Heat

Walter Michaelson has migraines, a broken A/C, insomnia, and self-discovery that awaits.

         I really hate the sun. I know that it's good for you and all of that, but it's something I'd want to live without. I hate the sun the way some people hate the taste of water. I walked up to my usual bus stop, but this time, it was different. I don't know how destruction of this magnitude is possible, but on that day, I saw the bus stop's awning collapsed in on itself. It left just enough room for about 3 people to sit on the bench, and the majority of those 3 people would be directly exposed to the sun.
         I contemplated abandoning my job and pencil diving out of the window of my 16th-floor apartment. The only thing stopping me today was the fact that walking would make my throbbing migraine more of a throbbing migraine. I sat right there and let the sun happily invade my personal space. I was as happy as a person with a stabbing migraine waiting for a shit-scented bus at 6:50 in the morning could be. I let it all go. But I guess being happy wasn't in the cards for me. Those cards instead belonged to Sam Jackson. No, not Samuel L., but Sam G. Jackson, the torture artist.
         I saw a man walking to my bench. My bench. He had short, bright-red, curly hair and a pretty wide gap in his two front teeth. He shamelessly wore a bow tie that matched his hair. The bow tie fit tightly around his neck, though it was my opinion that it wasn't tight enough. I think what really bothered me was when I looked down and saw my tie that did the bare minimum job of a necktie. He also wore this tweed brown suit that just vaguely pissed me off. The collapsed awning reminded me that there was a non-zero chance this guy would ruin my day and sit right beside me. He looked the type: the people that hold eye contact for just too long, overextend their welcome at a dinner, and sit right by someone on a bench.
         "Sam Jackson," he said with an outstretched hand and a smile. I nodded along, not responding. I need to doomsday prep before interacting with a stranger at a bus stop, and the combination of a migraine and a sum total of 3 hours of sleep is not the combination conducive to conversation. He retracted his hand, but not his smile.
         "I make shoes."
         I couldn't make out what he said. Not only were my lips, hands, and feet numb from my paradoxical battle of insomnia and narcolepsy, but my processing was numb.
         "What?" I slowly blinked while turning my head toward him.
         "I make shoes, and then I sell them."
         "Joel Shumacher." I giggled like a stoner and closed my eyes. If I had had more sleep, I would have been embarrassed by my making that joke. My head dipped back, and I began snoring. My relief didn't last long as a concerned Sam tapped me on the shoulder when the bus arrived.
         Sandover Incorporated: a concrete hell where dreams are replaced with reality. Only the regional managers were allowed to have windows. I was a billing coordinator, and my job was all I knew. If you asked me what Sandover did, I would respond by googling it. But no one ever asked because everyone I knew worked at Sandover, well, except for Sam.
         Unlike my fellow cogs, I didn't mind the whole windowless concrete prison vibe. The cold concrete was a nice contrast to my apartment, where I currently had no air conditioning. I was also in witness protection from the sun so my migraines could get off my back a little. One guy did threaten to bring them back, however. Both the biggest loser and piece of shit on the planet, and my best friend, Scott Fang. He worked right in front of me, with only a small cubicle wall between us. He was tapping on that wall, knowing it would piss me off.
         "Hey asshole, are you going to Jameson's tonight? I might be showing off my shadow puppet skills." Scott Fang: one of 5 adults who practice shadow puppets as a hobby. He started contorting his hand into various shapes, and I had to put a stop to him before someone else saw.
         "One, no. Two, please stop doing whatever this is that you're doing. You look like you're throwing gang signs one minute, and the next, it's something vaguely sexual.
         "How's this for a shadow puppet, then?" He shoves his middle finger in my face, and we both giggle.
         The phone rang. It was Dan Whittaker, the finance manager. If I believed in God, I would say God's inspiration in creating Dan was from watching a derivative 90s movie about a businessman who needed to spend more time with his kids. Dan was self-obsessed, perfect, and had that Bluetooth earpiece that absentee fathers in 90s movies use to conduct business while they are at their son's baseball game.
         "Hey, it's Dan." His voice sounded a lot more raspy than usual.
         "I have this invoice you did, and there are some problems we need to go over."
         I made an ass out of myself by assuming he wanted an in-person meeting in his office. As I hung up the phone, I heard him pleading with him.
         "Wait, wait, wait."          
         It was too late by then. I went into autopilot mode and hung up the phone.
         I was expecting an empty glass cup on his desk, one with marginal leftovers of his daily kale smoothie. I was expecting that perfectly shaped, parted hair and perfectly groomed beard. I was expecting his Bluetooth earpiece that lived right above that sharp jawline. The only thing I got right was the jawline. Dan had gray pouches under his eyes, a band of empty beer bottles still sweating, and the light off. My autopilot instincts took over once again, and I turned the light on in the same motion of opening the door.
         "Jesus Christ," he said to himself as he blocked the light from reaching his eyes. I folded like laundry and began passionately apologizing, but apologies always pissed Dan off more. I tried leaving and turning the light off, but he stopped me.
         "Just shut up, turn off the light, and come in here." He didn't look at me, just waved his hands around as he laid his head on his desk. I didn't know if I was allowed to sit. He always said those chairs were reserved for the people who would tell him he was getting a promotion and would no longer have to work with the foot soldiers.
         "Like I was going to tell you over the phone." his head remained buried in his arms and desk.
         "You put the comma in the wrong place on this invoice, and you overcharged the Ruddick Emporium account, and you need to fix that yesterday before I have to deal with the people at Ruddick."
         His delivery was cold and uncaring. It wasn't uncaring in the sense that he didn't care about who he was talking to; he never did in the first place. This time, he didn't even care about what he was saying. Dan always cared. I tried apologizing, explaining that my faux pas was likely due to my insomnia. Dan interrupted that apology.
         "I don't care," he said, presenting his palm to my face.
         "Just leave."
         I got back to my desk. My face felt warm, and I am sure that if I had looked in a mirror, I would have been red. Scott kept tapping on our shared cubicle.
         "Dude, what happened in there?" I ignored him.
         We had this pencil that we lobbed back and forth at each other whenever we needed to get the other's attention. When I felt the pencil hit the back of my hand, I snapped it in half and walked over to the trashcan. Before I dropped it in the can, I made eye contact with Scott.
         I got back to my desk and continued working on the invoice and internally drafting my apology email. Scott was weirdly sentimental, so I knew breaking that pencil would not sit well with him. But he also had no other friends, so he still tried talking to me.
         "Boss must have got you pretty good. I'm starting to think the rumors are true."
         I couldn't fight my curiosity. I didn't want to talk to anyone, but I wanted to know why looking at Dan was like looking in a mirror.
         "What are the rumors?"
         He used his signature move of popping his eyes above the wall.
         "Are you going to stop being as dick?"
         I rolled my eyes and gave a half-hearted promise.
         "Well, I wasn't really listening. Blah blah blah, fighting with his wife, blah blah blah, shitty apartment with no A/C."



         
         The bus ride home is usually my moment; no work, no apartment I had to share with cockroaches, and no one I knew watching me, forcing me into a personality. Dan fucked that up. Dan was waiting with me at the bus stop. Mine was the shitty apartment with no A/C. Thankfully, we were both filled with dread and vague existential crises, so he didn't feel the need to talk to me.
         That little prick was back. Sam Jackson. He sat right beside me again. He smiled like he had never worked a day in his life. He was so excited to see me, but I was looking forward to staring at my boss and hating him.
         "It's great to see you again," he said as he patted my back.
         Dan saw the interaction and snickered.
         "Do you have any acetaminophen or any pain reliever or anything?" I rubbed the bridge of my nose, waiting for his response.
         "No, sorry. You know that stuff can really mess up your body. I don't like medicine like that, I try to be natural. What's wrong?" He put his fucking hand on my fucking shoulder.
         "You make my migraines worse." I looked him in the eyes.
         "I'm sorry," he said as he slowly retracted his hand. It felt good. I wanted more.
         "Can you just walk in front of a bus, please?" With each word, it felt like a shot of tequila; painful at first, but then came the numbing euphoria. He was more confused than hurt at first, but then I kept going.
         "Like while it's moving, I mean. It would make me a lot happier." He tried apologizing, explaining that his inconsiderate chatter was from being new and wanting to make friends. I interrupted that apology.
         "I don't care," I said, presenting my palm to his face.
         "Life is already difficult enough without people like you forcing us to pretend like we give a shit." At this point, I stopped surveying his face for a reaction. It wasn't about him anymore. I wanted my boss to see that I wasn't a meek foot soldier. I thought he would respect me. After telling Sam to fuck off to another seat, the bus ride was paradise, but my boss still paid me no attention.
         The elevators in my apartment building are slow. If you didn't catch one before it closed, you were usually waiting, trying not to make awkward eye contact with the doorman. I ran as fast as a man could with an over-the-shoulder bag stabbing into his blades. I yelled for the boss to keep the door open long enough for me to seek its shelter. He just smiled.
         "Have a nice night." The doors closed.
          The next morning, that tequila drunk became a tequila hangover. It was one of those hangovers where you say things you regret and don't feel like you did anything with your life. I didn't win with Sam. Yes, he refrained from talking to me this time, but it didn't feel like a win. The bus stop was embarrassingly silent. His bow tie was exchanged for a half-assed buttoned white dress shirt. His bottom eyelids had become dark like the eyelids of my boss, like mine. He gave his attention completely to the sidewalk, and that smile wasn't there. I still have a headache, and my A/C still isn't working.