Once the fog in his eyes subsided, he scanned what he called his “library,” a single bookshelf of random books he’d gathered over the years, few of which with broken spines, all unexplored. His eyes shifted back to the blank page in front of him, and he sighed. There was no expectations placed on him by an outside source. There were no deadlines or due dates. There was simply an urge, and urges, as Sheldon had seen, all far too often detrimental. He cringed at this thought, swivelling his seat around to face the window instead of his desk. He watched the wind gather in the trees, the grey clouds dance ever so subtly in the sky, and world outside grow darker.
His thoughts raced, out pacing the clouds. He thought back to his job, to the day he threw his papers in the air and shouted “I quit” to no one in particular. He thought back to the moment he stormed into his boss’ office, claiming to be a writer, claiming to be better than the job and everyone else dumb enough to stay, claiming to be in the right frame of mind to make such a drastic change, claiming to be so financially stable at home to not need to work any longer. His thoughts raced, out pacing his ability to withstand the sadness that began to wash over him.
Like a madman, Sheldon ran through the house, stripping his clothes, tripping down the stairs as his sweatpants roped around his ankles. His cries echoed through the stairwell, and his parents wobbled out of the kitchen to inquire about the chaos, the worn tennis balls on their walkers skidding over the hardwood floor. As he picked himself up from the landing, he ran outside, stark naked. He ran over the weed-covered lawn, picking the broken typewriter up and heaving it a bit further into the yard, chips of glass digging into his hands. Rain was rolling in, more and more falling harder, stronger, inch by inch as he ran over the lawn before finally collapsing beside the typewriter. Naked in the rain, he sprawled his limbs over the wet grass, the dirt beneath turning to mud and smushing under the weight of his body, seeping into folds and natural cracks of the human condition. His mouth agape, his eyes shut, crying, Sheldon lost all will, all sense of control, and laid in the yard as the rain covered him like a veil.
“Sheldon,” a voice called from inside the house. “Sheldon, what in God’s name are you doin’ ou’ thur?”
“Leave me be, Ma!”
“Git yur ass back in this house now! You lost all yur sense, boy, runnin’ ‘round stark-ravin’ mad, butt-ass nekkid. Damn fool. Done lost your damn mind. So blasted--” His father’s croaking drawl fading as he shuffled away from the front door, back into the kitchen to finish his drinking his coffee and reading the same article he had read for three days. His mother shuffled away from the door, fixing herself a spot on the couch, debating whether to call 911, a rehab clinic, or a priest, as she said a quiet prayer to St. Jude.
Sheldon began to sit up, his body struggling to pull away from the mud that clung to his buttocks and back, seeping into the cuts on his hands. After clambering to his feet, he solemnly made his way to the house, trekking mud through the front door, up the stairs, in his office, back out into the hallway, and then between the sheets of his bed where he fell asleep.
“Mr. McGrath!” The voice startled Sheldon’s eyes open, and he jumped in his swivel chair--drool flinging from his lips onto his tie, and his heart racing through his veins. He could feel it pounding in all his limbs. He struggled through the haze and glanced around, trying to discern where he was at the present moment, feeling around to determine where the mud was.
“Mr. McGrath, this is your second warning. If I find you asleep at your desk again, I will forego the written warning and terminate you on the spot. Get back to work. I need the QR-7 report finalized with your name on it on my desk within the hour.”
Sheldon, still rattled, looked around his office. His coworkers giggled until their eyes met his, and then they ducked back behind their cubicle walls to whisper or send chats to one another without him knowing. He shifted his weight in his swivel chair, glanced at the picture of his parents on his desk, still young and vibrant, and then turned his attention to the computer screen in front of him. Through the office-building’s walls he could hear the rumble of thunder and pouring rain against the metal roof as he read the words typed on his screen: “And, then, the very next day,” the cursor still awaiting further instruction from fingers that had long left the keyboard. Sheldon wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and closed the window on his computer, trying to rebuild the facade that he was working and not sleeping on the job. He glanced around to see if anyone was watching, standing up to peer over the cubicle walls, catching giggles and shifting eyes, and then he sat back down and pulled the unfinished window back up to read his words again. I am a writer, he thought. I am. “I am."
This piece is slightly autobiographical. At an old job, I worked as a data entry clerk, and I found myself asleep at my desk on more than one occasion, and I found myself trying, often in vain, to write something creative without a need or prompt to do so other than a rather strong desire and that sense that "I am a writer" shuffling through my veins and waves. I say that this is slightly autobiographical, too, because I brought my dog into my office shortly before writing this, thus prompting me to give the character the name Sheldon. None of this information is necessarily pertinent to the piece, but I did not want to stop writing, so you're getting this giant epilogue.
I gave myself a time-limit of 30 minutes for this piece, but I found that it wasn't quite long enough and gave myself an additional five minutes to complete my story. So, for that reason, I choose the number 35.
Thank you!
Share the Geekdom!
Tony Lovell