APEist
02-06-2008, 04:48 PM
Here ya go Barbara:)
Suit Yourself
I decided a few minutes ago to cut through the park, and as I head into the selfless shade I thank myself. Still, if the weather was cooler I wouldn’t have had to bother taking this inconvenient route, I consider while scowling at the nature which so dutifully grieves me. What trouble would it be to hover around the right temperate day-in and day-out?
Directly ahead is a man sitting on a bench, laughing into a cell phone. Not quite the typical nine-to-fiver, it seems. Still, he’s dressed the part. Grey suit pants, a white button-down, and an inexcusably crafted tie. He didn’t pull nearly enough on the follow through; left it way too loose. As I pass by, the tie becomes so irksome that I need to look away. Glancing back from a safe distance, I see him still jeering there on the bench, wholly unconscious of my passing.
It really is a few degrees too warm. Of course, nature’s mocking should be the least of my concerns; it’s just my normal musings help keep my mind off what happened. Not twenty minutes ago I lost whatever chances I had of making it in the literary world, as well as my only source of income. Thinking about it is maddening, but thinking about what lies ahead is infinitely worse. The present is really my only solace; but like any good modern man, I have my masochistic tendencies.
I had been working for the local newspaper for nearly three years. I looked just like a real journalist, sitting at that desk. Strewn across it were stacks of research, expensive pens, and coffee stains; yep, like a real journalist The only difference was that in three years I had completed six stories, and all of the ‘real’ journalists had completed at least twice that. Not that I hadn’t begun as many stories as my colleagues, it’s just I hadn’t finished as many.
For three years the old Boss kept his patience with me, extending dozens of deadlines for my sake. This last project was too much though, this last deadline was just the final straw. He watched me the whole day, it seemed. Always stealing glances into my office, unintentionally covering me in heaps of demanding pressure. In hindsight, the only thing worse then his constant surveillance was my own scrutiny. For the past week I had been teetering on the edge of finishing the damned thing. I just couldn’t find a suitable way to fall. I had spent three months on the account, and by God I wanted a fitting conclusion, a perfect conclusion.
Old Boss didn’t think the same way though, and a few moments after the minute hand met with the hour, he had come into my office. His expression was a pained twist of hope and doubt.
“It’s that time again, son. You remember our deal on this one, don’t you?” he asked rhetorically. I simply nodded in response, humiliated now by the expectancy in his voice.
"So… you got anything good for me?”
“Sorry, sir.”
His eyes closed for a moment. A deep, aching sigh escaped him before he replied,
“I’m sorry too, son. You know the deal.”
He picked my nameplate off the desk and walked out of the office.
Now its this hazy park, with the only belongings I bothered to keep tucked under my arm. The fountain marking the park’s center is a little ways in front of me. The only person sharing this area with me is a young, frizzy-haired woman playing fetch with her dog. She lets the Frisbee fly with an awful toss. The saucer topples and rocks as it hovers awkwardly away. She’s still smiling though, watching that dog give chase. Can’t she see those leaves tangled in her dog’s hair? What effort would it take to fix that frizzy head or that pitiful throw?
“Hello,” she says, turning and smiling at me.
I smile curtly in return, trying to keep my eyes on the path in front of me. She points at me though, and I look to see she’s wearing an odd, quizzical expression.
“Fix that right there”
“What?” I ask, confounded.
“Your sleeve, it’s sorta turned upward, kind of a pet peeve.”
Startled, I look down to check. Glaring right back at me is the upturned hem, in all its hideous imperfection. I feel myself lift away from the earth for a second, my free hand jumping too quickly to correct the malfunction. I see that the woman’s expression has become even more perplexed. Just in time her dog returns, Frisbee in mouth, prodding its master’s leg, imploring her to turn around. And so she does.
“Thanks,” I murmur, as I collect myself and continue on.
Wanting to concentrate on anything besides my wardrobe, especially that traitor of a sleeve, I realize I’ve come within distance of the fountain’s churning rumble. The fountain has always been somewhat of a troubling landmark on these park detours. Spurting rogue droplets onto the surrounding cobble while bubbling a perpetual green foam that hugs the perimeter; I can’t see why other people aren’t as put off by it. Nevertheless, it’s a hot day and the mist coming off of it is cool, so I sit down on a nearby bench. This calm stagnancy allows the encroaching past to suddenly catch up.
I had walked in on my first day not knowing what to expect. I carried a narrative in my hands that I brought to be read by someone, some professional. I had poured myself into the story, spent weeks crafting it, preparing it for review. The Boss was the first person to address me, asking if I was the kid who had phoned in about a story. I affirmed, but he seemed unconvinced when he grabbed my work and disappeared into an office. When he returned, though, his countenance had changed.
“This right here is great work, son. I really am surprised. There is a problem with it though… the thing isn’t finished.”
“Yes sir, I just couldn’t think up a suitable ending.”
He laughed gruffly, “That’s for me to judge, son,” he said, and then in a preachy sort of voice, “‘The writing trades allow mediocre people who are patient and industrious to revise their stupidity, to edit themselves into something like intelligence. They also allow lunatics to seem saner than sane.’”
I hadn’t a clue of what to say.
He laughed again, “A much smarter man then I said that by the way, so don’t take it for granted. What are you doing here anyways, not enough money for school?”
He didn’t wait for confirmation.
“Oh well, if that’s the case you’ve come to the right place.”
As my mind returns back to the fountain, back to the sleeve, it strikes me. I feel strangely good, as if there were a relief from some invisible burden. Like an affliction that has built up slowly enough to go unnoticed, perhaps so slowly that it has become me. That upturned sleeve didn’t hurt a damn thing; and I fixed it hadn’t I? Relaxing a little, I lean back. Those free, independent droplets shooting away from the main flow have lost their irritating edge. From under my arm, I pull out that first story. Expensive pen in hand, I begin to finish.
Suit Yourself
I decided a few minutes ago to cut through the park, and as I head into the selfless shade I thank myself. Still, if the weather was cooler I wouldn’t have had to bother taking this inconvenient route, I consider while scowling at the nature which so dutifully grieves me. What trouble would it be to hover around the right temperate day-in and day-out?
Directly ahead is a man sitting on a bench, laughing into a cell phone. Not quite the typical nine-to-fiver, it seems. Still, he’s dressed the part. Grey suit pants, a white button-down, and an inexcusably crafted tie. He didn’t pull nearly enough on the follow through; left it way too loose. As I pass by, the tie becomes so irksome that I need to look away. Glancing back from a safe distance, I see him still jeering there on the bench, wholly unconscious of my passing.
It really is a few degrees too warm. Of course, nature’s mocking should be the least of my concerns; it’s just my normal musings help keep my mind off what happened. Not twenty minutes ago I lost whatever chances I had of making it in the literary world, as well as my only source of income. Thinking about it is maddening, but thinking about what lies ahead is infinitely worse. The present is really my only solace; but like any good modern man, I have my masochistic tendencies.
I had been working for the local newspaper for nearly three years. I looked just like a real journalist, sitting at that desk. Strewn across it were stacks of research, expensive pens, and coffee stains; yep, like a real journalist The only difference was that in three years I had completed six stories, and all of the ‘real’ journalists had completed at least twice that. Not that I hadn’t begun as many stories as my colleagues, it’s just I hadn’t finished as many.
For three years the old Boss kept his patience with me, extending dozens of deadlines for my sake. This last project was too much though, this last deadline was just the final straw. He watched me the whole day, it seemed. Always stealing glances into my office, unintentionally covering me in heaps of demanding pressure. In hindsight, the only thing worse then his constant surveillance was my own scrutiny. For the past week I had been teetering on the edge of finishing the damned thing. I just couldn’t find a suitable way to fall. I had spent three months on the account, and by God I wanted a fitting conclusion, a perfect conclusion.
Old Boss didn’t think the same way though, and a few moments after the minute hand met with the hour, he had come into my office. His expression was a pained twist of hope and doubt.
“It’s that time again, son. You remember our deal on this one, don’t you?” he asked rhetorically. I simply nodded in response, humiliated now by the expectancy in his voice.
"So… you got anything good for me?”
“Sorry, sir.”
His eyes closed for a moment. A deep, aching sigh escaped him before he replied,
“I’m sorry too, son. You know the deal.”
He picked my nameplate off the desk and walked out of the office.
Now its this hazy park, with the only belongings I bothered to keep tucked under my arm. The fountain marking the park’s center is a little ways in front of me. The only person sharing this area with me is a young, frizzy-haired woman playing fetch with her dog. She lets the Frisbee fly with an awful toss. The saucer topples and rocks as it hovers awkwardly away. She’s still smiling though, watching that dog give chase. Can’t she see those leaves tangled in her dog’s hair? What effort would it take to fix that frizzy head or that pitiful throw?
“Hello,” she says, turning and smiling at me.
I smile curtly in return, trying to keep my eyes on the path in front of me. She points at me though, and I look to see she’s wearing an odd, quizzical expression.
“Fix that right there”
“What?” I ask, confounded.
“Your sleeve, it’s sorta turned upward, kind of a pet peeve.”
Startled, I look down to check. Glaring right back at me is the upturned hem, in all its hideous imperfection. I feel myself lift away from the earth for a second, my free hand jumping too quickly to correct the malfunction. I see that the woman’s expression has become even more perplexed. Just in time her dog returns, Frisbee in mouth, prodding its master’s leg, imploring her to turn around. And so she does.
“Thanks,” I murmur, as I collect myself and continue on.
Wanting to concentrate on anything besides my wardrobe, especially that traitor of a sleeve, I realize I’ve come within distance of the fountain’s churning rumble. The fountain has always been somewhat of a troubling landmark on these park detours. Spurting rogue droplets onto the surrounding cobble while bubbling a perpetual green foam that hugs the perimeter; I can’t see why other people aren’t as put off by it. Nevertheless, it’s a hot day and the mist coming off of it is cool, so I sit down on a nearby bench. This calm stagnancy allows the encroaching past to suddenly catch up.
I had walked in on my first day not knowing what to expect. I carried a narrative in my hands that I brought to be read by someone, some professional. I had poured myself into the story, spent weeks crafting it, preparing it for review. The Boss was the first person to address me, asking if I was the kid who had phoned in about a story. I affirmed, but he seemed unconvinced when he grabbed my work and disappeared into an office. When he returned, though, his countenance had changed.
“This right here is great work, son. I really am surprised. There is a problem with it though… the thing isn’t finished.”
“Yes sir, I just couldn’t think up a suitable ending.”
He laughed gruffly, “That’s for me to judge, son,” he said, and then in a preachy sort of voice, “‘The writing trades allow mediocre people who are patient and industrious to revise their stupidity, to edit themselves into something like intelligence. They also allow lunatics to seem saner than sane.’”
I hadn’t a clue of what to say.
He laughed again, “A much smarter man then I said that by the way, so don’t take it for granted. What are you doing here anyways, not enough money for school?”
He didn’t wait for confirmation.
“Oh well, if that’s the case you’ve come to the right place.”
As my mind returns back to the fountain, back to the sleeve, it strikes me. I feel strangely good, as if there were a relief from some invisible burden. Like an affliction that has built up slowly enough to go unnoticed, perhaps so slowly that it has become me. That upturned sleeve didn’t hurt a damn thing; and I fixed it hadn’t I? Relaxing a little, I lean back. Those free, independent droplets shooting away from the main flow have lost their irritating edge. From under my arm, I pull out that first story. Expensive pen in hand, I begin to finish.