by Sarah Friedman
He tapped his pen against the desk. Short taps leaving a hollow sound that flared, echoed, and then died quickly. First at regular intervals, tap tap tap, then in patterns, tap tap ... tap, tap tap ... tap. His left hand came down and tapped the desk as well, making a sort of rhythm. His feet moved too under the desk keeping time with the taps of the pen and his hand. There was a small wurring noise behind him followed by a short beep. It made him stop for a second. It was the sound of the copy machine positioned a few feet away from his cubicle. Usually the noise went unnoticed. Today it was like the inconsistent throbbing of a migraine. Flaring up for a few seconds and then dying down until someone else went to make a copy, wurr wurr beep.
“How long has it been?” asked the tall blond girl at the copy machine who could see his clear discomfort.
“Three days,” he answered with a forced smile, “three fucking days.” She patted him on the shoulder and laughed as she passed him to go back to her desk.
He put the pen down and sat with his hands on the table unmoving for a few seconds. His eyes glanced up at the clock. The hands moved so slow, dragging themselves as if they pulled a hundred pound weight.
“Three fucking days,” he muttered under his breath. His fingers began to play upon his desk as if it was a piano. He hit the invisible keys slowly, then faster and faster until it became a silent mush of notes all playing together instead of a song.
His eyes flicked around the room from one place to another. The office cubicles, his boss’s office, the large windows on the far wall next to the door with the red “Exit” and the white “No Smoking” signs above it. Everyone else was sitting in their cubicles typing away at their computers, or reading over papers, or doing some such work. He looked at the papers on his desk and picked a few of them up in a futile attempt to do what he was supposed to be doing. He put them down and checked the clock again – two minutes had passed.
“Are you coming?” asked a shortish dark-haired man as he made his way to the exit door.
“I can’t.”
“That’s right, I forgot,” he chuckled, “you’re a stronger man than me.” He left the room.
The man watched him leave through the door with the red exit sign over it. For a second he entertained the idea of running out to join him but he restrained himself. Behind him the copy machine was in use again taunting him with its wurr wurr beep. He checked the clock. It was three minutes later than the last time. He pulled out a piece of scrap paper and picked up his pen. He thought for a second and then began scribbling down numbers. “24+24+24=72” He looked at the clock again. It read 3:37pm. He thought for a second and then scribbled down some more. “72+6.37=78.37” He wrote “hours” next to the final number and then circled it. “Seventy-eight hours, thirty-seven minutes,” he mumbled. He looked down toward the exit sign at the end of the room where the other man disappeared a few minutes before. He brought his hands to his face and covered his eyes, then rubbed his hands back and forth from the top of his forehead to the top of his cheekbones. He heard the woman in the cubicle to his left having a conversation on the phone. She had an annoyingly shrill voice and when she laughed it sounded to him like a 10-year-old girl sucking helium, haahahaa haahahaa. It was like a tiny little pin piercing his eardrum, and it took all of his self control not to walk over, take her phone, and slam it down.
He began tapping his feet again under the table. He picked up his pen and removed the cap and then put it back on. He did it again and again. He flipped the pen around and stuck the other end in his mouth, biting it lightly around the end. Behind him the copy machine was going again, wurr wurr beep, and he bit down hard on his pen. It went again, wurr wurr beep, and he was grinding his teeth down, making the plastic cave around the ink in the center. He was tapping his hands on the desk again with the audible noise, thud thud. The woman to his left let out another one of her shrill laughs, haahahaa haahahaa. The copy machine went again, wurr wurr beep, his hands were practically beating his desk, thud thud thud.
He spit out his pen and jumped up, knocking over his chair.
“Hey, are you alright?” asked the woman with the shrill voice. He ignored her, heading straight for the exit door. He slammed into it so hard he practically fell over when it flew open, and then he ran down the stairs so fast the rubber on his shoes squeaked against the floor tiling. He pushed through the heavy door that led outside, making it slam against the outer wall. He found one of his work associates, the man who asked him to come out before.
“Hey, didn’t expect to see you out here,” his associate said.
“Just give me one,” growled the man. His associate handed a cigarette over and lit it. The man sucked it down deep, deep, deep into his lungs.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Sarah Friedman is from Philadelphia, but currently resides in New York City. She has spent most of her working life in non-profit working with the disadvantaged, but recently decided that she hates offices and would rather not work in them anymore. She is currently exploring different life options, while avidly writing about the messed up world around.
View blog authority
0 comments:
Post a Comment