Balcony

Balcony

By Chris Schahfer

Another night finds me, once again, perched on this balcony.

I’ve been doing this every night for years, in all kinds of weather. From 7:30 to 7:45, I am inevitably sitting on the balcony outside of my apartment building. Everybody’s got their weird little rituals. Well, this one’s mine. Every day, I design web sites, and every night, I sit out on this balcony.
Yes, I do design web sites. I’m actually fairly good at it, if I do say so myself. You want it flashy or practical? How much on the graphics? Anything on the A/V front? My clients aren’t all that well-known – musicians looking to get their stuff on the ’net, Radiohead-style; college kids who have something to say and want everyone online to know about it; small businesses looking to spread the word on their product – but they pay well. Some of them do, anyway. Sometimes they stiff you. Sometimes they take your existence for granted and don’t consider the fact that this is the only way you can make a living. Sometimes they don’t give me enough time to design what they need. And sometimes I just want to stand up and say, “All right, enough is enough!” In fact, that happens to me every morning. I wake up and tell myself “This is just a temp job.” Then I make myself some breakfast, get some music going, and start my work. It doesn’t take me more than a few days to finish the most basic of web pages, which would mean that I’d have a lot of time to do whatever it is I’d like to do if only I didn’t get so many requests. So yeah, that’s my temp job. I’ve had it for the past seven years.
I was on the balcony again the other day. Sometimes I wonder why I don’t just stay in the apartment at night. Caused quite a stir. A crowd of people gathered on the streets below, and if one of them wasn’t shouting “don’t jump!” and the other wasn’t shouting “go on, then, get it over with,” I need to get my hearing checked. But I ignored them. I wasn’t about to jump. Never had and never will. Then my landlord shouted “What the hell are you doing?” at me from his window, and I, having already had plenty of excitement for one night, replied, “What does it look like I’m doing?” He shut right up after that. I think the question caught him off-guard.
Yeah, maybe someday I’ll finish that novel. I started it so long ago and I’ve changed it so much that I forgot what it was originally supposed to be about, but it gradually morphed into my life’s story, but retold from the perspective of my best friend. It’s not like anything has happened in my life that’s worth immortalizing, it’s more of a personal exercise. You’d be amazed how hard it is to write about your own life, especially from the perspective of another. At least it makes the struggles easier to write about. It’s almost as though they never happened. Now, if my problems were any bigger than that time I almost failed chemistry back in high school, that sentence would’ve been a lot more convincing.
I guess you can say that I’ve always wanted something more than what I have. It’s not like I’m unhappy with where I am now, it’s just… I don’t know. Things could be better for me, that’s all .I keep telling myself that, first chance I get, I’ll pack my bags, say goodbye to the few friends I have, hop in my car, and leave, mouthing a “fuck you!” at the world as I speed away, windows rolled down, defiant music blaring from the car as I go.

Another night finds me, once again, perched on this balcony.