Winds of change - Chatper 1

I looked at the cracked and dulled concrete as I passed. I was so sick of the hobos, their seemingly innate ability to congregate right onto my path. Every morning was the same. I awoke, stumbled my still-sleepy-ass to the shower, fumbled with the knobs for a while, and eventually summoned the energy to dry myself off and get dressed. I made my way from the bathroom, down my hall, and into my kitchen, all the while ignoring the loose floor boards, chipped paint, and faint old-people-meet-Addidas smell. Breakfast was a thing of the past, so no worrying about that. I scrambled around for the jar of coffee, noticing just how low my lifeline was. I set the coffee pot to strong, and sat down at the table, picking my way through a newspaper that didn’t interest me in the slightest. I would then make my way from my house, for lack of a better word, to my office building, situated 3 measly blocks away, all the while toting my coffee thermos, and grappling with my inner-desire to reach and beat the hell out of a hobo. I mean really, how do you think sitting on a corner begging for change so that you can go and buy a bottle of booze is going to help your life? Why not try and get a job? McDonalds’ will hire anyone. The sheer monotony of my life was almost to an infuriating point. I began to rub my temples in the hope that I would curb a headache before it began.

Walking up the twin spiral staircase, marked with the wear and tear of time, up two floors, usually left me out of breath. I’m not an out of shape guy, more like, it’s early, there are a lot of people around, and I don’t like dawdling where I need not be, so I move at a quicker pace than necessary. I made my way past the endless rows of cubicles, pausing slightly here and there to return a hello, or to move a mail trolley out of my way. I am, by trade, a columnist for the local paper, “Marlington Mirror” based in the Eastern reaches of Kansas. I’ve always wanted something…more though, as if writing my weekly column wasn’t exactly enough to make me feel complete. I think a lot of people feel like this about their job, but it’s just something that I had not grown used to yet. I finally reached my little cubicle, my own personnel flavor of hell. I glanced around, making sure that nothing seemed amiss, the Mexican cleaning crews had a habit of stealing things from desks, and I always thought it never hurt to be to careful. Sitting down, I made a balancing act out of my coffee thermos and my ratty suitcase. I shuffled my papers around, digging through the endless sea of old memos, work orders, brainstorming sheets, outlines, until I found what I was looking for. I began to flip through my green, spiral bound note-book, trying to remember what it was exactly that I was supposed to be writing about. As I began to near my mark, I heard the nearest elevator door open with a resounding cling of the bell, and a sudden and audible flow of curses. Ah. My floor manager had decided to come into work a bit early this morning. Great. I sat down my notebook, and returned my hand to my temple. This could only end one way, and I would be downing about four aspirins immediately afterward.

“Martin! Where is that column, I wanted it done 2 hours ago!”. It did not good arguing with him. It was currently 6:45 A.M., and this man wanted that article done at what? 4:45 A.M.? Good joke. I’m not even supposed to be here until 7 A.M. anyway.

“I’ll get it to you immediately sir,” I said. He continued to badger me, but as always, I just shut him out, nodded in the appropriate places, and added several words of agreement at my lack of attention and work ethic. Christ, it’s amazing that I’ve lasted this long.

Time seems to warp in this hellhole, I mean, god, I’ve been watching that clock for what seems like several days now, and it’s only been what? Minutes? This was going to prove to be another long day. I pressed the switch on my ancient computer, smirking as the computer rumbled to life. One of these times, this thing is going to just launch off into space. I waited for what seemed like an age for the prompt to pop-up, asking for my name and password. I will tell you, I find my login name quite funny. My first name is Steve, and my last name Martin, making my login name, Smartin. Funny, right?

I leaned back in my chair, always startled by the loud creaking, and began to brainstorm. My column was always an opinion piece, and this week it just so happened to be over a series of bonds that were up for vote this upcoming week. Bonds that would obviously fail, I mean, this town has maybe 20,000 people, and the city’s engineer department wanted to add a light-rail. To what purpose, I have no idea. As my word editor popped up on screen, I began to type, all to simply my outlook on this light-rail.

With my piece completed, I began to relax. Luckily, a headache had not made it’s presence known, and I had made it through most of my work unscathed. I quickly emailed it to my floor manager, and prepared to leave the office. As I gathered my things, I looked up. Against the elevator stood a woman, dressed in what seemed to be all leather. Very odd, I thought. If she worked here, I had never seen her before, and that outfit was definitely hard to miss. I grabbed my now-empty thermos and briefcase, and began to make my way out of this place. As I stood, her eyes followed me. Ok, so I was a little apprehensive now, this odd woman was staring at me. As I went to make eye contact with her, she looked away. In hind-sight, it would have made more sense to address this woman, but for some reason, she made my hair stand on end. I decided that it would be just fine for me to take the stairs. Her eyes followed me the entire way.