Okay, this is a middle chapter from a short story I'm working on for class. Why a "middle" chapter? Because the beginning hasn't been done yet, that's frickin why. If it doesn't make sense: GOOD- you're in the freaking middle. I'll post the beginning once it's done... and the rest once I figure it all out. Oh, and no it's not edited... sorry.
My eyes snap open, and cold winds bite down hard on my face. A moment of icy panic as the feel of biting wind and vertigo fills me and I fall blindly into the night, trying hard not to scream. Oh, all bloody Hell. I’m plunging two score stories to an asphalt grave below. My final resting-place is bathed in the glow of a nearby lamp post, spilling forth its sickly white light, just the right shade of pale to remind me of the hue found on a desiccated and lifeless corpse. Then memory comes flooding back, and like any other truth (or whatever passes for it), this in-flood of recognition brings its own particular brand of terror and pain.
Oh, sweet Epiphany. Any sense of panic over the fall dies with my quiet little revelation. I leapt off this building just a little while ago. Funny thing to forget at a time like this. Obviously, I should have been paying better attention.
Vaguely, I wonder how long I’ve been in this free fall, locked in a dawdling and hopeless old man’s memories; as if I didn’t have too many of my own. It feels like hours but, judging from the still distant toy cars and plastic-doll people far below, I’d say it’s been a few seconds at most. Of all the things I’ve seen gotten wrong in Existence, I never thought final-moment life flashbacks would be one of them. Any omnipotent beings fucking around overhead are undoubtedly getting a laugh out of this.
Shit. God damn, I can feel it coming again. That sense of drifting into another person’s memories, into their minds. If I meet any Gods at the end of this fall, I’m going to tell them where they can shove it. What-? No! Not into her head. Never. I won’t go, not into that vacuous bitch’s mind. I thrash, flail, and cry like I haven’t done since they tore me out of my mother’s womb twenty-six years ago. I do anything to keep from blinking. Anything so I don’t fall into that empty mind, filled with nothing but love for our saccharine-sweet empty world. I bite down on my tongue hard enough that I can feel it tear- anything to stay in my own head, and enjoy this cool and quiet plunging death. The last thing I remember, while wearing my own skin, is the salty copper of blood trickling along my taste-buds, the flavor of a tongue split clean in two.
* * *
I really try my best to be nice to him, really I do. But sometimes, that uncouth little misfit, Blake, tries my last nerve. Take this morning, for instance. I’m up, perk and early, and follow the usual routine. As always, I’m out the door at exactly 5:15, leather purse in hand, and am directly off to work, save for a quick stop-over to grab my daily Tall herb-spiced Chai at the adorable little “Mom and Pop” Java Café on my street corner.
I was running a little late, today, but I still made sure to toss a quarter to that poor old man who sleeps on the street-bench beside the subway; a daily habit and bit of un-sung philanthropy on my part. I bet it’d might make a good little college admissions short essay on charity in a few months, though.
Thirteen steps down the wide double-rowed stair leading into the station; I count them each day. A silly little quirk, I guess, it’s not like they’re going to up and change one day. A forty-seven more and I’m through the Ticket Gate. I smile and give a “good morning,” to various other early-comers even as I walk. One-two-three... thirty more steps, and here I am: at the little Food Stand where I work four days a week.
It’s a dead-end job, no better then five-fifty an hour, plus whatever loose change a particularly generous patron might leave in the grimy plastic “Tips” jar, which rests precariously on the edge of the dining-counter beside the register, a teetering position that has caused it to spill over on more than one occasion. Anyway, I’m not going to be here forever. Maybe six months, or eight, then I’m out- I’ll have saved enough for college (I have to pay half my tuition myself, plus Mom wanted me to get some “real world” experience before I go off to school). I’m not going to end up some bitter twenty-something like Blake, in a dead-end job for the rest of his life.
I smile as I walk past the old janitor. He’s been working here since before I was born. I don’t think I’ve ever not seen him bent over a broom or emptying a full trash basket- it’s kind of sad to see such a nice old man spend his whole life in this place.
“Good morning, Mister Krivosika. How are you doing this lovely day?” I smile down at him, he’s half-bent over a mop that stinks heavily of lemon-scented cleaners.
“… Oh, hello. Yes… ah… quite a lovely day. Just fine, um… how do you do?” Each word come outs after a short, pausing breath, as if even this short interchange has left his old mind scrambling. I smile, and wave as I continue past him.
Despite sad examples like the old janitor, and misanthropes like Blake running about the station, it’s still not really that bad a place for temp-work. The cozy little stand where I work, more of a booth actually since it’s built into a niche within the brick wall, has a sort of homey feel about it. I can’t help but smile underneath its friendly fluorescent lights as I set up each morning.
I toss my dark leather-skin purse beneath the counter, and set about getting the stand in order before the morning rush. I click on the cheap mini-stereo deck the owner keeps set up beside the register. I like to set up while listening to music, it helps calm my nerves and prep me for the rest of the day. After an initial flush of static, the music styling of “The Pixies” at last comes warbling out of the old machine. I bob rhythmically to perky up-beat of a remake of “Wave of Mutilation” even as I prepare the “Grab and Go” Diner for its six-thirty opening time.
First the glossy steel-silver napkin dispenser goes up onto the counter. I keep it shiny enough that I can see my reflection smiling back at me. Quickly, I set it on the table, giving myself a quick check-over in the glossy reflection even as I refill it with thin-cut square white napkins. Plastic utensils in the bin next, a task I perform while simultaneously reaching over and typing my code into the register. A rapid flutter of keystrokes later and the register snaps open with a shrill “Ding.” I pull the keys out from beneath the false bottom of the now open money-slot, and hastily strip off the “Master” brand padlocks that we use to secure all the cabinets, refrigerators, and drawers each night.
Next the fountain-soda heads go on, one hard twist to the right for each, and they snap into place with an under-stated “click-click.” Good, they’re all set now. Four quick flicks of the largish red-orange buttons underneath the counter, and the various lights, warmers and heaters give a few tired flickers before finally snapping to attention in the “kitchen”. The cheerful neon-blues and reds of the large block lettered “Food 2 Go” sign now blinks tantalizingly above me.
I give the crotchety old “Coffee Mate” in the far corner a quick glare, my eyes narrowing a bit; I’ll wait a bit before tackling that cankerous beast. Instead, I busy myself with stocking the warmers with various goods in the deep freezer. We don’t really sell much, just some pre-packaged sandwiches, chips, bagels, salads, and other foods to eat on the go. I put one-of-each product in the overhead plastic display case. I look for the tastiest looking examples of each- those will be the “seller dishes,” advertising our selection for the rest of the day.
Next comes and hotdogs. I suppress a shiver of disgust each time I do these, but to each his own I guess. Pre-packaged turkey sandwiches are bad enough, but to actually have to skewer, onto a slow-heater, the ground-up intestinal tracts of some little Piglet each day is almost more than I can bear. I have to wash my hands every time I do this one, and I go through gobs of anti-bacterial soap each time too.
Now I try not to judge, but how anyone can actually eat those “dogs” is beyond me. I mean, the cruelty to animals aside (not that it should ever really be put aside), you’re eating the mixed up parts of some little pig that the pork-manufacturers couldn’t sell you to eat on their own (Which really says something, since some people still eat gross stuff like liver)! Well, I guess its not my problem and I shouldn’t judge. Personally, though, I’ve been three years Vegetarian, with no regrets. I was thinking of going Vegan, too, but I think I might miss my cream-laden morning Chai too much.
Anyway, after maybe five to ten minutes more of wrestling with the old Coffee Mate and I’m finally fully set up. It’s still well before six-thirty, and I settle myself in for the day. It’s probably still another hour or more before Blake even shows up- I don’t think I’ve ever seen him on time.
Let me tell you a little about Blake. He works in the Ticket Booth across from me; gives out tickets to the people too un-savvy to work the Automated Booths, and the occasional directions to tourists. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him in a different set of clothes- the same no name-brand blue jeans, some random wrinkled cheap T-shirt (He filters through like four, but nine times out of ten it’s this weird grey-blue one that says, “Turn Off Your Mind,” and has a little devil-head underneath). He also slaps the same blue-checkered short-sleeved flannel over top his t-shirt everyday too. I bet he doesn’t even wash those clothes. He certainly doesn’t iron them- why he probably sleeps in that outfit each night.
Anyway, he comes in late today; as always. He’s also got these weird blood-shot eyes going- probably from drinking and shooting up all night, or something. They look even worse then usual today. Plus, he’s carrying a half-eaten Arby’s Roast Beef sandwich in one hand, and a unlabeled plastic bottle of some dark-looking liquid (I try not to make assumptions, but I have my opinions as to what it is). I take a breath, repeating mantra-like, “Judge Not, Lest You Be Judged,” to myself.
So, I look up from reloading the hot-dog warmer (it emptied during the morning rush) and make the extra-effort to be friendly.
“Good Morning- Nice to see you,” I say, nervously biting the outward pointing heart on the Claddagh ring I keep slipped over my right hand. I have to admit, the man makes me nervous. He looks like I think a serial killer or crazy drug addict would, even more then usual today. He doesn’t say anything for a minute, then suddenly looks down at me.
I can tell he’s staring at the little yellow “Meat is Murder! Animals Have Feelings Too!” button that I’m wearing today, pinned on the lapel of my favorite pink-dyed woolen sweater. He doesn’t say anything, just gets this crazy and nasty smile on his face, and starts laughing before taking a huge bite out of his sandwich, spilling chunks of beef on his clothes and on the ground in front of me as he eats. That insensitive prick.
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