by Gene Cowan
My morning started out as it always has, and I assumed, always would. The alarm jangled my nerves and woke me from a fitful, sleepless trance, leaving me wishing only for silence and a chance to get some real rest in place of the pseudo-sleep that I had been getting for the last couple of months. I took the usual half-hour trying to get out of bed, lying thinking about my lot in life, which always left me very depressed and, I suppose, ready for a fun day at work. The morning's thoughts usually went something like this: So, what's the deal? Why do I worry about everything?
Then, I systematically try to list all my worries, on the assumption that if I could imperically list them all, there must therefore be a finite number of them, and I might be capable of solving some of them, or even, all of them. But I get to that point, and I can't do it. Oh, I get general things listed, like: Money. House. Sex. Friends. Subset of friends: You only have one. Subset of one friend: Dan. And so on.
I pulled on some clothes that were lying around on the floor, and grabbed my NBC bag.
Another pitiful prop, I suppose. When you feel as inferior as I, you grasp at anything that will give your life a little interest, a little excitement. I love the feeling of people looking at you with curiosity, wondering if you are someone important that they should recognise, but not having the nerve to come up and ask. And when they do, it's usually good for a laugh or two.
Television has been my constant companion for years, the only friend I have had. Theo Huxtable would never use me for his own ends. NBC loves me. I have nothing else to do at night than Come Home to them. Before that, I was always Being There, or Catching The Spirit or, without much spectacle, watching ABC. Even ABC didn't screw me over. I didn't expect much, and they didn't disappoint me.
I settled into my usual seat, just inside the door in the middle of the 5th car of an Orange line train to Rosslyn. I pulled a book out of my bag, placing the bag on the floor so that the NBC logo on the side had the most exposure possible, thereby eliciting a few looks from a Navy officer and a family of tourists. It didn't help my mood. I got off the train forty minutes later and wandered up the escalator. What I had assumed would be a good way to tone up my legs, which I had always seen as hideously fat and out of shape, I began walking up this escalator every morning. Now, it was force of habit and a way to get to the office as soon as possible. There, I could sit down, hopefully getting used to going to work everyday, a practice that I really didn't like very much.
The morning progressed exactly as planned. I crossed the street, dodging cars. I waited an interminable amount of time for the elevator, and when I finally reached the 12th floor, I slid my security card through the reader attached to the wall beside the door. The light on the reader blinked hesitantly, as if it was not quite sure whether I deserved entrance or not. It decided that it would be best that I suffer on the inside of the office rather than in front of the elevator, and unlocked the door.
I tried to unlock the inner door, working the combination lock with my eyes closed, just for variety. As this was not in the overall plan of the morning, it failed, and I tried again.
Once inside, I turned on the computer and printer. The laserprinter hummed a cheery electronic hum, as if it was trying to tell me that it was there for me. Every morning, without fail. You can't count on people, it said to me. But I'll always be here for you, every morning. I'll print, and print, and print. All I ask is a little toner every now and then.
I flipped on the clock radio that I had stolen from one of my co-workers. There was nothing worth listening to, as usual, but I listened anyway. Just TV without the picture. Background noise. It was 7am, and I had an hour and a half to waste before Dan called.
At least, I hoped he was going to call. He usually did, to my great surprise and relief. Sometimes, I would wait for an extra half-hour, and if he didn't call, I would call him. I got the feeling that his parents didn't appreciate it, but I had to do it, it was the program that I had to follow, and if I didn't, I was just asking for trouble. By worrying about this, I effectively filled that 1 1/2 hour time slot. Luckily, he did call.
I instantly put up a front. I wasn't sure just why I did, but I did. Dan was my only friend, but I didn't want to give even him any foothold that he could use to step on me later. He told me all about what was going on with Phil Donahue that morning, and precisely what he thought of that. I told him precisely what I thought of it, more or less. I told him what an exciting time I was having at work. He countered by telling me what a wonderful time he had last night at work at the supermarket, and precisely what he thought of that.
It was great to talk to him, or rather, not really talk, but just sort of hang out via phone, but I found it hard to say anything constructive. It's a weird thing, communication. I found it very hard to really have a good conversation about anything really important over the phone, and it was even difficult in person, unless the conversers were both either drunk or exhausted. By far the best way, I have found, is to write a letter instead, preferably while under the effect of one of the just mentioned states of mind. That way you have no way of gauging the effect your conversation is having with the other person. No tones of voice, no expressions of boredom or intense apathy to contend with.
One of my co-workers arrived, and I thought to myself that I should cut the conversation short. What would people think of me if I was always on the phone with the same person every morning, and would it appear that I was not getting any work done? My paranoid, self-concious subconcious came into play, urging me to be completely silent the rest of the day. Dan mentioned that he had to go to work, and I concurred, hanging up the phone.
The rest of the day passed, as usual, without incident. Two o'clock rolled around, and I packed up to go. I had a train to catch. Back again in the Metro station, I sat in my usual spot on the side of the escalator, lower platform. I waited for the little ripped part of the handrail to emerge from the floor and start on it's endless journey back up the escalator, emitting a little squeak as it twisted around the corner. It twisted around twice before my train arrived, and I boarded through the precise door that would stop directly in front of the escalator when I arrived at my station. Months of repetitive practice ensured that I would automatically go through my commute by rote.
There was a family of tourists sitting on the train, each one in a separate seat, much to the annoyance of the commuters on the train, who did not want to sit next to any of them, and remained standing until they left the train at Dunn Loring. I wished they had stayed until Vienna, because there was a cute girl in this family. Of course, I probably would not have known what to do about this anyway. This was only a prelude to my usual train of thought upon arriving home ten minutes after leaving the Vienna station.
I laid down, hoping that I could take a nap, and make up for the lost sleep of last night. I couldn't do it, and tried a relaxation technique that Dan had taught me. My mind clouded, my thoughts solidified.
… The air suddenly became heavy and hard to breathe. We looked into each other's eyes, peering deep into our souls, wishing for perhaps a moment to surrender ourselves to the inner being, the spiritual body which inhabits all of us. Instead, we fell victim to the physical being, almost ripping our clothes in our haste to be rid of the confinement of society. She was a perfect woman, a lithe and beautiful thing which seemed almost too delicate to touch. I searched my mind for instructions. I had never been in this situation before, and hoped beyond hope that, now that it had come, I would uncover some ancient race memory that would allow me to continue. She touched me, and I fell from a dizzying height to join her in the animal world, forgetting instantly my search for rhyme, reason and directions.
I suddenly became terribly afraid. I had never been this far with respect to this particular activity, and wondered if I could go through with it. My mind fought for control over my instinct, each winning through for a few seconds at a time. Past events came back in brief glimpses of terror, shame and frightening lucidity. I tried desperately to push these images into an unused part of my mind, somewhere I could forget about them and never see them again. They refused to go…
The dream ended where it always did. I woke up, with a feeling of dread and helplessness. I got up and switched on my computer. Now was a perfect time to write, I thought to myself. Now that I'm really feeling depressed.
I slipped my writing disk into the computer. Windows popped into existence on the computer screen, lighting the room with its blue phosphorescence. I suddenly realised how dark the room was, and pulled the blinds open. My pupils contracted in the harsh light.
I wrote another paragraph of my story of the day. I came to the point that I reached in all of my stories, a point where I couldn't go on. I took the easy way out. I simply started another story.
Eight o'clock arrived, and with it, prime time television. My day was over. I watched, not paying attention to what it was that I was watching, and soon, turned out the lights and settled into bed for another night of not sleeping. A few hours later, the process would begin again.
And, as usual, it did.