Grande

            Seamore Whitley sat in his office cubicle, staring blankly at his black-and-green, antiquated computer screen. The sheen of the unintelligible, green javascript scrolling up the reflection on his glasses only added to his automatic appearance. He was a man in his early forties with brown hair that seemed to recede miles in his sleep and was becoming increasingly gray with every glance in the mirror. His hands were quite venular, his face beginning to show the infamous wrinkles of age - not laughter - just long, stressed age. He was thin, a sign of his irregular eating habits, and his facial expression seemed to be etched there by an artist with a cruel sense of humor. It always stayed the same, Seamore never felt it change: when he woke up, in the shower, when he ate, when he drove, when he worked, when he shaved, his face always read of the detachment induced by utter misery and mundane existence. The dismal fellow even speculated that he could quite possibly sleep with his eyes open, the same expression still written upon his features as he dreamed about the thing he loathed most: work. In fact, poor Seamore couldn't recall the last time he'd smiled, who would with a name like 'Seamore'.  Few people could truly fathom just how inhumane it was to name a child 'Seamore'. His poor mother, God bless her soul, should have named him 'Joe', short for 'Average-Joe', or 'Unnoticed-Joe', or even 'Step-All-Over-Me-I'm-A-Doormat-Joe'.

         For nineteen years, Seamore had the same job at the same cubicle on the same floor of the same building on the same street in the same city. It's not as if this were regular, either. No, Mr. Whitley's employers and fellow employees changed constantly. Just as he or adjusted to how a particular peer chose to walk all over him, just as he became settled, Fate would take her course and almost as if on an incessant endeavor to make him more miserable each day than the last, she would introduce him to a whole new obstacle of mistreatment from his co-workers.  Be they his seniors, peers, and even those most annoying, prospering, I-have-a-positive-outlook-on-life-and-come-to-work-with-a-smile-because-Daddy-Dearest-paid-my-way-through-college juniors of his, not a single one hesitated to torment Seamore. Everyone around him went on to bigger and better things, the world around him buzzed with potential and progress. He often felt as if he were frozen in place while the rest of the world passed him in fast-forward, much like those new Verizon commercials.

         In short, this man was miserable. And, as if to make things worse, in three days, he would have been working in his office for twenty years. He couldn't take the insanity, he wanted to burst out and scream, to vent to someone in some way about all the feet that trampled over his back. And yet, all that escaped his throat was a feeble stuttering when he tried to confront his employers with his predicament, so intimidated that he would stare at his shoes. Perhaps this desire to be heard was insatiable, for there was one person he did convey his emotions to: his psychiatrist, Ms. Penny LuLane. She was a youthful optimist straight out of college who found no difficulty opening her own firm. When Melancholic Mr. Whitley entered her office every Saturday morning, he did not expect an eye-opening, epiphany-inducing session in which he left alleviated, and rightly so. Rather, he would sit in the stiff, leather, lounge chair, twiddling his thumbs as he stammered through the same list of grievances met with the same replies, such as "Perhaps this roots back to your mother," she's dead, thank you; "Seamore, you need to get angry, let people know how you feel," I'm letting you know how I feel and you're making me angry; or his favorite: "And how does that make you feel?" I just told you how it made me feel. Each session was another two-hundred-and-thirty dollars poorly spent.

         Mr. Whitley sat at his desk, anticipating five p.m. as he normally did after lunch hour. Where others received phone calls, delivered important messages, decrypted, and chatted away, he remained in his sector of unimportance, his world of isolation. The only time another person ventured to talk to him was either to collect money, or to make him do something, just as his much younger superior, Roy Branston, did right then.

         "Hey, Whitley, how's that work coming?" he asked, but continued before Seamore could answer, not that he even tried. The poor man was used to this train of conversation. Please get to the point, he pleaded mentally. "That's great. Listen, I've got an important dinner date to get to, and, well, I've just gotta look my best. Not that that will be too hard." He chuckled at his own joke, but when Seamore didn't respond, his smile dropped and he continued. "Anyway, I'm gonna go on and head out now, but I have some very important database configurations on their way. You wouldn't mind staying till they get here, right? Good, they'll definitely be here by today, nine is the deadline." He began to walk away as his doormat attempted to speak up, "Oh, and just send the results to me, I already gave the guy your email. And if you wouldn't mind, summarize this month's quotas, kay? Thanks," he finished as he disappeared down the aisle of cubicles while his arm found its way into his coat.

         "Yeah...of course..." with his luck, he wouldn't be gone until tomorrow.

         Seamore Whitley was miserable. And he planned to show people he was miserable by not coming to work on his twentieth anniversary, let alone ever again after that. He planned to leave this life behind, to go out with a 'bang', not that anyone would care. The world would continue to progress, children would become graduates, lovers, executives, and seniors in the blink of an eye, everything on fast-forward. But this was the end of the line for him, his tape hit 'stop' in two days. Not a soul would notice and not a second thought would be spared for Seamore 'Average Joe' Whitley.



                                              *              *              *



         The day before his last, Seamore rationally tied up his various loose ends.  First, he transferred all of his money into two different bank accounts.  The first of these Seamore would leave to his only sister.  Though he loved her dearly, this was more of a formality.  It had been years since the two of them had done more than exchange Christmas cards.  They both had chosen very different lives when they graduated, and hers lead her all the way to California.  The second account Seamore would leave to his cousin Daryl, and, more importantly, his Uncle Garth. 

         As Seamore remembered his uncle, a small sigh emitted from his chapped lips.  Suddenly the memories inundated his sorrow-ridden mind.  The first time Seamore realized he had the greatest Uncle in the world was as he entered fifth grade.  It was late August, when school was ominously threatening the dreams of every boy and girl.  Desperately, each child tried to squeeze the last thrills out of their remaining hot summer nights of hide-n-seek and barefoot firefly catching – every child but Seamore. His mother, as overprotective as she was, and his father, as apathetic as he was, managed to keep the young boy by at home most every second.

         In fact, the best friend Seamore had was his pet dog...Whatshisname.  That dog – he was some sort of handsome mutt, with snowy white fur that was blanketed on top by large, warm, handsome locks of golden-brown.  He had perky, soft ears with tufts of fur that seemed to be a hybrid between silk and cotton.  And his eyes...a foreign feeling, a shudder of instantaneous delight wracked Seamore's spine as he remembered those bright, sunny-hazel eyes.  Seamore never saw his lack of human companions a bad thing, at least not with that dog by his side.  Whatshisname was the best friend any person could have.

         Uncle Garth, however, saw Seamore's lack of friends, his lack of life for that matter, to be unsettling.  No boy Seamore's age should have been so calm, so stoic and alone.  Where Seamore's mother and father knew little about entertaining children, Uncle Garth had an absolute definition.  And so, after many an argument with Mrs.Whitley, Uncle Garth was granted permission to take Seamore and, to the demands of the young boy, Whathisname to the town fair. 

         A small smirk, an actual hint of happiness ebbed at Seamore's lips for a fleeting second.  Oh how blue the sky seemed that day, how soft the green grass was.  Never before that day at the fair could he recall feeling so invigorated, so full of lust for life and nature and, most of all, laughter.  The air was thick with the crisp, sweet scent of roasted nuts and fresh funnel cake lathered in maple syrup.  Everything and everyone was so busy, Seamore could hardly focus on any one thing for more than a fraction of a second.  People cheerily bustled about him, shuffling and skipping over trampled brown wood chips, children constantly cried “Mommy, look!” or “Papa, let's try that one!”, and around every corner was a new maze of fire breathers, stilt dancers, and clowns.  Best of all, smack in the middle of all this jovial elation stood Uncle Garth, Daryl, Whathisname, and Seamore, whose hand remained loyally attached to the dog's collar.  The two of them ate so much ice cream, they both got sick.

         Engrossed in thought, Seamore barely noticed where his feet were heading in the cold January snow.  Though the winters were never particularly bad, Seamore despised them.  He despised all things cold, for they only made his body – his soul – even more numb.  Nonetheless, his unintentional destination was one outside, leaving him subject to the icy bath of still winter air.  It was then Seamore noticed his breath seemed labored.  He was emitting large puffs of steam like a chimney, almost every half-second. Indeed, his heart was racing and his veins pumping heavy with life as he stood in the open, despite the merciless cold that should have severely hindered such a frenzy. 

         When Seamore looked up from his feet, he immediately understood why.  Before the man was the gated entrance to the town park.  The two, ornate black gates, made of thin iron coils and swirls, framed Seamore, in his long black trench coat and fedora, like a raven before the mouth of a hungry cat.  Past the decorative entrance lay a land of untainted snow, which dipped as it met subtle hills and cobblestone paths.  The trees stood tall and lifeless, much like the gates, and the pond was entirely frozen over.  Slowly, Seamore progressed into the park, knowingly following the paths that were otherwise hidden by winter's dusty leftovers.  But, as the rosy-cheeked man drew further and further into the park, coaxed by some siren of the past, he did not see the icy landscape before him.

         Instead, the eager grass on his either side peeked curiously from its blanket of cherry blossom petals, which bountifully rained down upon the sixteen-year-old Seamore.  Looking down by his right, Seamore saw Whathisname energetically walking beside him.  The dog had aged a bit, but so had Seamore, and neither one of them had lost any zest for it.  As if he could sense Seamore's fond eyes gazing upon him, the dog stopped a moment and looked up at Seamore, his head quirked and his tongue panting happily.  It was almost as if he were saying “you're staring again”.  But, before Seamore could comprehend this, the handsome mutt ran off in jubilation.  They had reached their spot, their favorite place in the park.  Whenever Seamore had a bad day, which seemed to be an alarmingly increasing occasion, the two of them would head over to this spot.  Anxiously, Seamore sat on his implicitly declared bench, the arms coated with a brand new layer of black paint.  This bench, dedicated to a Murray Henderson, was his favorite place in the entire world.  From it, Seamore could watch the occasional passerby jog or bicycle under the shower of cherry blossoms.  These trees lined the three paths like a grand hall, they were royal soldiers before a throne, and he the king.  He could just as easily look behind him and gaze over the park pond, which was more like a small lake, for hours.  As the gentle breeze kissed his nose, it disrupted the water and sent many a brave leaf to trek the harsh springtime sea.  Every now and then, lovers passed by on their paddle boats, and more often, ducks and geese waddled about without giving Seamore a second thought.

         Most of all, though, Seamore could watch as his playful dog, who at times seemed to grow younger with the years, chase the leaves of his favorite willow tree.  For some reason that dog loved willow trees.  He loved to run in and out of the branches, making them sway about for him to enthusiastically catch.  He loved to snap his teeth at tiny falling leaves, and play fetch with the dead branches.  And, when this all tired him out, he loved to sleep under its shady arms and dream of chasing cats and taking walks.  A few year later, Seamore would bury his dog under a willow tree.

         That day, in particular, was special.  Seamore hadn't come to the park because he'd had a bad day, but as a secret rendezvous.  Only a week before, Whatshisname urged Seamore to go for a walk, all afternoon, the dog had been whining and nagging for one.  So, Seamore reluctantly set aside his homework for a few minutes, only to be hastily and persistently urged to the park.  Come to think of it, his dog never seemed so eager for a trip to their spot, before.  Because of the odd change in their routine, though, Seamore encountered a girl from his class by chance.  A few short apologies for his dog's rude chase of her roller blades turned into a few short hours of conversation.  That was the day he got his first kiss.  Seamore never even finished his homework.  But no matter, it was worth it to hear her laugh...

         Seamore shook his head and rose from his bench heavily.  The fresh black paint had long chipped away and been consumed by rust, and the inscription on the back now read “In loving mem ry of Murr y H nderson” followed by a newer inscription of “And his beloved wife, Stephanie”.  To his left stood a tall hill of snow, which he could only guess was a long-deceased willow.  His joints hurt, his back ached, and his toes had been numb for quite some time, but Seamore payed no mind to this. Instead, he hastily followed his footsteps back towards the entrance of the park.  For a long time, he barely acknowledged his large prints in the white ground, dismissing everything around him to thought. It was not until Seamore had almost reached the gates that he truly scrutinized the footsteps he had hastily trampled...as well as the fresh paw prints right next to them.  Jumping in alarm, Seamore felt his heart rush with exhilaration and he stopped in his tracks.  These tracks had not been there when he arrived.  Moreover, they only went one way: in.  As far back as Seamore could see, the prints followed his own, only a foot or so to the right. 



                                                  What was his name...?



                                                      *              *              *



         On his last day, the day before his twentieth anniversary, Seamore got up at five in the morning as usual.  With little more than a glance at his clock or a hint of hesitance, Seamore began his day-to-day.  He calmly took his fifteen-minute shower, as usual, he cleanly shaved his face, as usual, he even put on his favorite blue suit and navy tie, which he had set out for himself the night before, as usual.  Nothing went awry with this crisply scheduled morning routine, Seamore even left at five-thirty on the dot.  Everything was the same as any other day, except when Seamore placed a nicely folded note into his pocket protector and a small handgun in his jacket.

         Once he arrived at the office, the morning seemed to go by excruciatingly slow, even with the extra work he had saved up for this very instance.  Again and again, Seamore tried to focus on the pile of papers to his left, but each word he typed and each key he pressed came out with heavy reluctance. It was a marathon to simply remain focused enough to complete a sentence.  And still – still the time trickled by like fog gradually gathering on a window, only able to progress after hours of condensation. Seamore's thoughts were racing as the seconds agonizingly drew themselves into eons.  His heart pumped blood feverishly through his head, his adrenaline kicking in as the man grew more and more light-headed.  Even his stomach began to boil with nausea – he couldn't take it, the wait was too much.

         Without even considering the notion, Seamore decided to end his pain even sooner than planned.  He abruptly rose from his seat and poked his head out of his cubicle.  By this time, his brow was a canyon to a river of sweat and his breaths the audible fire from an inferno within. 

         “Whitley!” the man suddenly heard his name shouted from a few cubicles down.  Without even looking to the voice, Seamore continued for the bathroom.  No, not now, I am never punching a key again! He thought, even more determined.  With this, his pace doubled.  “Whitley, come here for a sec!” beckoned the voice again.  No! Insisted Seamore, I won't let you take this from me! At this, the man began to run.  “Hey, what's wrong with him?” he heard the voice.  There was no doubt in Seamore's mind now.  He only had a brief window of opportunity, if he did not did it now, he would cripple to his own cowardice. And so, Seamore began to sprint.

         Quickly, the tragically misused soul maneuvered through the maze of cubicles, and even swifter did he kick past the door.  Faster he ran down the marbled hall, the echo of his steps long left behind.  A left down the hall, a right to the conference room, and past the stairwell he darted until salvation was in sight.  Unable to contain himself, Seamore felt hot tears sear down his cheek as he slammed past the men's room door.  The momentum he had built up in his run was too great for even him and Seamore crashed into the tile wall, nose first.  It was a miracle not another soul was around to see him in such a state. 

         For a moment, the weary Seamore whitely cradled his nose, his body seemingly mangled as the world fell upon him.  All that had been ailing Seamore, all the mental anguish that plagued his pathetic soul seemed to manifest itself in the form of a physical sickness.  Weakly, Seamore brought himself to his legs, only to limp to the nearest stall.  Slowly locking the door behind him, Seamore accepted this tiny, disgusting room to be his final worldly prison.  This thought quickly sent the man to his knees, where he then spent a few more minutes vomiting.  Long after he had finished, Mr. Whitley rose to his feet and flushed the toilet, his knees trembling with anticipation.  He then groped at his jacket for his scythe; his hand was trembling so terribly his missed the thing twice.  Once the quaking gun reached Seamore's temple, all seemed to grow still.  His entire body entered a calm, like the eye of a storm that he would never make it out of.  Then, in one stern breath, he cocked the gun.

         As if on cue, the creak of the door made Seamore open his eyes.  This was soon followed by footsteps which assaulted the man's ears like nails against frosted glass.  In dead silence Seamore stood, his back pressed firmly against the cold yellow tile of the wall.  But, the footsteps did not move, neither in nor out they went.  This tormentor, this devil stood as still as he.  The silence seemed so long that Seamore gaged he would probably die from holding his breath before he ever pulled the trigger. Finally, the silence was broken.

         “Seamore,” whispered the voice, “Is that you?”  If he didn't answer, the voice would wonder who was in here and why they did not instantly say 'no'.  If he did answer, Seamore could make the man leave. 

         “Y-yeah,” he finally replied.

         “Okay, cool.  I don't mean to bother you, I was just wondering if you were feeling alright?” the voice inquired.  This alone alarmed Seamore.  The voice was familiar, but never before had his co-workers shown anything like concern for his well-being. 

         “Yeah, I-I'm fine,” he stammered, the gun began to grow heavier in his hand.  “Just some bad coffee,” he added, in attempt to satisfy the man's curiosity.

         “Jeeze, I'm sorry.  Funny you should bring that up, though.  Roy and I were talking about how you helped him out the other day.  We both got to figuring and realized it's like your twentieth anniversary this week,” the voice, ignorant to the turmoil behind the thin wall that separated them, continued to ramble affably.  But, at the mention of his anniversary, Seamore suddenly reminded himself of his objective, grinding the head of the gun painfully into his temple.  His reply was the weakest sort of whisper, as if he were searching for some last strand of hope to cling to.

         “...Yeah?”

         Realizing the impatience in his co-worker's voice, the man let out a small chuckle at the irony and got to the point.  “Well, you probably won't want it now, but I figured I'd get the three of us some coffee to celebrate the occasion.” 

         Seamore almost dropped the gun to his feet.  Had he heard correctly?  “What – uhm...what kind?”

         “Oh – er, well, I didn't know what kind you liked, so I got a hazelnut mix,”  the voice answered, a bit confused by the question.  “It's grandé,” he added after awhile.

         At that, Seamore lowered the gun and let out a small, exasperated sigh.  “I'm feeling better, I think.  I'll be out in a bit.”

         “Glad to hear it, I'll see ya then.”

         “Hey, what was your name again?”

         “Oh, yeah, sorry.  It's Max,” the man offered cheerily on his way out of the bathroom.

         Max, thought Seamore as he unlocked the door.  Suddenly, images of a hazel-eyed mutt chasing willow branches came to Seamore's mind and he smiled.