Getting Into the Swing of Things

"Hey, bub, it's time to get out," he said to me with a somber expression on his pale, aged face.

"No," I said grinning. "It's fine." I wanted to stay on that floor forever, entirely wasted, and not giving a damn. "I mean, who's here?"

"Exactly." Then he pointed to the door and said, "Bryan, you do this on an almost weekly basis. Get up and leave, man."

"Fine, fine, whatever." So I got up and for some reason, the blue, red, and purple lights of the pub were altogether too bright, like stars. Oh wait, he had turned on the lights of the place and they were the things blinding me. I let out a small disgusted sound. I loved this bar but the woodwork looked dusty and old and there were no people there. Not my type of thing.

"Bye, Welche. See you... tomorrow." I drunkenly snapped my fingers, pointed, and made a jerky, quick movement at him and he shook his head in disapproval, while wiping a glass with a white cloth.

I pushed open the door and I was made sober by the brutal cold wind. I went to my white BMW outside in the parking lot, stumbling a little, and then I drove home. God, I always missed my apartment after a long day. I had had a bit of a tough day at the firm. I started to reminisce. I retold the event as if I was talking to someone, or presenting a speech, which is what I did occasionally.

"I had walked past my boss on the way to my office. Now, this was in that large building downtown, you know, called Northern Trust. The business firm? Anyway, I walked past him and he said something to me. Now, keep in mind, he doesn't really like me on account of a little error or two I made a couple days prior. He told me strictly to not be late. I had only come a couple minutes late but the boss is a stickler about attendance. Tanned, grey and bushy mustache, and stern, cold, dead eyes, he doesn't play. Anyway, I tried to play it off casual but I knew that I was failing. Some of the other guys at the firm were looking and giving that face, you know, that Oh-I-can't-believe-that's-happening-to-him-or-he-said-that face. He threatened to lower my paycheck, which I didn't like, but I took the criticism and went to my office.

"Once I got to my office, I closed the door, sat in my desk chair, kicked my feet up on the desk, and looked out the window. I had my hands behind my head, locked together, comfortable. While I was there, comfortably lounging and trying to ignore what had happened, I wondered if I should leave Chicago, leave Northern Trust. It's good there and I like it to some extent, but I wondered if there's something better, something bigger. Where I can be treated as and be seen as King."

I let out a laugh and said in a fake, announcer-like tone, "That, ladies and gentlemen, is why I have decided to run for President of the United States." I was joking because I know that a person, at least I, don't want to be serious ALL the time.

As I was telling my little tale to the open air, I had made significant progress towards my apartment. I finally pulled up in the driveway, got out of my car, and climbed up the steps to my flat on the second floor. My apartment was in a relatively good area: mid-to-far downtown Chicago. Located on a busy street, I heard people talking all the time. I enjoyed hearing the sounds of life but sometimes I wished it would all stop.

I opened the door to my flat, and I, as many times before, emerged into a room lit by pale sunlight, almost white, bleak, and dreary. Almost artificial. Everytime I came here, I felt happy. Or at least pleased. Content. For once, I could escape the world and the danger, and leave people instead of people leaving me, leave the tiring life and embrace comfortable death. As poetic as that sounds. If I got sad sometimes, I could come here. If I got bad sometimes, I could come here. This place had always reminded me of me, and was my opportunity for fun, to be myself, and to leave selfish people who only care about themselves.