Antology of Stories

Autopilot

The damned sunlight rips him out of slumber. Slumber was where he always sought solace from the stacco system he devised to keep himself in check. It's stagnant void of unknowing,  nothingness and unconsciousness provided all the comfort he required. The ideal refugee shelter. He made it priority to visit at least eight hours a day on weekdays and over twelve on weekends.

The regime begins with “The Constant Argument”. Each morning the loft pleads for his extended presence, caressing him in it's cushy arms of warmth,  begging for mercy. The sweet whispered nothings; promises of belonging and commodity almost convinces him every time, “I love you.” And he would have remained if it was not for his responsibilities. So he reluctantly parts with her until their next encounter that seems so ever excruciatingly long for their short lived company.  

Following,  he tidies himself, all the while staring at the mirror with silent utterances of a low disapproving sigh. The thump at his feet mimicking his sigh serves as a reminder of another responsibility. Ah! An old friend, the patter of the puppy chow being carelessly poured onto the rust stained aluminum. He observes the feast with a slight smile.

The most challenging bit of the old routine is the arch nemesis. By his ruling, “If I gouge down on everything at once, I wouldn't react quick enough to expunge it. It will satisfy the aches for now.” The best part of it was reuniting with his mistress, “Oceanic.” Oh the passion she breathes into him fuels his entire day! She gives him confidence, supports his ambitions and drives his motivation. Somehow, her existence sheds hope for a brighter tomorrow.

Commuting to work often tasked him with much difficulty. The sea of familiar, yet empty faces, all engrossed in their daily mingling while he sat in a solitary seat, stationed at the far end of the bus, watching the same old scenery brisk by the raggedy panes. There, he immersed himself in the regular melancholy tunes on repeated shuffle. “!@#$ life” he’d mutter to himself as the wheels of the ancient vehicle came to a halt at his stop.

Once at work that’s where the trouble really brewed. Paper after paper after paper. Accounts, balance, affidavits, reports, time, money, meetings. This was his life. A mountainous, neverending clutter of papers. Paper had become so much of a staple in his life, he couldn’t staple the pages of his own life together. Nevertheless, he got through his assignments, or how he liked to call it, “ass-ignments”, with the help of Oceanic. However, her presence would soon fade within the early hours of midday and he would have no method of coping with his problems.

During luncheon, his apparent aloof exterior composure rendered his mind an impenetrable fortress from the concern of others. The ongoing war took his conscience captive and interrogated it. Are you good enough? Do your parents even love you? What do others think of you? The answers for those goes as follows: “No. I am too much of a failure to be loved. I am a burden to everyone around me.” The interrogation continues until five o’clock when he is discharged and walks aimlessly into the open road without looking both ways.

Upon his return,  to his shabby, dimly lit apartment, he is greeted by Juana, another one of his mistresses. She helps him to unwind after a long day’s work. Her whimsy, aerial nature allows his bottled up vengeance to escape his overheated body with a single breath, converting his temper to docility. In pure ecstasy, he retorts to the world’s trials in bumbling lunatic laughter, “C’est la vie mon amour!”

At ten o’clock he marches the all too well known path towards the bedroom. Still fumbling to walk. He passes the dangling knot etched to the top of the ceiling fan. As long as Juana was with him, there was no need for it. “Nah not today,” as he shuts the door to his room. The mattress forgives his adultery and welcomes him with open arms once again. As he powers down and rests his tormented soul, preparing for yet another mundane, unsatisfying, mediocre day.  

Oceanic is an anagram for cocaine