I'm bringing the blog back.
It's been well over a year since I've posted anything. But what-do-ya know. I found some old short stories I had written, I thought they would be a nice breaking of the ice.
It's been a while since I've written. My Dad's passing has taken up the majority of my mind these past few years, but who knows - maybe posting these will bring back some memories of the joy I used to get from writing.
This first one... Is called "Addicted."
Chuck was addicted. He couldn't
focus. Seventeen minutes until he could leave without the risk of being fired.
His eyes darted from the over head clock above his cubicle to the small digital
clock on his desk to the faux-Rolex on his wrist. How long had it been? Too
long, he thought to himself.
The
sun slowly crept in through a small window giving life to the otherwise
stifling office. His co-workers went on there merry way, oblivious to his
anxious finger tapping and sweating arms. They surged around him like bees,
insistent on completing their tasks, yet unendingly selfish in their desire to
produce.
Chuck
needed a distraction. Anything to get rid of the sinking feeling that wracked
his body. He looked around, adding more objects into his rotation. Clock,
watch, clock, pens. Clock, watch, clock, pens, clock, pens, exit-sign, the
woman across from his cubicle's awful blouse, pens, clock. Chuck paused longer
and longer on the blouse with every circuit. It was a nauseating green color.
The kind of color Chuck couldn't help look at. The woman sat upright in her
chair, her spine straightened by her sense of pride. He shuffled around in his
chair trying to get a better look. Her pants? Chuck couldn't see those, but he
could guess what color they would be: black... brown maybe? Any color that
screamed discount and sale and cheap he decided.
Chuck
was addicted. In an office of bees, a world of clocks, and the scenery of a
sale rack, he was trapped. Sweat soaked through his shirt. It wettened his
face. It clouded his vision. Chuck pulled his eyes off his co-worker, and again
began his clock circuit. Two minutes had passed.
He
had to get out of there. Fifteen minutes of this was worth jeopardizing his
job. Chuck crouched within his cubicle, preparing himself for the stealth
required to escape. He shuffled his chair from his vantage point to the
entrance of the cubicle. He looked both ways down the aisle like the safety
patrol of his old elementary school attempting to direct a small school of
fourth graders across a busy road.
In
his mind, the plan went perfectly: Sprinting from his desk, he moved from
cubicle to cubicle before running up the side of a wall with all the grace of
an kung fu action star. With out breaking stride, he leaped from walls to desks
and back again to walls before diving head first through a window. He stood a
dozen floors below, shattered glass raining down on his head, as he dusted
himself off.
Chuck's
heart sank as he realized he was still sitting in his chair. It fell out of his
chest when he realized only another minute had passed. He slowly stood, and
began moving down the aisle, not making eye contact with the bees around him.
He was slightly crouched and half walked, half ran adding multiple layers of
suspicion to his movements. Chuck made it past the front desk and gave a
cheerful nod and smile to the secretary who was too distracted by a personal
call to notice his deceit. Conveniently, the elevator was on their floor. With
a victorious skip, Chuck pressed the call button, gave a final look to his
office, and waltzed into the elevator before being whisked away to the ground
floor.
He
casually walked out as the doors opened with a satisfying smirk on his face. As
he rummaged in his pocket for his lighter, he gave a wave with his free hand to
the security guard before entering the rotating door. Chuck awkwardly pushed
and circled his way into a busy street, as ripe with men and women of business
and status as it was with down-on-their-luck individuals who hollered and
fussed and complained about everything and nothing.
Giving
his lighter a congratulatory flick, he reached into his back pocket and turned
up empty handed. Front pockets revealed a cell phone and a photo ID. Jacket
pockets held nothing. Shirt pocket lay flat against his chest. Chuck looked
back up to the twelfth floor of the building and could envision his cigarettes
in his top drawer next to his wallet. In his haste to flee the area, he had
forgotten the whole reason he left.
He
actively began scanning the area for any smokers. Across the street, two young
women chatted and laughed, cigarettes held between their fingers. That was an
awfully long walk though. To his right was a man sitting on a public bench with
head phones blasting a bass heavy tune. He rocked his body and tapped his feet
in rhythm with his music. Most importantly, held casually between his open
hands, was a beautiful, full, lit cigarette. Chuck slowly began approaching his
prey, studying and analyzing the man's body language, facial expressions, and
eyes. He hated pan handling. This had to be a successful bum. Chuck noticed the
way the man held the cigarette. Calm and collected. He was in his environment.
He inhaled with no coughing, no facial contortion that would give away the hint
of pain. Chuck could tell this guy was a smoker. Either that meant he would not
give one up, or he would have enough for the whole office. Gingerly, Chuck
tip-toed up to the man, who by now had shut his eyes in order to concentrate on
his beat.
“Hey!”
Nothing.
“Hey,
buddy?”
No
response. He was going to have to go in for the shoulder tap.
“Excuse
me, you wouldn't happen to have -”
Before
Chuckcould finish the man took off one side of his head phones, looked up at
him grinning, and screamed a deep voiced “WHAT?” into his face.
“I
was just wondering, like, I hate doing shit like this... do you happen to have
-”
“Another
cigarette?”
“Yeah...”
The
man smiled, revealing a set of teeth burned yellow by smoke. He took off his
head phones and draped them around his neck, letting the music play. The full
effect of the bass could be heard now. Trippy electronic noises accompanied the
driving lines. “Grab 'em out of my bag.” the man mumbled, cigarette no longer
in hand.
Chuck
sat down next to the man and grabbed his back pack. He found a pack of Camel's
in the back pocket. He opened the pack, and to his horror, made eye contact
with the last cigarette in the package. His heart sank into his chest again,
and he slowly turned his head back to the man.
“Hey,
it's the last one in the pack...” said Chuck, showing his unfortunate find to
his friend.
The
man opened his eyes and turned to view the evidence. Chuck was worried. Sweat
began to build up just under his skin, waiting for rejection and the signal to
pour embarrassingly out of his pores.
“It's
the last one... Damn it man, have I got any more packs in there?” The man
asked, barely moving his lips.
Chuck
knew before he checked: the bag was empty.
“I
can't give you the last one man, that's just inefficient. I'm sorry, but you
gotta understand. What's one when you have twenty? But how valuable is one
among nothing?”
“Look,
I need that thing. I need it. I'm on break, I work in that building over there.”
He decided against telling him he merely left his pack upstairs. “I need the
cig. Absolutely need it.”
“It's
smoker's code. You know as well as I do that you can't have that cigarette.” He
grinned, revealing his teeth again. He never broke eye contact. “My names Tim
by the way.”
“Chuck.
Look, I'll pay you for the cigarette. Fifty cents? A Dollar? What?”
“Five.
I can use that to buy another pack. Maximize my efficiency. That's what it's
all about. Maximizing your efficiency. What do you say, Chuck? Got a five on
you?"
“Five
dollars... are you serious? That would get me twenty. I'm doing you a favor by
offering a whole dollar.”
“Five.”
“One.”
“Twenty.”
The man said, teeth exposed.
“Are
you fucking kidding me?” mumbled Chuck. He looked at his watch. His break
technically began two minutes ago. A cigarette was a must if he wanted to get
through the day.
“Yeah
man, fine, take five.” He reached into his pants to grab his wallet, realizing
yet another fatal mistake. He left his wallet upstairs too.
“Looks
like you don't have five either.” laughed Tim.
“How
about I give you one then? I can manage that.”
“How
about you go across the street and ask those pretty girls over there?” He
smiled patronizingly as he said this, mocking Chuck's entire dilemma.
“Okay...Sure.
Yeah, okay fine. It was nice to meet you, Tim. Real nice.”
“Hah.
Oh yeah. Likewise Chuck.” He laughed to himself again.
Chuck
sat up, fighting back sweat. Dragging his feet in defeat, he began moving over
to the cross walk, preparing himself to have to ask again for cigarettes.
“HEY!
Chuck!”
Chuck
turned around to see Tim waving an unopened pack of Cigarettes at him.
“How
about you go get your wallet! At five bucks a cig I'll sell you twenty for a
hundred bucks! Hah hah!”
He broke down into laughter as he turned and slowly
walked away, head phones back in place.
Chuck
sighed to himself, cursed his addiction, and decided it'd be best to just go
grab his own pack from upstairs. Walking back into the lobby, he pretended not
to notice the security guard. On the twelfth floor, he didn't even make eye
contact with the secretary. He never crouched, he never attempted to sneak by
the woman in green, he didn't even look at the clocks as he entered his
cubicle.
Chuck grabbed his cigarettes, smiled, and walked back towards the
elevator. He didn't sweat. He walked in and then out of the elevator before
ignoring the security guard. He skipped the rotating door and walked through
the handicapped door located in the corner of the lobby.
There
he sat, on the wheel chair ramp's railing, smoking to his hearts content,
finally happy to have some peace and relaxation.
