Into Sinister

On the molded and shaped bent walnut end table beside my bed sits a sleek black alarm clock shaped like a lozenge. It rings today at eight thirty. Eight thirty no hyphen, because hyphens are "bastardized English", thank you Mr. Hellinquist, my fourth grade teacher who did not know or care that my friend was a bastard, is a bastard, you are a bastard for life. I walk into the bathroom and brush my teeth while staring into the mirror. My hair is raked back from my forehead and I yawn while brushing. I decided that keeping my mouth closed is a better idea. My mirror is spotless and my cleaning lady deserves a raise but will not get one. I step into the shower and turn the knob all the way towards hot, and then back a bit towards cold until the shower is just hot enough to steam up the room and just cold enough to not burn my skin. I wash with a soap bought for its content of dead sea mud and then shampoo but no conditioner because today is a work day, today is one of the days when I go to work and work on my work.

Socks on, then underwear, then shirt, then pants, then belt, then shoes, then jacket. No tie today. It has been frowned upon before but I don't like ties. There is too much of a relationship between ties and nooses, slender silken cords that can still break a neck and dislodge the friendship that spines must feel for themselves. It is like a love in, but one that keeps you alive instead of slowly draining your life away. Drugs can't substitute for brains, even though we keep testing the waters.

I check my bag and I am panicking because I cannot locate my vitamins. Every day should start with the proper intake of vitamins B and A. B makes you relaxed and also increases your propensity for concentration. A is good for your skin and eyes, and any good businessman needs good skin and eyes. I locate the vitamins in a my disjecta drawer and pop one, holding my breath as I do so. Vitamins taste like shit but you can't disregard how much they help, you just can't.

I take the elevator down and I press the button for the parking garage with only the barest fraction of the tip of my finger. I dislike the thought of touching something that a child has touched, with their hands covered in the kind of shit that children play with. Environments should be sterile, like the feeling in the elevator. The walls are polished to a mirror sheen and when I look around I can only see myself and that seems right to me. The doors open on a different floor and a woman walks on wearing what appears to be a workout outfit and the illusion disappears. Suddenly there are hundreds of her in the mirrors and I look down at the marble floor of the elevator until we reach the second floor. There is a round of courteous sayings and I walk out and into the humid heat of the parking garage.

My car is parked perfectly parallel alliteration always alienates. I slide into the driver's seat and check my mirrors, adjusting the rearview a bit. I place my bag in the passenger seat and buckle it in - I once had it slide onto the floor and felt terrible about it for the rest of the day. Responsibility does not end when the things in your care are not alive. It is present and measureable. I start the car and for a moment the hum of the engine is soothing and I lay my head on the steering wheel, cold leather against my forehead, until I put the car in drive and head out into the world. I am a child leaving the womb. Let us mark our broken tomb.

-Rich
someone wrote a song about Jessie