seriously. Wouldn't a box work? And then, just maybe, it would fit in the bloody cabinet.
It was familiar territory for an early morning mental musing. Still, it puzzled him. Did oats somehow better retain nutritional value or flavor with the can than they would a box? Not that they really had much flavor to begin with. They're oats, ferchrissakes. He could barely choke them down anyway, and that was after loading them with enough sugar and cinnamon to kill a medium sized Clydesdale, then send its thoroughly spiced cadaver into diabetic shock.
Man, I wish I had some sugar, again.
Not an unheard of ante-meridial wonder, either. Before some unnamed saint donated the 5 lb. bag of Jolly Ranchers to the space under the counter in back at work the other day, he'd been getting the bulk of his drastically reduced (time of famine, and all) caloric intake from straight sugar. Ridiculous? Positively. But it worked. It's a strange thing, at first, but it's not too difficult to get used to. Relatively cheap, just barely functional, and that was enough for him. If only he had some vitamins left, he'd actually be set. Atkins dieters demonize sugar as though it's out to claim their first born, but, in reality, most of your daily calories should be comprised of carbs in their various forms. Of course, this was an incredibly basic way to get them, but as long as it was enough to keep him relatively alive, that was what counted.
Alive. Ha.
Ah, cynicism. It had started early today. Earlier than most, anyway. There were very few times he wasn't cynical, really. Technically, it's hard to be cynical while you sleep, because dreams get in the way of all that. However, seeing as how dreams generally don't start for a few hours after you hit the pillow, he'd not been dreaming much, of late. Of course, he hadn't been sleeping all that much lately, for that matter, but there were good reasons.
There were reasons, at least. None of them were particularly good, to tell the truth, but rationalizations and excuses so rarely are. It wasn't his fault, he always told himself. A tragic case of classical conditioning, he'd always thought of it. In reality, the problem had more to do with motivation.
Michael had a severe motivation problem. Well, no. To be perfectly fair, it really wasn't at all what would normally be referred to as severe. It was deadly. It was a trait he'd inherited years before from his mother. Procrastination to the point of absurdity; tragic and constant lateness, no matter how much time was allowed for preparation; and a desperate, cloying need for someone, anyone, to just tell him to do something. He had no trouble helping someone with any of their problems. He could offer advice most people would gladly pay their therapist double for, but was somehow entirely unable to give his own life direction. He could do favors for friends, go out of his way to help random strangers, and would bend over backwards to make positive that everyone was as happy as he could physically make them be. He just couldn't do anything for himself. He needed permission that he wasn't capable of. Permission from someone else. Permission that wasn't coming.
He pulled on the first dress shirt he could find. It was the pale purple one he'd liked so much when she'd given it to him.
She.
He reached for the polka-bedotted tie that matched, but his hand came back empty. Down. Crumpled into an expensive little pile on the floor, once more. He would have to work on a better method for storing his ties, but that would need to come later, because his main priority at the moment was finding the other argyle sock he'd worn the day before.
Sure, there were plenty of socks in the dresser drawer, no more than a meter from him as he tore apart the clothing and books splayed across the carpet, but those simply wouldn't do. He had a fondness for argyle that somehow lent it import above and beyond any afforded to the fact that he would be over three hours late for work at this point.
Bingo.
He pulled it on and grabbed for his uncomfortable dress shoes under the edge of the bed, while he dismissed the ache he suddenly felt in his feet. Phantom pains, he told himself.
You only want the attention.
They did. Nearly as much as his back, and that nearly as much as his stomach. He spent a disproportionate amount of his time at his newfound place of employment on his feet, running from the office at one end of the room, through the maze of cubicles, to the copy center at the opposite end, and back. Never mind that Jason had a photocopier not two feet to the left of his massive desk. Never mind that it worked much better, faster, and more reliably than the ancient relic still sucking power in the copy center. It was brand new, and would remain that way for another year, because it would never once be forced to operate in the way it was designed to, because, after all, why should he use up his paper and toner when the copy center's would do just fine, and Jason would never be so put out as to actually maintain it?
Ah, Jason. A tall, tanned, blond man, clean shaven and sickeningly good looking, in a way that you expect only from models in razor ads. He was in his early thirties and successful, in the pattern of everyone's self-imaginings from their childhoods. He'd gotten to this lucrative and oft coveted post using the familiar mix of ass kissing, plagiarism, and being born into the same family as a senior vice president.
That everything?
Check.
He'd closed the door behind him halfway before he realized he didn't have his wallet, not that any money would be there. Nothing to do during lunch except lament “Green Apple” and read one of the novels he kept stashed in his bottom left desk drawer for just such an occasion. No, sadly, the only thing of use tucked into that leather tri-fold was his ID card, to get past security without most of the hassle they so loved to provide those unfortunate enough to have forgotten their badges.
Dashing inside and nearly taking another spill as the door swung open quicker than he'd anticipated, he snatched at the missing item with all the deft dexterity of a hoofed mammal, dropping it three times and nearly a fourth, before he was on his way back outside.
It's going to be a long week today.
And with that, he slammed the door to his apartment and bolted down the stairs.
Again, he couldn't help but let his thoughts drift toward his kitchen, and all that was left in it. This time, though, it wasn't the oatmeal on his mind; it was the remaining half bottle of cheap tequila.
I could use a drink.
posted by Mizzle at 1:24 AM
1 Comments:
This was really well written, I'm kind of suprised you didn't write more. I hope you continue the story.
But just a little note, if you care at all my opinion:
"It's going to be a long week today."
That didn't really make sense to me because a week can't be filled in a day, unless that's what you were wanting to say; that the day would have as much work as a week.
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