The Conquering of a Single Day

There was no neurotically charming Woody Allen fantasy in the city. Sure, the misanthropy was there but no quirky landlords yelling about late rent or the platonic female friend with overlooked beauty waiting for him to wake up and realize her. Instead, the broker left a bill in the box every month with instructions on how to get to the website and pay online. $75 every day the rent was late, the sidewalk if it went over one month past due. The friends, well there are plenty of lonely people around these parts so hope isn’t lost all together.

Speeding through a dimly lit tunnel, the train clanked around slight bends. Breaks suddenly hit steal wheels, tossing him forward, swinging his elbow into the back of a blank faced Asian woman. She didn’t notice.

Opening doors induce pushing.

Shoulder to shoulder, angry faces writhed in a single effort to empty the car as quickly as they could and perform a strange, penguin like walk-run to their next destination. They were all going somewhere fast and doing nothing when they got there, He supposed. The young man could not suppress his smile at the sight of the mob. They sped through corridors like malfunctioning robots, legs moving too fast for arms and torsos to keep up with.

It had only been a month since he started working as a Production Assistant on Your World: With Valerie Mayher.

It had taken a day or so for him to realize objective news reporting meant very little when epic ratings where at stake. He kept his head down, mind agog with contradiction. Too intrigued to debate moral dilemmas, which were better saved for non-profits and NGOs, He went with it all whole-heartedly.

When he got to work the sun was still hidden on a low horizon behind the concrete canyons of the city. There were no buildings under ten stories tall, each with a thousand windows, most already lit from within.

He rode the elevator with a fancy looking woman whose head seemed too big for her body, which in all fairness could have been an illusion cast by pounds of makeup. The three large black men, who stared at the young man with eyes betraying smug suspicion, indicated she was probably a celebrity of some sort. He supposed he should have known who she was but he didn’t. The woman and her goons got off on the fourth floor, most likely for more makeup before heading to a dingy greenroom.

Nine hours later, stepping out of the blurred frenzy of a meaningless cable news show, he took a breath.

Late November winds threw chills around each corner, seemingly unprejudiced of avenue or direction. A Young man with wrinkled Khakis, black pinstriped oxford and worn loafers trying hard to fit his idea of the young professional, pushed through the revolving door. His cage of revolving glass spun through the open end of the cylinder with a whoosh. The young man stepped out.

Faced battered by wind, he reached into his pocket and took out a pack of Camel’s, half empty, and worked a lighter as he walked. The light wouldn’t take in the wind despite a masterfully cupped hand. He tucked himself into a corner near a service entrance and thumbed the wheel against flint, the spark mixed with butane and he inhaled. Warm blue smoke mingled with his frosted breath

He went home which was no home at all really. A cot tucked into the corner of a broom closet, closed off from the world by shoddy stucco. He lay tucked in his cot, one leg out of the blanket half frozen the rest of his lean body laced in hot sweat.

He sat staring into a picture frame, which held the face of a young blonde girl he used to know well.

He lay there, moving rarely, thinking deeply about nothing. Minutes went by or maybe it was hours. He tried to remember if he slept when the pale light crept toward the foot of his cot.

With the room still only half lit, he pulled on his khakis, buttoned the last shirt hanging from his makeshift closet and made his way to the downtown train.