The walls here creak
like an old wooden ship.
My bed is a life boat
where I dream and drift,
wading my way through winter.
The walls here creak
The walls here creak
like an old wooden ship.
My bed is a life boat
where I dream and drift,
wading my way through winter.
It’s a character I grew up listening to,
a silly face.
Funny how funnies always water
the night terrors down.
Oh, I’m not ashamed that I need them.
Don’t you dare tell me
what I need to be ashamed of.
Did you notice that?
Everyone telling each other
what shame to feel?
The world is a heavy sponge
filled with shame.
Someone wring us out.
We dream about former love
people, places, things,
love that almost was
then drown ourselves
with static versions of it.
Does anyone know anyone anymore?
Does anyone accept that the people
we love will inevitably change?
If I told you I was different
would believe me
or would you judge me by
Please tell me there’s a few out there.
Are you out there
in the ethereal disconnect?
Create, just create,
that’s all I can think.
My concepts of children
are always half born.
I’m a chaotic machine,
but when you tear me open, you’ll find
fur, felt, lint, stove top stuffing.
I soak in the bath for hours
until I’m soft, soft.
I want you to know that you were right before you felt the need to be right.
The dog in the picture that sits inside your arms is different now. She’s a longer, daintier half breed. People stop you on the sidewalk to tell you how pretty she is. A beagle on stilts.
But you don’t forget the now deceased animal of your past. Small with soft ears too big for his head. You once sat up all night cleaning the worms he vomited onto the couch. He was one of those puppy mill puppies that was broken when you got him, but you were prepared to love him anyway.
You were fiercely jealous when he curled up next to your brother at night. Once you snuck him out of your brother’s room, but he stumbled his way back.
The dimly lit space behind you was too snug for him. The neighbors complained about his howls through thin apartment walls. And your mom didn’t feel well enough to chase him around. So another family loved him instead.
You were a clash of color. A smorgasbord of thrift store finds. Musty, knitted sweater. Yellow beanie. Yellow like sunshine. Yellow like madness. You put every single one of those rings on in the morning as armor. You knew you belonged here.
Why do I keep coming back to you?
What is left for me to forgive? To criticize? What is there to learn from you that I haven’t already internalized?
Today you match everything except for your socks, because you can never find the partners. You wear an engagement ring on your middle finger. Your grandma’s watch on your left wrist. It has since stopped ticking. You remember the day it stopped ticking and felt a little more alone, until the next meaningful conversation rolled around, and you stopped paying attention to time.
It’s raining. There’s a spider outside your window. You left it there because you admired the amount of work and time it put into its web. Your dog is asleep on the couch. Your man is washing the dishes you filled with dinner. You had a good day. People see you. This is the present. This is the love you surround yourself with. It loves you back.
You were right before you felt the need to be right. Thank you for allowing yourself to be huge by nurturing the most fragile parts.
A warm winter
fades into cold
that steals the breath
of my breaks.
I fear the front end
of my life for a second
as I pump the pads
with the foot I wish
was in my mouth
where the words spill.
My close call is the sound
of something fragile falling
a flight of many years.
A muffling in my ears,
the whispered sayings,
are reserved for underwater
staredowns with you
when we test the weight
of each other’s silences.
A whiplash of wind
against my cheek
outside your city
apartment. The frozen
water bottles on the floor
of your car about to explode.
When you drink, I watch
the seams of your throat.
It’s so cold, and I love you.
The woman curled
up in a bath
remembers a woman
in a white room
of her own undoing;
a body tight as a fist;
a mind unraveling
like a scroll.
is our way
of making our way
back to our space.
The ultimate cradle.
My hands droop
in the water
with bent necks.
“Choose the life
laid out in front
of you. Feel its
calls the woman
in my bathroom.
I want to believe
that my body
is a field of
but my eyes,
catch a glimpse
of white room,
walls made of
My chest falls
as she asks me
on what is
important to me.
I reach for
my yours truly,
what is love face.
Should I reach
for what’s to come?
My body floats,
and the room hums.
The heater turns
on and off
in and out
is filled with
returning me home.
So you didn’t get the knobby
shoulders you needed.
That’s a lot of us,
and I sympathize with relativity.
But let me let you
lean in on my secret:
my big-mouthery is
my own, but it’s also
I did what I could
with sticks and stones.
But tried my best not
to break any bones
because I recognized
Children who have been
pushed down rivers
in baskets please
cry, cry, cry
as loud as you can.
Your cries will give way
to words, which you will use
as an armor of testament,
of existence, of proclamation
that you belong here,
that we’ve not yet
Don’t press so much on
the bruises, which
are designed or not
on how you look at it,
to fascinate and distract
you from what tickles
your insides and makes
you sneeze at the flower
raised in front of your face.
And if you can see it
don’t pluck the petals
just yet. Love me nots
are not yet in your equation.
This is your cliche to own.
These are your metaphors
to mix and match.
So lasso love.
Sling what you
did not receive.
When you pull it
from the earth,
rock it back and forth.
Then put it back
in the river you
down so clearly.
Feed what will cleanse you.
Where’s the depth, baby
oh, there it is
we fucked a hole in
I’m not even mad.
face to face
on separate islands.
I asked what you dreamed
as a kid
you don’t remember.
can we play hooky
can we go camping
can we screw some holes
in the time it takes to grow old?
can we wear each other’s faces?
It’s been a long time
since you shaved
but today you did
because you accidentally
trimmed too far.
I can’t stop touching
you made plumbing
out of sticks
to assist the ants.
oh, and one time
in Boy Scouts
you saw innards
of a deer draped
like red scarves over a tree.
I asked if the bits scared you
and shook your bank for more.
I feel like a memory grubber.
Before sleep, you let me
play with unexplored
parts of you.
is a sturdy bridge.
Maybe I’m asking
like if I teach you
how to dream,
will you teach me how
to sleep soundly?
Fridays are holy days for Alexa and me. I’ve never written about our Fridays. My guess is that I can’t paint them just right. I’ll smudge em up too much. Or maybe there’s something untouchable about them, something that’s reserved for us only. But lately we’re all about being brave and sharing what is most important to us — and that includes each other.
This Friday we went rollerblading through Busse Woods. Though it was a fairly mild winter, we still couldn’t help but seize the first spring-ish day. Alexa didn’t have work, and I was released into the wild early. We hopped into my little red Mazada, which desperately needs a car wash. We parked and feverishly laced up our blades. Alexa wobbled on her feet, asking, “I’m stable, are you stable?”
The pathway was mostly ours. Our muscles remembered the zigzag movement, the loud breeze blasting in our ears. Busse Lake was calm and stretching out in the sun. The trees protruded their nakedness. As soon as we began sweat clung to the middles of our backs.
Alexa and I talked about our plans. She told me how she wanted to be more spontaneous with her workouts, instead of stuffing them into a strict regimen. I told her I wanted to pick up running again, since this time of year is my favorite time to run. We talked about writing. She told me about her blog’s new look and setup, that she wants to work on a new challenge. Her last challenge was not to eat out in order to save money, and she rocked it. I told her about a recent blog I wrote about Trump that wasn’t very good, just something I needed to get off my chest, and also about this book of poems I’ve been putting together that I’d like her help in organizing.
We trucked through the eight-mile trail. We barreled up hills, rounded sharp corners, forgoing the treacherous sticks and patches of tar on the pavement. There was a point where Alexa was trying “too hard to be cool” and almost fell backwards. My heart skipped a beat as she flapped her arms like a crazed bird. We laughed at the close call, and she reminded me of the time last summer we went rollerblading, and I almost ate shit. I had instinctively reached for her arm. “So you want to take me down with you, huh?” she had asked.
We spotted a few of the famous elk lazing around in the grass. It’s amazing how the enchantment of seeing them in a town we’ve lived in most of our lives hasn’t worn off yet.
At the end of the trail, we both sighed our contentment. Even though the blades were off, it felt like they were on. It’s weird how certain movements imprint themselves into your limbs, how they stay with your body for a while afterward.
Before going to Alexa’s, we stopped at the Tensuke Market and picked up some plum wine and seaweed wraps for the sushi we were to make for dinner. I was distracted by all the adorable dishware to eat sushi from. I made a mental note to explore this store on my own, as I never had before. The young man who checked us out bowed each time he received and returned our money, which took us both aback.
Alexa showed me how to assemble sushi. You lay out the wrap, slap some sticky rice on the paper, line up the vegetables, wet the end of the wrap, and roll it nice and tight. The end product awkwardly enough feels like an erect penis. How adult of us to notice this. Anyway, then you slice the log into individual rolls. I think Alexa might have cut more rolls than me because I was talking a lot. I can’t exactly remember everything I said, but I do remember talking and talking. Poor Alexa. That shit has to get exhausting. I get really close to her face when I talk, a pesky habit of mine, which I think used to make her kind of wary. Hopefully by now she’s gotten over my bubble-popping invasiveness.
Her dog Bubba was licking his beautiful, big chops, waiting for us to drop food on the floor in the kitchen. Alexa caved into his demands, giving him a meatball for rolling over. Gale was in the living room, focusing on this new sketch she’s working on of a German Shepherd. She was precise, using a ruler to measure out the face’s dimensions. She showed me the sketch of a friend’s backyard that she had been working on. It’s as inviting as the real thing. The koi fish, the grass, the knick-knacks, Stanley the cat’s tail flickering around the shed. Gale has a way of capturing real life and then some. In my room is a framed sketch that she drew of me. It’s so beautiful I was intimidated to put it up when I first received it. It was like she tapped into something that I sometimes have difficulty seeing and believing myself.
Alexa and I went into her room. We wolfed down our sushi rolls and sipped the plum wine. We scrolled through social media, and read about the Bernie rally that some of our friends had attended. And then it suddenly occurred to us: why didn’t we go?
It dawned on both of us that it would have been really something to be a part of the history we were watching before our very eyes. There was Sanders in his element and glowing, waving his conductor hands, hitting on all the big ones — healthcare, college loans, Wall Street, women’s rights, the lead-poisoned residents in Flint, and the U.S.’s dwindling infrastructure, etc. People of all colors, ages, genders, and ethnicities cheered behind and around him, armed with their “A Future to Believe in” signs. Muse’s Uprising began to play. “They will not control us… We will be victorious…”
Here is a man who has dedicated his whole life to people’s rights, who flies down escalators, who talks with his hands. At 74, he’s awakening a tired and angry America looking for more long-term change. Sanders represents all of them. And he represents Alexa and me. We could have been there, standing shoulder to shoulder with all the others.
In any case, I was happy that I was watching the rally with Alexa. When she got up to go to the kitchen for some more sushi, I gave her hug. I told her, “Man I can’t believe we’re alive right now.”
This was also the same night that Chicago protestors shut down the Trump rally. UIC, one of the most diverse campuses in a melting pot city. This had to have been planned? A publicity stunt. But in any case, the protestors had the place surrounded. They shut. it. down. I’m proud of their efforts, but I’m anxious to learn about the next city to replicate the maneuver — next time with people getting seriously hurt. The truth is I’m scared about the chaos, just like a lot of people I know. The Nazi incitements, the violent Trump rallies, the amount of blatant hatred being tossed about the streets in large hoards of people, which is nothing new, exactly.
I mean everyone seems to be calling this a revolution, and the thing about revolutions if I can remember right from the textbooks and people who are alive to talk about living through one, is that it goes beyond the breaches of electing a president. This is something that needs to be system-wide, population-wide. And I feel we still have miles to go if we want this to happen.
Here’s what I know about organized chaos, since I’ve been somewhat versed in it on a micro level — right now is a chance for great opportunity for those who want to help. During this very alarming time in our country my gut tells me that now is the time to start showing extra strength and kindness. Now is the time for the ones who care to start thinking outside the box to finally get outside the box. I don’t know what that means for me just yet, but I’m willing to be open about it and find out.
I petted the extra soft parts on Bubba’s paws, between the pads. I tried to move him so I could have more room on Alexa’s bed, but failed. He’s such a large animal. His humans keep him safe and happy. And he spends the majority of his day just loving people.
***Alexa and I challenged each other to write about this Friday together. Check out hers here! http://alexawynne.com/2016/03/14/the-politics-of-rollerblading/
I do this thing where I sit in my car in the winter. Sometimes I read the last bit of something. Sometimes I let the lastest song on repeat fill me. Sometimes I do nothing except let the day’s unresolved extraness leak from my skin and settle into my seat.
I wait until all the heat leaves my car, until my toes are numb from the cold. When I can’t take it anymore I go inside to my warm home that I am lucky to have, even if its ceilings are stained in the blood of dead flies, and it’s on the third floor.
I don’t really know when I started doing this. But I killed my battery doing it the other day. I left my lights on. Sean helped me jumpstart my car.
I’m sitting in my car right now. I can see Sean in the window. It took me a while to figure out what he was doing. My eyes aren’t the best in the dark, but I think I figured it out. He’s holding two ends of a Christmas tree in his hands.
He probably wants to surprise me. I’m surprised alright. Why does he continue to choose me? That’s a legitimate question. Not for him, but for me. It’s my song on repeat.
I snap pictures of him with my eyes. I add more to his living eulogy I’ve been writing inside my head for over a third of my life and go inside.
Inside, Sean smiles and strings lights.
I recently had a grand old epiphany. I do not love myself, and I need to change that. I’ve never been so sure of anything in my life.
The funny thing is, epiphanies aren’t uncharacteristic of me. I’ve had them weekly, for as long as I can remember. It’s quite exhausting.
I made pretty good regulars at the bar doing this natural habit of mine. Poor Sean. He gets the bulk of them. He can always tell when one comes on. He’ll be going about his business, playing his videogames, and I will get this crazy ferret look in my eyes. It always starts off, “You know what I just realized…”
I have a lot of triggers. Reading good writing especially sets me off. Movies. Images of and encounters with others I meet and know. Odds and ends of conversation that eventually pile up and mean something to me.
I start to move around the room and flail my arms like Gumby in profound discovery. And Sean can’t help but watch politely, with his Xbox controller nestled in hands. He will take it in, measure it, and say something in two minutes that sums up a 30 minute gurgled blurb of words I have just vomited all over the living room.
And I’ll be all classy and say something like, “Fuck man, yeah, that’s exactly what I mean!”
Not every epiphany is Jesus is the Messiah worthy. Not every conclusion I reach makes sense, and sometimes Sean throws it back at me like a football. “But baby, last week, you said something that totally contradicts this…”
But “My name is Sarah, and I do not love myself” is an epiphany that knocked the wind out of me. Once when I was little I jumped off this swing set in the park behind my grandmother’s house. The second I jumped, I knew it was too soon. When my little girl belly collided with the wood chips, the cold fall air sucked out everything inside me. No one was there to see it. I couldn’t speak to call for help, let alone make any sound at all. Maybe someone will pass me by, I thought, see me fumbling around on the ground.
This epiphany feels like my stomach and lungs have been knocked outside my body. I’m left running my fingers over the wood chips, trying to find my voice.
I am not alone this time. I have people. I especially have Sean. I’m choosing to share this with others, but I’m still very much alone in my journey to love myself. I must figure out how to love myself, not because others say I should.
I’m also not about to project the love I have for other people onto myself. You know that saying, “You cannot love others without loving yourself first?” This is horseshit when it comes to me. I love people plenty. It can get creepy sometimes. This is different, and I have to figure it out.
After I wrote “My name is Sarah, and I do not love myself,” I had no air left inside me. I woke the next day in a cold sweat, ready to ambush my blog and pull it off the internet, terrified what people would think when they read it. And I remembered I didn’t love myself and felt like shit because now I truly know so.
But for some reason, I was able to go about my ways just fine, well in the same clunky but sure enough fashion I go about my life every morning. I put on my business professional wear that I am getting good at assembling. I made an overeasy egg, popped it, watched it explode on toast before inhaling it, my favorite. I ran to the train with my still wet hair flying and turning to daggers in the cold air with seconds to spare like always. I read on the train and every now and then glanced up to watch a man play solitaire on his phone, eavesdrop on a woman’s conversation about Thanksgiving plans to drive with her family to Ohio.
I returned to work, ready to start loving myself at an alarming rate. I’m a 20 something who lacks patience. Surprise, surprise. But I had a plan for the day. Clearly someone as disorganized as I am needs to start having plans—another epiphany I’ve been trying to follow through on lately. Send email to Lily. Find one job and apply for it. Email Joan, ask her if she has work for me to do yet. Edit my friend’s book.
The reason my list is not composed of more “work” things is because work in general has come to a halt for everyone, as it does in consulting work sometimes. And also, I’m a quasi-employee. I have an expiration date: December 22nd is my last day. Merry Christmas to me, I’m fucked if I don’t get a job that pays the bills in the next couple of weeks.
I emailed Lily. She’s a writer who I’m trying to connect with. Apparently networking is what the cool kids do these days. We found each other on LinkedIn. She has this beautiful smile that’s in mid-laugh and that lights up her profile picture, very uncharacteristic of the professional headshots with blue backdrops and screwed on smiles. I set up a day to meet her and was decently excited. However, this was the only thing on the list I did that day.
One thing I noticed when I got off the elevator on the 25th floor that morning was that no one was around. It was the three administrative assistants and I, the one and only intern, who decided to come into work.
The day before Thanksgiving. The office was closing early. Oh yeah. People were prepping to see their families. Oh right. I wasn’t at all ready to see mine. My grandpa, who was one of the main reasons worth suffering through the holidays, was hospitalized a week after Thanksgiving last year. He waited until Christmas was over, and then he died. Sometimes, I think the tighter I close my ears, the louder the silence, the closer I will get to feeling him. I look for him in the pond reeds. Maybe it’s something in the geese calls. I still hear the rattle, his lungs emptying like a spray can.
I tried to not let the vacant surrounding cubes bug me. In general, I try to ignore the cubes, occupied or unoccupied. I don’t like to think about people working in a literal box for hours every day. It gives me the heebie jeebies. I had a plan. Stick to the plan, I said. It’s okay, Sarah, you are doing great. You got this. I “love” you, Sarah.
I opened my email, got the usual mechanical rejection letters, but remained in good spirits about meeting with Lily next week. Onto task number two. Then I had to take a massive piss. I relieved myself, but took a detour after, my feet hitting the boxy floor in the silence underneath me. Good lord, people really aren’t here today. Why I am here? Why don’t I just go home?
I should have just went to the bathroom and went straight back to my cube. But no, I really wanted to see what an empty floor looked like. When I moseyed back to my cube and sat down, the nothingness started creeping in over me, breathing its bad breath on my shoulder. Task number two. Task number two. I forgot what task number two was.
It was a radical turn of events. I jumped over to job searching. Task number what? Eh, who fucking knows? I just need a job. I need a job to call my own. Hey, this job looks like it would fit me. Wait, no. 3 to 5 years. Fuck you, I’m applying anyway.
Sarah, you don’t have Social Media development training, why do you think you can apply for this? Sarah, you don’t even know what SEO means. Sarah, you’re pretty much incompetent for all of these jobs you’re clicking on. Here’s a thought Sarah, why don’t you write another funny cover letter where you pretend you are competent and fit into these places you’re applying for? Yeah, you’re funny. People find that quaint. You’re a loveable golden retriever. But you don’t have to have any real skill to land a job.
Let’s leave the brain power to the big boys. There’s always that bar down the street from your house. You may have to wear low cut shirts and press cold beers against your nipples again, but you’ll make friends, like you always do. You have no one here. At least you won’t be alone in a box—given a computer and crayons to color with and told to figure out your job. Besides, you gave up remember? Now you spend your days dreaming and mentally jacking off.
And I’m back to drowning in an internal pool of self-directed sarcasm. Old habits. Not loving myself. When did the inside of my head begin to look like the inside of an asshole?
Then something happened that I will try my best to explain. It’s something that’s never happened to me in this extremity before. Yes, I overload on myself all the time. Usually, I find some Grumpy Cat meme or watch some dumb video a friend sent me of a guy getting a pie slammed into his face, and I start to laugh a little and ignore myself. But right then, humor didn’t appeal to me because of the way I have been using it lately. I’ve been using humor to pick at the scabs of myself.
Eh, who are you kidding? You laughed at your own jokes anyway. You know what’s funny, how much of a delicate flower you have become. A limp daisy. A blown dandelion.
I thought about how hard it’s going to be to love myself when I am unemployed on my ass weeks from now. And this was the part where I short-circuited.
Suddenly, I got really warm. Like after I’ve pounded back a few beers. I could feel my ears surge. Is it hot in here? Then I started to breathe aloud. Well that’s weird. And hard. I am pretty in pretty good physical shape. I know how to control my breathing very well. So this sudden loss of breath after doing nothing at all struck me as odd, and I was scared. Oh man, oh man, something is definitely not right. Calm the fuck down.
Tears started trickling down and burning my face. In the middle of my cube, I began to cry and wage war on myself. Like a little bitch. Snot and eyeliner running like lava. The whole nine yards. I used my shirt sleeves to wipe my nose. I didn’t want to get up. There were still the administrative assistants. Surely, they would see my face. You look like Rudolph the fucking reindeer. A jolly sight indeed.
I was scared shitless. What was happening to me? I googled suicide hotlines. But wait, this isn’t right. I don’t want to kill myself. Is there a number you can call for when you begin to cry and lose your breath in the middle of your cube?
Then I googled “how to seek emergency mental health when you don’t have health insurance.” I fanned my face with one hand and scrolled with the other, read quick phrases, but nothing popped out at me, explained to me how this could be fixed and right NOW, except “call 911.” I feel like I’m dying. Wilt, little flower, wilt! Should I call 911? But then I will never get a good job reference from this place. Sarah, why the hell are you crying and laboring like a pregnant woman right now of all places? FUCK!
I log into Facebook, forcing myself to blow air consistently through my lips, and scan my list of friends. Who is online right now? Now. Right now. Who is online, and who do I trust to help me through this RIGHT NOW? Being alone with myself is not helping. You’re damn right, it’s not.
I messaged my friend Lauren. She’s a writer too.
“Lauren, are you busy right now?”
“No, why what’s up?”
“I need you to do me a favor.”
“Sure, what’s up?”
“I’m having a….”
And then I deleted the words before I finished typing the sentence out. What will Lauren think of this adorable little scene? Probably that I’m fucking crazy. She’ll probably start avoiding me from this point forward… Sarah, stop bothering these poor people; they actually have jobs to do, you know? No one has time to coddle you.
“I need you to tell me how your day is going. Right now.”
“My day is pretty boring, actually haha…Sarah is everything okay?”
I logged off Facebook, slammed my laptop closed, and blew my nose into my jacket hanging onto the back of my chair. Oh the drama. Sarah, give me a break.
I sat trying to remember my brief training and attempt at breathing exercises a long time ago. But I couldn’t concentrate. The dragon lady menstruating, stomping around in my head wouldn’t leave me alone. This scene was too much for her to handle. She couldn’t get over how pathetic it was and needed to remind me so. I looked at my phone. A missed call from Lauren.
I got up and floated over to a team meeting room. Success, none of the three people looked up. The team meeting room: windows, windows everywhere. A glass box. I ripped the black phone off the side table and pulled it down onto the large one in the middle of the room. I sat with my back facing the glass, heaving.
I called Sean. He had been in Colorado for work for 3 days. Maybe he hadn’t gotten on the plane to go home yet, I thought.
When I heard his voice I tried to sound calm. Fail. Fucking fail, Sarah. He can tell. Find a tissue already. Never mind, here we go, more tears. Like a toddler who falls down and cries only when other people lurch to see if she is okay.
“Sean, Sean. I’m… having… some sort of breakdown or something, I think. No one’s here. None of my managers are here, I don’t talk to the others, I’m scared, and I don’t know what to do.”
Sean, who has been armed and prepared for almost fires with me for years recognizes the urgency. “Sarah, I need you to listen to me, okay, sweetie?”
“Yeah. Yeah. Okay, yeah. What should I do?”
“I need you to go your desk, get your things, and go home. Now. No one is there anyway. Stop torturing yourself and go home. The second you leave the building, you will feel better. Promise.”
“Yeah, yeah. You’re right. Okay. I got this. I’m going home.
“Sarah, seriously. Don’t stay. Go home. Call me when you are on the train.”
“Okay, okay. I’m sorry and thank you. Hey, I love you.”
“I love you too. Call me on the train.”
“Yes, the train. I got it.”
I wasn’t ready to leave the room. I wanted to wait for the hiccups to stop before I collected my things. I called Lauren back and told what had just happened, that I was sorry for taking off on her. I told her not to worry, I was okay now. She told me she knew how I felt; she was where I was before. Her voice was smooth when she said I needed a new job that fit me better, and that I deserved to be happy. I told her I loved her and had a plan. Get my things. Get on the train.
I asked her if she wanted to hang out with me. The thought of seeing her when I got home instead of a Sean-less empty apartment cleared some of my dizziness and made the room look less watery. She told me to come over. We could do our workshop. She, Alexa, and I could do our writing workshop that we missed last week because of our busy lives.
I left the room and headed back to my desk. I didn’t sit down. I began collecting my things. Mike, one of the three assistants, sauntered on over to me. I froze.
“Here’s this month’s calendar.”
He held it in his hand for a moment and lingered on my face, waiting for me to grab it.
I grabbed it and looked at it like I was reading it for a second. “Thanks Mike! Hey, Happy Turkey Day, eh? You gonna be playing your new Playstation hardcore this weekend?” When I smiled, my face unstuck a little bit. It was good enough though. He continued on.
“You know it! Hey you too, and don’t forget to do your time sheet.”
“Aw, I almost forgot! Thanks for reminding me, bud.”
I would do my timesheet at home. I had a plan. Pack the rest of my things. Get on the train. Call Sean. Go home. Workshop with Lauren and Alexa.
I practically ran off the 25th floor, my boots hitting the planks disguised in carpet under my feet. I said goodbye and Happy Thanksgiving to the greeters at the door. It always struck me as odd. This building has its own personal greeters. They grew on me too, especially the woman with the bright pink lipstick. One of these days, I am going to ask her name, but in the meantime I run like hell to get out.
It was sleeting outside, and my boots cowered and said sorry for the lack of traction. I pushed past to the front of the crosswalk and waited at the light with the tough, gritty bunch in the crowd. A man revved the invisible engine in his foot, ready to spill blood on the long Chicago sidewalks. Jaywalkers wandered across anyway, ignored the “fuck you” horns and close life calls.
When the light turned, I kept up with the frantic turkey trot. Oh how we gobble each other. I crossed the bridge and passed the disabled homeless man in a wheelchair I bought a cheese, ham, and turkey sandwich once. He shielded his face when he saw it, so I slathered it in mayonnaise, ate it, and dabbed my mouth with embarrassment on the train ride home.
Once at Union Station, I descended the cement stairs. Down below the ground, hell bound trains screamed out their rusty pains. I picked up speed when I saw others running, even though I knew I still had time. Out of breath, I barreled breasts first into the open train. I pillaged through my pockets and pulled my phone free. I began to dial Sean’s number.