The Plan
The begining of a short story loosley based on my life thus far...
It’s Wednesday morning, some day in April, at least I think its Wednesday. Sitting on the edge of my bed intently itching my entire body, the old queens springs moan with even the slightest movement. I etch dry trails of dead skin over my thighs, arms and chest, staring at the oversized shirts hanging in my particle board wardrobe. No I'm not thinking about what I'm going to wear today, I already decided that before I went to bed, no I'm thinking about the dream I just woke up from…
[I] My arms bound to my chest with hay twine, my head is missing at the top of my shoulders. My limp body is floating as if lying with my back arched. Streams of blood are dripping from my pores into the empty darkness…[/I]
Perched like a mechanical rooster atop the second hand bed table, my alarm squeals, the noise unable to shake my current train of thought. A solid 2 minutes passes before I slowly quiet the noise, like snuffing out a candle while enjoying the burning sensation of the flame. I quietly say to myself “I fucking need to quit reading Palahniuk before bed.”
Every mornings Checklist: Shit, Shower and Shave.
The image of pealing a human eye like a fresh onion jars me awake, almost slipping off of the cold toilet seat. Don’t tell me you’ve never fallen asleep on the throne; let your mind wander to the day in front of you. The bathroom is an interesting place, who knows what most people do in there; sipping the rot gut from your flask, sniffing a finger nail of coke, throwing up your low-carb lunch, masturbating to the office secretary. So many people dash into the water closet just to sit down for a second; so many people use the bathroom to escape their kids, their boss, their nagging spouse, their life even for 20 minutes.
Myself, I fall asleep in the bathroom. I have a problem staying awake because of what they call Sleep Apnea. When your sleeping with this condition your body relaxes, your throat constricts the air to your lungs, and you begin to suffocate, your body tries to give you the easy way out because even it realizes how pathetic your life is. You might have sleep apnea because you were part of the rare few who didn’t have their tonsils removed as a child. Maybe you were lucky enough to get grandpas twisted maw, an overbite that squeezes the area oxygen travels. You might have sleep apnea because you weight 300 pounds more that you should, the fat crushing your throat when you lay down. Mark me down for all 3, a genetic care package shipped in 9 months. So now you have one of these attributes, and every night, every 3 minutes you are suffocating, your subconscious awaking you just enough that you don’t die, but not enough for you to actually remember doing so. An evening of near death experiences, un-experienced, never having that “born again” break through.
You don’t even have to ask your doctor about it, he already knows that you’re suffering from lack of energy, falling asleep driving, drifting into dreams while having conversations with uninteresting co-workers. He knows you fall asleep on the toilet, in company meetings and on dates with women out of your league. Of course he sends you to a specialist to get a monetary push back, to have a hundred wires connected to your body. After you’re wired up like a human Christmas tree, after they tell you they will be video taping your every movement, they tell you to fall asleep like you normally would. “I’m too wired to sleep” has a whole new meaning. God forbid you have to use the bathroom, or even worse, get a video recorded, wire monitored erection.
After they tell you what you already knew you’re given a breathing mask, a customized apparatus that gently forces oxygen down your through, nothing like getting orally raped by the force of life. I’ll tell you now that you can’t fall asleep with a mass of plastic strapped to your face, looking like how Darth Vader might in his Imperial Pajamas. So you continue to fall asleep sitting in your cube, nodding off at the local coffee shop, lifting and raising your head like you have nerve damage, you snore, alone, sitting in front of your home computer, the moans of a pirated porno leaking out from under the cushioned headphones.
[I]I imagine myself walking into the bathroom, closing the door behind me; on the door I tape a closed for spiritual cleaning sign. From my pocket I produce a handful of black Sharpies and a straight razor. On the walls I write all the things I ever wanted to say about everyone, everything I wanted to say to everyone. I clog the drains of the twin sinks with paper towels, and I sit on the counter top, my legs droop off the edge with my back to the mirror. I slit each of my wrists from palm to elbow and place my hands into the sinks so that they may fill with my angry life giving liquid. On the edge of the red pools, floating, are pictures of beautiful people smiling about all things trivial.[/I]
I must have fallen asleep on the toilet at work again, day dreaming elaborate ways to off myself. A drama of suicide, the tale of a young life cut short. Most people’s problems with life are insignificant, trivial, and unimportant to everyone. Until that person decides to make everyone aware of their problems with a dramatic scene of violence. Maybe we all need someone to just listen before we decide to paint our end with brain matter grey. Understand what we say, not just hear us talk, before we become a bloody paper weight on mother’s white carpet.
I sigh before standing up and putting my pants back on, still Wednesday, not even lunch time yet. I wait for the person washing his hands to leave the bathroom, and hope I don’t run into someone else. You first get bored, then annoyed by the attempted conversation at the sink. As if I care to stand there and listen to Charles from sales wax excited about the new first baseman for the cities baseball team. At first I would try to explain that yes I'm male, yes I have a penis, no I don’t like sports. Yep that dumbfounded look, that’s the one. So now I just act as if I know what they are talking about, nod expectantly and repeat things the last guy told me in my previous trip to the restroom.
As much as I hate my job, the sad fact is it’s the only place in my life where people like me. People here need me, they know me. When shit hits the fan they come running to me. Outside of these walls all people see are an overweight man, so I must be useless, a burden to society.
Then there is Eve. She started here about three years ago, and for 3 years I can’t stop thinking about her. After years of events she now sits in the cube next to mine. Unless I'm not looking at my computer she is always in my peripheral vision. A vision of what I call perfect. Of course then she is above me. Out of my league, Hell I'm so deeply infatuated with her that I know she deservers better than me. Maybe I can change that though, you just need a plan they say.
