Tough criticism is welcome. Sorry about the dialogue formatting
Perfectionism
I decided a few minutes ago to cut through the park on the way home, and as I head
ed into the merciful shade
, I thank
ed myself. Of course
, if the weather was cooler I wouldn’t have had to bother taking this inconvenient route, I
thought, as I scowl
ed at the nature which so dutifully grieve
d me. What effort would it take to hover around the right temperate day-in and day-out?
Directly ahead I spot
ted 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 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
ed th
e man, the tie bec
ame so irksome that I need
ed to look away. Glancing back from a safe distance, I s
aw him still jeering there on the bench, wholly unconscious of my passing.
It really is a few degrees too warm, I th
ought again. Of course, nature’s mocking should be the least of my worries. 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 what happened is maddening, but thinking about what lies ahead is infinitely worse.
(ooh, powerful sentence!) The present
was really my only solace
, but like any good modern man, I have my masochistic tendencies.
I had been working for the local newspaper, The Observer, for nearly three years. Strewn across my desk were stacks of research, expensive pens, and coffee stains. I looked just like a real journalist sitting at that desk, pouring over that research, scribbling with that pen, and sipping at that coffee. 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 many. Not that I hadn’t began just as many stories as my contemporaries
; I
just 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 just too much though,
it was the straw that broke the camel’s back. He watched me the whole day, it seemed
-- always stealing glances into my office, shoveling heaps of demanding pressure over my mind. In hindsight, the only thing worse th
an his constant surveillance was my own scrutiny. For the past week I had been teetering on the edge of finishing the damned story. I just couldn’t find the right way to fall. I had spent three months on the account, and
-- by God
-- I wanted a fitting conclusion.
Old
Boss didn’t think the same way though, and not a second 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”
He let out a deep, aching sigh, replying, “I’m sorry too, son. You know the deal.”
He picked my nameplate off the desk and walked out of the office.
And now
I was there, walking through th
e hazy park, with the only belongings I bothered to keep from the office tucked under my arm. The fountain marking the park’s center
was a just few minutes in front of me, meaning I
was nearly half
-way home. The only person sharing this area with me
was a young, frizzy-haired woman playi
"ng fetch
" with her dog. She let
_ the Frisbee fly with an awful toss. The saucer topple
d and rock
ed as it hover
ed awkwardly away. She still smil
ed though, watching
her dog give chase. C
ouldn't she see those leaves tangled in the dog’s hair? A few brushes from her hand and she could have
had her dog looking acceptable. What effort would it take to fix that frizzy head or that shabby throw?
“Hello,” she sa
id, 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, and I look to see she’s bearing an odd, quizzical expression.
“Fix that right there
.”
“What?” I ask, confounded.
“Your sleeve
-- it’s turned upwards at the hem, sort of a pet peeve of mine.”
Startled, I look down at my sleeve. Glaring right back at me was the upturned hem, in all its hideous imperfection. I feel myself lift away from the earth for a second, my other hand jumping too quickly to correct the malfunction. I see the woman’s expression ha
d become even more perplexed. Just in time her dog return
ed, Frisbee in mouth, prodding its master’s leg, imploring her to turn around. And so she d
id.
“Thanks,” I say, as collect myself and resume my walk.
Wanting to concentrate on anything besides my wardrobe, especially that traitor of a sleeve, I realize I
'd come within distance of the fountain’s churning rumble. The fountain ha
d always been somewhat of a bothersome landmark on these park detours. Spurting rogue droplets onto the cobble surrounding it, bubbling a perpetual green foam that hug
ged the perimeter; I c
ouldn't see why other people aren’t as put off by it. Nevertheless, it
was a hot day and the mist coming off of it
was cool, so I sit down on a nearby bench. This calm stagnancy turns my thoughts once again towards the office.
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 wanting to get his story read. I affirmed, but he seemed unconvinced when he grabbed my work and disappeared into an office with it. When he returned, though, his countenance had shifted.
“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, “That’s for me to judge, son. ‘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 don’t know what to say to this.
He laughs again, “A much smarter man th
an 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 doesn’t wait for me to confirm his presumption.
“Oh well, if that’s the case you’ve come to the right place.”
As my mind returned back to the present, back to the sleeve, it struck me. I fel
t strangely good, like there was relief from an affliction that had built up slowly enough to go unnoticed, so slowly that it had become me. That upturned sleeve didn’t hurt a damn thing, and I fixed it didn’t I? I relax a little and 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.
