Coffee Break 8:17am [justin]
The morning shutters with gray as we step out of our car. There is a faint odor of singed metal. My engine isn't overworking, it just doesn't have enough oil in it. Nothing has blown up yet, so even though I consider checking it, I convince myself that I don't mind.
We nod our heads at Tyr sitting behind the front desk as we trudge in through the glass doorway; it's his day of war so credence must be paid. Pure bread white collars disappear into their dens first, then blue collars pretending they're white, then the collarless whom we all secretly fantasize of being, but would never utter because of the social norm. Tyr, of course, doesn't have a collar because he doesn't wear a shirt, something which gives the older, conservative ladies something to talk about at lunch. They cloak it as subtle disgust all the while simmering their hormones and internally biting their bottom lips; he reminds them of their youth and how they were once themselves desirable.
I haven't done anything yet, but I need a break.
Skipping the coffee, I head to the restroom, closing the door and flipping the light switch. The tungsten light bulbs flicker for a few moments before giving off their greenish hue. Most things in this place are like that. The static things are well kept for the most part - floors, walls, parking lot, desktops, trash cans - but anything with any type of life or energy running through - coffee machine, lights, shredder, employees - are about to short circuit.
The off-white porcelain I sit on is cold, but I don't mind. Feet on the floor, elbows on the knees, I shrug my shoulders stretching my neck. The lower part of my palms support my forehead as my shutters slowly open and close, staring at the tile imprinted with strands of wheat. For the moment this is the land I rule over, albeit in isolation, unmovable on my throne.
I think of how we've been trying to do the same things our old ways even though life has changed and isn't going back. We use to worship a certain way before we were married and thought that way should stay the same afterwards, but that only drained us and enabled us to heap self formed coals of shame on our heads. We survived that, though never finding the new way (or maybe never letting go of the old, I can't tell), but now we have children even though we are still boys. Sacrificing one degree removed to context may be nobly possible, but two degrees is a chasm uncrossable; the next step after mere survival is but death, though maybe that's the point.
The thoughts relax everything except my brow and I continue my excretion. The odor is acidic and repulsive, but I don't mind. It's comforting in fact, if for no other reason, because it's mine. The toilet tissue is laced with bee's and a flowered pattern. As I start to clean up I hear footsteps on the hardwood floor outside the door and my eyes go directly to the knob. I can't remember if I locked it. Frozen and vulnerable, the doorknob starts to turn and in between the green of the bathroom lights and the yellow of the hall way steps in a giant fly. He is wearing brown loafers and a tie, twitching with all his eyes looking at me in disgust, as if I am some type of lower life form. I can't breathe, I can't even smell my dung. The fly's hair magnified to human size looks sharp and the dark needles threaten to puncture me.
Now twitching in disbelief I wake myself up hot and sweaty in my own bed, letting out a yelped though not waking my wife next to me nor my daughter a room over. Being exposed frightened me... even moreso than the monster that was disturbed by me. Swallowing for what feels like the first time in an hour, the saliva is like liquor over my broken throat and I realize the reality that has come upon me. While Tyr was missing one hand, I was missing both my arms. In my stupor I couldn't remember if I even ever had arms at all. I lie there floundering on my back, weeping because I am complete in Christ and incomplete in myself, not wanting another's arms to compensate for my handicap, much less need someone else to clean up my refuse which I am, by all means, unable to do at this juncture.
...continue reading...
