Vital Signs

Part 12

6:15. The buzzing alarm actuates my arm. After twenty years of programming, it automatically shuts off the alarm before I am fully awake. I revel in a slow stretch, arch my back, and let out a long yawn.

6:40. I'm out of the shower standing at the sink. While brushing my teeth, I look in the mirror at this human being that I haven't figured out yet. I swish a gulp of water around my mouth and spit into the sink. I open a prescription bottle and swallow my new "mental health pill." Apparently, the old ones were no longer effective. It's so hard for me to tell. My primary care physician's rule of thumb is, "If you're feeling okay, then they're working." Who am I to argue?

By 7:15, I'm dressed and staring at the toaster, waiting. When the Pop-Tart jumps up I say, "Ow." I jam my burnt fingers into my mouth.

Megan enters and crosses her arms. "You think maybe you ought to take a little time to think this through?

I smile. "This is the best idea I've had in years."

I lean in to kiss my pretty wife. She pulls away.

By 7:35, I'm sitting in bumper-to-bumper traffic but this time I'm riding the bus, inching along with a herd of cars all slowly crawling toward our downtown destination. To get the vibe of the morning rush hour public transit rider experience, imagine that you're sitting amongst thirty people between the ages of twenty-five and fifty who have been harvested by an intimidating superior race of aggressors from another galaxy. In exchange for not being dissected and eaten by their captors, the thirty people have agreed that each day they will awaken at the crack of dawn, groom themselves, and then board a prisoner transport vehicle (the bus) to travel downtown where they will perform brutal hard labor in a one-hundred-forty-degree facility while "Achy Breaky Heart" blares from loudspeakers on a continuous loop for ten straight hours. 

That would be a practical explanation for the expressions on the faces of my fellow passengers, half-dead humanoids who appear to have been gradually hollowed out by their bitter existence.

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When I enter the office, Rhonda hollers, "Someone call 911!" She runs away. 

Audra avoids eye contact as she trots past me on her way to the coffee station.

Wren extends her hand. I surrender my key card. Wearing a solemn expression she says, "Your laptop."

I slip my Dunning and Brannigan shoulder bag over my head, take a quick look inside then remove a notebook. I hand over the canvas bag containing my laptop. While she checks out the computer, I start down the hall.

In my office, I open the top drawer of my desk and remove a box of business cards. I spill my cards into the trash container. The only personal effects on my desk are a couple of polished stones that Jilly-bean gave me as a present a few years ago and a hand-painted pencil holder she made for me last Fathers' Day. I add them to my cardboard GO BOX. I decide against taking the peculiar potted plant that has occupied a corner of my desk for the past few years. Ours has been a strained relationship. I feel no remorse for leaving the plant behind and I'm reasonably certain that the plant feels the same sentiment.

I step out into the hallway, carrying my box. I pass Carl who watches me with narrow eyes. He purses his lips and shakes his head. 

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By 12:48 I've returned home, had lunch, and cleaned up the kitchen. Next on the agenda, figure out how I'm going to get my car back. But first I need to find it. After six phone calls, I finally manage to track down the impound lot where my car is in lockdown. I'm on a call with Stu, from AJ's Towing Yard. It sounds like he's eating something as he's speaking with me. I hear the crinkling of a wrapper. Yep, Stu is definitely eating.