coping with life mundane

by chris.

clarence, toddler.

let's take this note again.

the pencil rolled against my leg once more. "barsuk?" it said. i had neither time nor the patience
to reply. i crushed it with my foot. beautiful foot, beautiful pencil. and we come shattered as one:
one entity (this used to be my name).

and at this moment i knew it was time for me to leave. no payment would arrive rewarding my presence
in the form of some monetary supplement for time worked later that i was required: yen, euros,
freaking coconut halves; i did not care!!

the elevator opened. it smelled like cat urine, but this was better than the stairs. the stairs were
like a warzone, but a warzone where the bullets are human laxatives. others stepped on behind me
supplementing my fears, and for several moments i wondered what these fears were. i never want to
sing in public, i told myself. i agreed that it would never happen.

we had travelled ONE floor when the doors flew open again and more people stepped on. it was like the
elevator was some whore that anyone thought they could use. an elevator was built by a human, so in my
mind this makes it just as much a human as anyone else, just as a human builds a house, or soda. so,
in disgust, i made my way from the back of the box to the front just as the doors were closing...but
i caught it with my foot! and they did stop; my foot did not snap or break or bend between the pressure
of the great doors. the doors succumbed and i was crowned victorious. i conquered steel.

the stairs were better than a whore. i strode down them, the noxious odors wafting into my nose with
each step. i thought i could get used to it after a while, but i got used to it no more than someone
who has been incompletely sprayed with mustard gas could get used to his new problem; my lungs ached
and, i was sure, would ache for the rest of my miserably painful life.

i stepped through the next door and found myself in a world of typewriters clicking away. realizing i
must have stepped into 1942 i went back into the gaseous horrid that i had tried so hard to get away

from. "nevermind this now," i told myself. "you will be out again soon." and i do not lie to myself.
i stepped through the next door i came to, the next floor, which was much better than 1942 and also
included a restroom. cubicles surrounded me. horrible, horrible photos were tacked onto the cubicles'
walls: family picnics, poor office humor. but this, i surprisingly realized, was not as bad as the
gentle scent of feces in the stairwell.

i walked toward the hooker. when i reached her i realized she looked much nicer on this floor. perhaps
she has cleaned up her act, i thought to myself. i pushed her button to go down and with a ding she
opened her doors for me. "nothing has changed, whore!" and ran back to the stairs, my new sanctuary
if ever i sought a toilet. the stench!!

i flew down the stairs. i had just stolen a suitcase FULL of cash (i hadn't even bothered to count it!)
and they were rushing after me. i had to be fast. i was running on pure adrenaline, and my legs felt
like they were completely separate beings, they ran as if it had been the only thing they had been
taught since childhood. they carried me, and i knew i would thank them in my own way later. "but not
now! " i told them. "your fruits will come!" they took me down the flights of stairs and sickening
wind blew in my face, but i held the vomit in. i held it all in!! in where it belonged!

finally i burst through the first story door. fresh air rushed to greet my face like a butler asking to
take my coat, and i graciously complied. i went through the set of golden doors and into the sunshine.
but it gets harder and harder with each day. i must tell the whore i love her. tomorrow, it will be. it
MUST be. yes, tomorrow. after work i will tell her. she'll get me through the day.

back to me