It’s a productive waste of time wondering how I got here. My life allows for this useless day dreaming. Today most of my day dreaming is concerned with the present. As a kid—as I suppose is not unusual—my thoughts and dreams were fixed firmly on the future. Little kids are just wasting time waiting to grow up and my childhood was no different. I had spent my share of sleepless nights lying in bed wondering where I would be twenty or thirty years down the road. Twenty-four years down the road I no longer wonder, the answer to all my childhood day dreams are realized in this small desk and hard plastic chair.
Thinking about this bullshit was useless. Sooner or later I was going to get out from under this desk, push my chair back and walk right out those double glass doors. I might even kick them open, I haven’t decided yet. I had seen the scenario play over in my head a thousand times and the kicking part was just something new I was tinkering with. Not long into my very first day dreaming session I promised myself that this position was just a stepping stone, this desk and the tedious hours of day dreaming that came with it were just a minor delay.
In a year or two I would get out from under this desk, push my chair back and walk right out those double glass doors. With this in mind I never even troubled myself to learn the names of anyone I worked with. Why the hell would I bother? They were making only a momentary appearance in my life, and it would make the separation that much easier. Co-workers could pour their entire life stories onto me and I would nod and smile through every boring detail, but even before the conversation had ended their first girlfriend, where they had grown up, even their name had been lost to me. I had developed a sort of artistry in this process of inattention.
Still, thinking about this bullshit was useless. I resort to rummaging through the desk draws hoping a guard from the previous shift was kind or absentminded enough to have left me something to read.
No luck after two draws have been as my dad would say “turned upside down”, but the third draw succeeded in not only rekindling my faith in the phrase “third times the charm” but also in producing a tattered Sports Illustrated. Well, it’s better then nothing.
The magazine turned out to be on a pretty similar par as nothing. Not to deep into the first article sleep emerged as a more tempting option. My eyelids began to droop as the doors swung open and he walked in.
He will every so often waltz into Westville County Jail push open the double glass doors and march right up to my desk like he is on a mission for the good of mankind. He’s got a look plastered to his face that suggests a similar urgency, but every so often you catch a sort of half-smile that hints at some chaste enthusiasm.
The doors have already swung shut again and he’s drying off his soaked rain jacket. This man is as my dad would say, “just as predictable as the seasons”. He’s already strolling up to my desk in that poised march and any second now he’ll look at me, address himself like we’ve never met before and tell me who he’s here to see.
He looks down at me and in his condescending tone says, “Excuse me receptionist. I’m representing the State of Indiana in the litigation of State vs. James Chalmers. I’m here to see the defendant.”
He thinks it’s a riot to poke fun at the fact I work the desk here. I guess I see the humor in it if I were walking around in his shoes and fifteen-hundred dollar suit. This position is only a minor delay, however, and I can’t be positive I wouldn’t do the same if the roles have been reversed so I can’t really take offense.
“Oh, it’s you. Hey Mac, god damn you know I’m a Standing Guard”
He knows I’m a standing guard, based on the new fifteen-hundred dollar suits he waltzes in here wearing I assume he knows how to do his job but sitting at my desk in front of an old Sports Illustrated I wonder what else he knows. For instance, I wonder if he knows anything about friendship, about love, about my dreams of kicking open those double class doors and buying myself a suit like his. Glancing back down at my Sports Illustrated I wonder if he knows that the Marlins won the World series.
Just like my dad used to say: there’s only one way to find out, “Hey Mac, what do you think about them Yanks. They going all the way this year?”
He looks at me with that condescending smile now pouring from his face, “The Florida Marlins won the World Series two weeks ago.”
“They did?” I quickly check the cover of the magazine just to make sure there wasn’t anything printed there that might have given away this big secret. No, it looks like he does have at least a few other interests aside from his job. I wouldn’t be surprised, however, if knowing this years World Series Champs didn’t some how assist this cause. It wouldn’t surprise me, it’s just the kind of man he is. “God damn, you don’t say. Good I’m sick of those bastards buying it every year.” That seems like explanation enough, but my little experiment only really succeeded in making me look like a moron.
He starts talking again but my eyes drift lazily back to the double glass doors behind him. Suddenly I’m hit by the realization that they don’t swing outwards. I’ll have to kick them open.
Portfolio Draft: Makes me wonder
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