“They called him Alexander the Great,” I told them, “because he did something amazing - he conquered most of the known world.”
“Yeah, and he died when he was, like, thirty.” My friend Trey is sucking down a Guinness. He’s possibly the most laid-back person I’ve ever met, and also quite possibly the best friend I’ve ever had.
“And history remembers him,” I reply. I take a sip of scotch and lean forward. And there it is, me leaning forward, Trey leaning back. I can’t really say much more: we’re microcosms of our personalities.
The conversation turns on its heel, quickly. We’re quoting some movie Jess thinks is the best thing ever put to film, but I’m not really thinking about what they’re laughing about. I’m thinking about running, running faster, running further, pushing myself until it hurts. I do it, sometimes, just to prove that I can. Others, I hate myself for feeling too lazy to hit the pavement.

I wake up early the next day, put on my suit and go to work. Traffic is horrible, worse than usual. Some idiot’s car is stuck in the left lane, engine smoking. He’s standing there looking at it, on his cell phone, laughing into its tiny microphone. He’s an idiot, clearly; nobody else is giggling over his shitty car.
When I get to the office, my case load seems to have reproduced during the night, spawning little stacks of paper. I boot up the computer, check my watch. It’s seven AM. I should have been here a half hour ago.
Truth be told, I don’t really mind the piled sheets in front of me: I like working hard. I feel like someone with an axe, splitting wood until my bicepts ache from the strain of it, but the sheen of sweat on my forehead is proof that I’ve done something. I attack my first case of the morning like it’s breakfast. I rarely eat breakfast.

Noon rolls around in what seems like a blink of an eye; I’ve covered three quarters of my cases. I feel like a runner again, pushing myself. In the frenzied moment dodging between pen and keyboard I’m perfect. I lift a foot from the pavement and pound another one down. I leave ink on pages like dust and footprints.

My boss calls me into her office just before I go off to get something to eat; I’d like to refuse, but I can live without food for a few more minutes. She talks for a half hour about getting me an assistant, how I could improve my department, how we should download my work onto other people. I feel important. The plan isn’t a good one: sometimes it drives me insane to watch other people fumble over work like words they can’t quite pronounce. Watching, I pronounce them in my head. I am perfect here, alive, the sheen of sweat on my forehead proof that I’ve gotten somewhere.

I take lunch, stopping to buy a coke and a sandwich. Strange how it doesn’t really matter what I eat: eating is an means to an end for me. It’s fuel, something to burn. I barely taste the rye. I guzzle the coke, waiting for the buzz. Relaxing there, I’m not relaxed as much as in neutral, waiting to rev up again, waiting to hit the pedals. It hits me there.

Where am I, really? I went to school for this, came out top of my class, determined to win the awards. The dean gave me a piece of paper that told me I was on his honor list, and in that moment all the sweat and blood felt worth it. Money can’t buy those sorts of things. Hard work, and only hard work can. I got a good job - not the best job in the world, but a good one nonetheless, a place I can shine, stand above the crowd.

But here I am, an insurance cleark: I remember aiming to be an adjuster. Do it? Sure, I could. It would take some study, a few years maybe, but I could do it and become an amazing adjuster. Helping people, juggling the figures, making things work. I’ll probably still do it after I’ve saved up enough money to pay for the schooling upfront. It would be better, wouldn’t it? Somewhere I could shine, stand above the crowd.

I get back to work. I wash the thought out of my head. The here is here and the now is now, and I hover around them like an electron, buzzing, placeless. By the end of the day - by the end of my day - I’ve gotten rid of my entire caseload. My department is the only one current, thanks to me. I reach into my drawer, lift my keys from their slot. They jangle against eachother as I leave the office, open the door and escape its squareness into the great outdoors. Sunshine on my face, and soon the heat of my car. I flip the air conditioning on as I coast down the highway toward home.

I undo both locks and step into my house, car safely in the garage. Flipping on the lights, I notice the walls again. Glad I painted them that shade of burnished red. They’re comfortable, usual, always there. I pour myself a scotch, throw some ice into the liquid. It plunks against the bottom of the glass.

Outside, Jeremy is sitting on his porch, smoking a cigarette, grinning about something. He’s a garbage collector, although I suppose he’d call himself a waste disposal technicial, probably laughing at the irony of such a long title for such a simple job. His imaginary jocularity is catching. I grin with him - or maybe at him. His wife brings him a beer and sits down beside him. She’s reading her Bible. Jeremy puts out his cigarette, notices me, and waves. I wave back.

I notice my sister’s note on the table. “Going out with Steve… be back at ten.” It’s her messy scrawl. The irony of siblings is how different they can be. While I read books racecar style, she doesn’t like books much. I suspect she can’t read that well, although she’ll never admit it. She certainly can’t write; my writing is precise, neat, ordered. It’s a point of pride for me.

Television. I flip it on, the news at seven flickering across the screen. A train has derailed close to Vaughn. I imagine being assigned to that case. Dealing with newly-minted widows who can still see green through a haze of crocidile tears. But then, I’m somewhat jaded about people.

I can’t sit there long. Run. I’ve got to run. I’m sitting on the porch, slipping on my shoes when I glance down at my finger. A ring glints there, but I ignore it long enough to finish the laces and tie them neatly.

I get back, the sheen of sweat on my forehead proof that I’ve pushed a limit. Ready for bed.

The phone rings, and I pick it up. Trey. “Wanna come over and watch the game?” he asks. His house is five minute from mine. I had forgotten the football game was on.
“I’m a bit tired,” I say, looking at my watch. “How about this weekend?”
“Sure thing, man,” he tells me. “Besides, Laura wants me to paint the kitchen anyways.”
I laugh. “You want me over just to watch the game, eh?”
“Yeah,” Trey tells me, and I can hear a grin in his voice. “Definitely wouldn’t want to put off painting for another day.”

I lie in bed for a while, unable to sleep, until the moon breaks through the few clouds overhead. A soft reflection of light off my finger. The ring again. Should take it off. Never do.

I dream of being in love, that night. I wake up, sweat on my forehead. Stumbling to the mirror, I shave, half-blind still. It’s six, but I push myself awake: I am getting somewhere, doing something, filling the time with more than trivialities. I am no longer trapped. I am no longer frightened. I’m going somewhere.

The door slams behind me, and I realize I’ve forgotten breakfast again. The ring on my finger catches one of my keys as I reach into my pocket. The ring’s too big for my finger, now. I should really take it off.

I never do.

Tags: fiction