A LONG DAY
(Original Image by Ben Rosett)
It was a long day. I had to beg my boss not to fire me. I had to convince him that, despite being one of the most productive employees in the last seven years, I was worth a damn. I made a minor mistake - a typo on which bulbs went with which sconces - and had cost us a sale. But he had taken personal offense and acted as though I had planned the whole thing. In other words, another Thursday in the books.
Mandi was sweet. She worked at the desk behind my own and heard my side of the call: the desperation in my voice, the boot-licking, scum-sucking tone that every man must adopt for the well-being of his family, and she decided we would have sushi for dinner, open a good bottle of wine, and watch whatever the hell I wanted to watch on television. This was my reward for being a responsible husband and father.
Of course, the sushi, the wine, and the night went too fast. Before I knew it, Mandi was putting Alex to bed, and I was left alone in the living room with what remained of my glass. As I sat there sipping, listening to Tom Petty's “Free Falling,” I began to think, shit, maybe I drink too much. The alternative, though, seemed much worse by comparison. They didn't teach you in school how desolate life becomes after the age of thirty. It's not that you don't have friends or family to keep you company. It's that there's an unexplained emptiness that begins to grow in the pit of your stomach, a horrible feeling that you should be doing something if only you knew what it was.
When the song ended, I got up and poured another drink. On my way back to couch, I glanced out the window and saw her. In the bank building across the street, there was a woman with her bare tits pressed up against the glass getting fucked or raped or something. It was difficult to tell from the angle and distance between us, so I decided to throw on some shoes and make the trip over just in case help was required.
I arrived in the lobby minutes later. The receptionist stand was empty, so I proceeded to the elevators and, counting the floors from memory, I punched in 38. I hardly felt movement before the doors opened. The hallways were empty. Along the walls were annoying bowl-shaped sconces that reminded me of my boss screaming at me. He was only a couple months older than me, and yet here was another disappointed father figure who relished pointing out my deficiencies despite my successes over the years.
I searched my memory again. Third window from the fountain at the front of the building. I put my ear to the door, heard shouting, and kicked it in. There was a young man in a suit with a cell phone pressed between his shoulder and ear. With his free hands, he was pouring a glass of scotch from a crystal decanter. Behind him was a double-sided cutout of a naked woman on all fours facing the window. She was smiling and holding up a tube of something that looked like toothpaste.
The young man let the cellphone drop on the bar.
“Who the hell are you?!” he said.
“That’s a long story. You have anything to drink?”
“You maintenance?”
“That’s right.”
“I called over an hour ago about these shitters!”
“Sorry sir, it’s been a hell of a long day.”
He poured me a full glass. I took a long sip. Good shit.
“Thank you, sir. Now, let’s see what the problem is.” I said, turning towards the bathroom.
