Shoes On A Wire

Grant - Broken in every sense of the word

The blare of my alarm clock startled me awake. I hit my head on the bed post and sighed loudly.
Splendid way to start the morning.
Coffee, I need coffee.

I sat up groaned so loudly a pornstar would be jealous.

I hate playing pool but my coworker Theo insists that we should do it since it's a gentle men's game. I just think leaning over a table that far is going to pull all of my muscles, the ones that aren't permanently injured anyway. Cursing Theo for his late night charades I got up trudged across my tiny pitiful apartment.

I had just been reassigned to a new office in Chicago, previously I was working for the FBI in NYC, my home. They were so irritating but they pay me so can I complain? Not really.

Being a private investigator I usually only had few cases to work on but recently I'd been contacted a lot by the FBI. But that was only because of my recent involvements with the mafia. I shuddered thinking about how they'd put me in the hospital for a month. One of the Chicago superiors actually requested me so here I am in this dinky apartment for the next 6 months or more.

It was worse than my college years in manhattan where I shared a 2 bedroom apartment house with 3 people. I dodged empty boxes as I made my way over to the bathroom.

I splashed cold water over my face. It didn't help much but it did remind me that I was wearing socks still, that were now soaked.

I looked into my reflection. You could say that I had a simple face. Brown hair and green eyes like my mother, but not a lot of resemblance to my father other than my jaw.

But the most noticeable feature about my face is probably the 7 inch scar that runs along the underside of my neck and continues onto my face and stops just under the corner of my lips.

I sighed and brushed the hair back from my head and examined my face. Do I look like a reliable employee? Probably not. Do I care? Probably not.

I remember why I got out of bed: coffee. I make myself a pathetic peanut butter sandwich with the last of my bread. I hate being an adult and having to grocery shop. Those cashiers always judge you for your tastes. Annoying.

Where did I put my plates? I try and guess out of the 3 wooden cupboards in front of me. Do I need a plate? Whatever. I sigh and sit on the marble island in the middle of the kitchen.

I realize I'm still wearing boxers and I'm sitting on the counter where I just made my sandwich. I need that coffee more than I think I do.

I check the milk hoping it's not sour. I smell it hesitantly but I get a whiff of something I wish I hadn't.

"Whoooo, ok sour no thanks" I say to nobody in particular and toss it in the bin dramatically. Typical. As soon as the coffe maker beeps I chug it. Ah yes caffeine.

Now where are my pants.

*-*

I close my black Prius's door. I've forgotten to get my laundry. Crap. I made a mental note to get it later.The burgundy building looks like a 100 year old hotel. Feeling slightly nervous I open the heavy metal door to this odd building. I walk straight into a very tall and intimidating man with a ginger moustache.

"Grant Donovan?" He says with a suspicious look.

He eyes my scar and I have to clench my fists to stop from pushing  him out of the way. I always got that look wherever i went. like i get it you can see my scar. im not going to kill you unless you keep staring. But I dont say that I just wallow in self contempt and embarrasment until they stop.

COULD YOU BE ANYMORE OBVIOUS

I nod and hand him my ID hoping that suffices.

He nods and gruffly says " up the hall and to the left, detective". I brush past him careful not to get too close.