To Stephanie Mosbrucker: For all her loveliness
“Sighs, short and infrequent were exhaled,
And each man fixed his eyes before his feet.
Flowed up the hill and down King William Street,
To where St. Mary Woolnoth kept the hours.”
The city rose grey into the sky. The dawning morning filled the haze with kisses of the blue sky. Knives of the grey sliced into the haze, but it curled with calm knowledge of its overarching power. It breathed upon and around each city street, nuzzling at the cars that stood in wait for their masters. “Sh, little city, a new day is starting.”
“Crack!” A construction workers unruly wood crashed unto its master on the ground. The owner cursed and kicked the plank in return for its discourteous descent onto his ill-clad foot.
“For all the stupid, silly old rich women, members of the f…” He muttered, cursing the elite. So women lay in houses somewhere with silk and satin, pillows covered in velvet happiness. Curse them all. He would be making these accursed buildings of high price until the end of his days, and ___, he’d be selling them.
Maybe Eunice would smile tonight before bed.
But she wouldn’t. Every evening her father returned home and saw some longing betrayed in his daughter’s eyes, but the kettle called and Lize needed the filter on the washing machine changed, and the lawn needed to be mowed. Regulations went on and on.
And still the city rose.
Eunice may have only been 3, but the early years of kindergarten wore on her child’s heart. They had begun reading Alexander Pope and Darwin in recent weeks, and though her teacher had encouraged them that “They are finally learning what it meant to take their place in society.” Eunice couldn’t help but wish she would be the weakest.
Her father knew this, he felt it every time she came home to him after hours of the same grueling “cultivation” as every other day. He knew her pain, but how could he have compassion on her, how could he pity her, when he could not even save himself?
He moved along with the other plastered-on faces past rows and rows of mirror –fronted skyscrapers. They were the hazy impressions of human conquest and they couldn’t even meet the earth’s glance. Sign after sign announcing tonight’s concert, last night’s gentleman’s meeting, weekly celebrity visits, waved past customers as they, blinded by the task at hand, glided forward.
He heard another plank drop and he started. “What the…” Oh just another building to rise, just another man at work. George Roburns was startled out of his torpor for just a moment.
“Excuse me!” A shy, awkward redhead pushed past him, and he continued on.
The door of Manfred and Sons Real Estate opened automatically at his touch, gliding into a clean spacious arena of tile and glass. A deceptively healthy looking rubber plant was the only decoration, and it served to bring color to the front desk. Mr. Roburns walked mechanically past it, as he did every day.
“Floor 7.” He spoke aloud to the elevator. Well, at least the music had stopped, if he had heard another infernal…Ding!
“Good morning, Mr. Roburns, your coffee is on your desk and, your papers…”
“Thank you, Melissa.”
Her 4-inch heels clicked on the tile as he watched her pass from his desk to her cubicle. Same outfit, every day. I wonder if she changes, he asked himself. It was true, each day Melissa came in flawlessly put-together, the same natural and yet stark shades of make-up, the same snug-fit pencil skirt and white button up shirt.
No time for that now. Mr. Roburns had a stack of paperwork to fill out.
Tick. Tock.
Tick.
Tock.
Time passed and Mr. Roburns filled out pages and pages of leases, and sales, and contracts. The highlight of the day must have been Manfred’s impromptu meeting. He scolded the workers for not earning him more money. That could mean that he might not have Lakers tickets as well as Dolphins tickets this year. Not that he would say that of course. No, the company was in serious danger if the numbers did not go up. Do we value our jobs? Do you value your breath, Mr. Manfred?
And then time continued on. Roburns would have left the office to eat, but the stack on his desk was an inch or so thicker than normal, must have been those sales going down.
The clock struck two as he closed his mouth on the last bite of ham and swiss. And three as his afternoon hunger passed…
Tick
Tock
Tick. Tock.
The metaphorical bell rang as Mr. Roburns penned the very last signature on the very last piece of paperwork. Out folder, full. In folder, empty…well, for now that is. Time to go home anyway.
The sun had already set when Mr. Roburns ventured back out into the world. Shades just barely changed as he walked past the window panes. High above the ground, there was a lonely glass-cleaner. His whistled song sounded like the ballad of a lonely mariner, lost at sea…
A car nearby stopped at the red light.
Where was the glass cleaner? Oh foolishness, must have been hearing things.
He had to walk two whole blocks to reach the parking garage. He slipped back outside in a pristine black Cadillac. Cars passed by, just barely caught his awareness.
For a moment he imagined what it would be like to run into that oncoming semi. But he didn’t steer in that direction. Just keep going. Wife’s probably got dinner going.
The housing was just outside of town. They had been lucky to get the house they did, so close to his job. It was right on the edge of the suburbs. I guess they weren’t called suburbs anymore. What would they be called?
Housing plants. Yes, that’s what they were called. Or if not they should be, that’d be the best description of it.
He yawned stiffly and opened the driver’s side door, pulling his briefcase from the passenger seat. There wasn’t a sound outside. Everyone in the neighborhood must be sleeping.
The door creaked, but no one stirred.
George Roburns mounted the stairs, landed his briefcase in the closet. He was a little grateful no one was awake.
The door to the bathroom closed behind him one more time and he climbed into bed next to his already sleeping wife. She mumbled some sort of salutation as he lay down.
He saved his reply for the morning(it would be inconsiderate to wake her up) turned off the light, and stared up to the ceiling.
His mind slowly passed into memory, a passing shade of playing on the front lawn, and G.I. Joe’s with Tommy.
Well time goes by.
And his eyes closed as he faded into black, and peaceful, sleep.
The End.
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