I Quit
My father was a hard workingman. He
worked everyday until the day he died, just to maintain. I remember when I was
young; he would sit my brother and I down at the kitchen table and help us with
our homework. The man was incredible, but he died a bum, old and in debt. He
would always say, “Be strong men, and remember, what takes you five minutes to
get into will take you ten years to get out of.”
That was a long time ago, and life is
different now. Pops checked out a long time ago, and two months later, so did
my mother. My brother, well I haven’t seen or spoken to him in over ten years. My
life is meaningless.
“Sir would you like another?”
Looking
up I see this fragile, pale skinned waitress, standing there with a curious
look on her face, biting her lip.
“Please,” I say nonchalantly, with all my
attention diverted to the pill bottle in front of me. Placing two capsules in
my hand, one by one, into my mouth.
“So you work across the street huh?” She
says as she sloppily pours the coffee.
“Something like that.” I grab the coffee
from the corner of the table, and take a drink to cleanse my mouth of the
after-pill taste.
“Thank you that’ll be …”
“I would love to work over there. Its so
beautiful and fancy looking, oh and that guy from the newspaper, what’s his
name?” she says as she snaps her fingers, staring into the ceiling as if the
answer were written on the wall.
“Michael Adams is his name.”
“Yes that’s it,” screaming at the top of
her lungs.
“Boy I’d really like to get to know him,
his eyes are so dreamy.” She says, staring off into the ceiling again.
“Well thank you very much, you have been
of great service, I’m sure you have other tables attend to.” She completely
ignores my attempts to rid her from the table and continues to ramble on.
“I feel bad for him now though, all that
negative press he’s getting about cutting jobs, shit.” She glances at me for a
split second and walks over to the next table.
The coffee was terrible; all that small
talk and she forgot to add the cream. One more sip to get the bad taste of out
my mouth, and I set the cup down on the table.
My
father drank coffee, but it always tasted funny. On the few days off he had, he
would get my brother and I up early to prepare us for school. Whenever he would
leave the room, for whatever reason, my brother and I would take turns drinking
out of his coffee cup, impersonating how we thought grownups acted in important
situations. The coffee would always burn our chest so we would immediately have
to drink the milk from our cereal bowls. It wasn’t until high school that I
figured out Whiskey was what made my dads coffee taste weird.
Glancing down at my phone, the time reads
8:45 AM, fifteen minutes until my shift. I pull my jacket from under me and
check the pockets for my last pack of cigarettes. I’m going to quit today; my
body is polluted beyond fixing. I’ve been smoking since I was 24 years old; it’s
amazing how quick 25 years changes everything.
The bill reads three dollars so I pull out
a five-dollar bill and place it on the table. The menthol from the cigarette
taste refreshing as I bring the cigarette to my lips and light it.
Central Ave is a sight to see in the
morning, constant commotion, everyone rushing to get to work. Life is too short
to constantly be in a hurry. I walk over to the stoplight and press the button
to cross. The cigarette is no longer enjoyable as I bring it back in forth from
my lips down to my side. I toss the cigarette as I approach the grand site of
Gateway Bank. Through the alley is the employee entrance, an entrance I have
used for fifteen years. I step through the old paint chipped doors, glancing to
my left, I see the security officer, Mike Hall.
“Good morning Ralph,” he says as he steps
out of the security booth.
“Morning, yes, but nothing good about it,
“ I say, handing him my coat to check.
“Yeah I here ya, just try and look on the
bright side of things. If you need any help later just dial our extension.”
Mike hands me back my jacket and extends his hand.
“Take care of yourself my friend.” A head
nod seemed like the only suitable response, so I obliged and shook his hand.
The time clock read 8:54 AM; I log my
employee number into the keypad, ERROR, SEE HR. As I stare at the clock, I feel
nothing, disconnected from reality.
My father worked in a packinghouse. Never
promoted, never given any recognition. He was just a statistic, a drone, never
becoming more than a measly employee number. I turn around and head toward the
elevators.
The sixth floor is where I have worked
since entering this building, “The Creative Zone.” Well that’s what all of the
executives call it; I call it the marketing department. Walking down the row of
cubicles, I can feel the glaring eyes of my co-workers, piercing my skin. I can
hear every one of my footsteps hit the ground. A cloud of silence has overcome
the room. Ignoring the obvious
disturbance my prescnese has caused, I keep my head focused straight ahead. I
reach my cubical, and place my coat around the back of the chair. The stares
have died down, but I can still feel one.
“Hey Ralphie, how are you holding up?”
I
hate when she calls me that. Trying to conjure up the best fake smile I could,
I swivel the chair around and greet her.
“Good morning Rebecca, what brings you to
my neck of the woods?” I say ironically, Rebecca’s cubical is right next to
mine.
“It’s a beautiful morning, I just wanted
to check in on you and see how you are doing, you know, like with everything
and stuff?” She says as she twiddles the
zipper of her awful blazer. I can see her demeanor start to change as she
speaks to me. She looks nervous, and her eyes are starting to water, not as if
she were going to cry.
“I’m fine,” I say grabbing her hand.
She
looks at me with a false sense of relief. She gathers her self and walks away.
Swiveling back around in the chair, I
begin to login to my computer, ACCES DENIED, SEE ADMINSTARTOR. Slouching back
in the chair with my hands on my head, I stare into the ceiling, in hopes that
the waitress from earlier was on to something. Maybe answers are written on the
ceiling. I can hear the squeaky, un-oiled wheels of the mail cart nearing my
cubical.
“Here’s your mail Becs.” I hear from a
short distance.
The
mail carts wheels squeak past my cubical without a break in cadence, what the
hell?
“Excuse me, do you have any mail for
Ralph Michaels?” I say biting my lip, trying not to show my annoyance.
“Sorry Mr. Michaels, your mailbox was
removed earlier this week.”
“Thanks, “ waving my hand in a dismissive
way.
The
stares from Rebecca are felt once more, my pocket is vibrating.
“Rebecca I’m going out for a smoke.”
“Uh-oh-oh ok,” She stutters.
There’s a balcony on the 12th floor
where all of the smokers frequent throughout the day, payroll, tellers and
executives all in one area. As I glance upon the city, I pull out a cigarette,
put it to my mouth, and light it. Inhaling and exhaling slowly is the key to
true appreciation for a cigarette. To my
left are two bank tellers from the first floor, Angela and David. I don’t know
them from any other employees in the building, but we have shared conversation
over a cigarette or two. I nod and raise my cigarette in acknowledgment to
there presence.
“That a boy, don’t let it beat you.” Says
David.
“Right.” I reply turning around to admire
the morning sky.
My
pocket vibrates again. I dig into my pocket and pull out my phone, it reads:
Missed
call 212-947-6309,
1
New Voicemail.
I
press the voicemail icon on the telephone screen and hold it up to my ear.
One new voicemail from phone number
2-1-2-9-4-7-6-3-0-9, today at nine fifty-five AM:
“Good morning Ralph this is Dr. Mitchell
over at Sacred Heart hospital. We discussed last week some treatment options
for your condition; it looks like we’re having a little difficulty getting in
contact with your insurance company. It’s very important we get that squared
away so we can start treatment sessions immediately. I thought I …
Message deleted.
You have no more new messages, for main
menu press one, to hang up press end.
Taking a strong drag of the cigarette, I
place my phone back into my pocket, and then exhale. David and Angela are
headed towards me. David continues onto the elevator, but Angela stops.
“So we’re all sorry to hear about what
happened, its pure bullshit, “ she says squinting her eyes with anger.
“Everything’s fine, “ I say as I flick
the cigarette over the edge. She looks at me with curious eyes, as to say what
are you talking about. I look at her and smile.
“Everything’s fine, I’m quitting
cigarettes today so it’s a glorious day.”
As I step back onto the 6th
floor I see Rebecca talking to the mail guy. I take the long way around the
cubicles so I don’t alarm them, or draw any attention from the other people in
my section. Approaching them, I can hear bits and pieces of their conversation.
“He’s so skinny now, and he’s lost all of
his color, I just don’t know what to say to him,” she says, noticeably shaken.
“He has no one wife, no kids?” Asks the mail
boy.
“I don’t think so, I haven’t seen any
other pictures in his cubicle, other than the one he keeps of his father.”
“Excuse me, “ I say, turning sideways trying
not to brush up against the mail cart.
“Sorry Mr. Michaels, let me get this out
of your way,” he says, picking the cart up and moving out of the isle.
“Its almost noon, aren’t you done with
the mail yet”, I ask, this time not trying to mask my annoyance.
“Uh I actually came back up here for you
sir, I was told to bring you these,” he says as he points to the mail cart. I
turn around and glance to see what the mail boy is referencing to, two boxes
with lids sitting at the bottom of his cart.
“If you need any help, I was told to tell
you to dial security extension 2-4 …
“I know what the extension it is, “ I say
cutting him off before he could finish.
“What’s your name?”
“Tim, Mr. Michaels, I’ve been bringing
you your mail for the last six months.”
Looking
at him, none of his features seem recognizable to me.
“Well Tim, I don’t need any help, thank
you, leave the boxes next to my desk upon your exit.”
“I just want to say so …”
“Thank you Tim, that will be all.” I
swivel back around in my chair and stare at the locked computer screen.
“I’ll talk to you later Tim, I’ll be on
messenger later, “ says Rebecca.
I grab one of the boxes left by Tim.
Pulling the lid off I place it on top of my desk. I glance around my cubicle
for something of any meaning, something to take with me. The picture of my
father catches my eye. I reach for the picture in search of some sort of
guidance. I remember my father in his later years, the pain and agony. My
brother and I had to be the rock for my mother. The cancer killed him quick.
There was no special treatment to prolong his life, no health insurance to foot
the bill, nothing but my brother and me. After he died my mother was so grief
stricken and overwhelmed with debt she just couldn’t take it anymore, she died
on a Tuesday morning. My brother and I were split up between my mother’s
siblings, because my dad’s side of the family was a bunch of drunks. I was
alone then as I am now. I toss the picture in the box.
“Well I’m done packing,” I say
swiveling around speaking to Rebecca’s back.
Rebecca
turns around with a sour look on her face, but says nothing. Swiveling back
around to my desk I again glance for something of any meaning, coming across a two
month old newspaper.
“Hmph, well look at this.” I shake
the paper to straighten it out and turn to page 7. The caption reads:
(Pictured
Above) VP of Operations at Gateway Bank, Michael Adams
Mr. Adams had been under recent fire for
the handling of Gateway banks recent financial problems. Gateway bank, which
was given a bailout by the US government last
November, has failed to start repayment
of the bailout. Adams, 44, has signed off on a budget that will cut over 200
jobs at Gateway Bank. “We will be cutting lower level positions and under
performing employees at the three downtown branches,” said Adams in a company
wide email on Thursday. Adams was unavailable for comment.
“What a chump.” I crumble up the
newspaper and toss it in the trash.
“Rebecca do you have a sheet of paper?”
“Someone took the paper out of my
printer,” slamming the printer tray in.
“Are you ok Ralphie?” She says as she
hands me the paper.
“That’s not my god damn name!” I snatch
the paper from her and aggressively swivel my chair around, so aggressive that
I do a 360.
“I meant to do that.” Starring at
Rebecca’s surprised face.
“My apologies Ralph,” she says as she
turns back around to her desk. I hear her excessively tapping her keyboard as
if she were typing a damn novel. I’m sure she’s informing Tim of what just
happened over messenger. I fold the piece of paper in half, like a birthday
card and place it flat on the desk. I write two words on it and set up like a
nametag. Leaning back in the chair I place my hands on my head and read it
aloud, “Thank You.”
I grab the box with my fathers picture
and place it in my lap. I pick up the phone and dial 2-4-7-5.
“Security.”
“Yes this is Ralph, I have all my things
packed, I’m ready to leave.”
“Ok buddy I’ll be right up.”
I
hang up the phone, alerting Rebecca. She tries to stare out of the corner of
her eyes without turning her head.
“Thank you Rebecca of making work,
pleasant.” I kiss her on the check and head toward the elevators. Stares and
silence have once again filled the room. I wait for the elevator with my back
facing them all with no intentions of locking eyes and sparking emotional
reactions. The elevator opens and Mike stands before me.
“Are we ready?” he says with a half
smile.
“I’ve never been more ready Mike,” I
respond staring at him awkwardly.
After
a brief pause, I step into the elevator and watch Mike press the button for the
ground floor.
“We all wanted you to have this
Ralph,” he says as he hands me an envelope. The envelope is blue, with the
words “Beat it” written on the cover.
“Thank you Mike, and thank you for
how kind you have been to me over the years.” I say extending my hand.
The elevator bell sounds indicating
we have reached our intended destination. Mike puts his hand out, signaling I
go first. Nodding my head I step through the elevator and into the security
office. Another security officer steps through the doors and I hand him my box
to search through. He checks the contents and gives Mike the thumbs up. Mike
walks up behind me.
“Rookies,” he says as he places his
hand on my shoulder.
Trying
not to be rude I conjure up a fake smile.
“Well take care my friend, don’t
worry, keep your faith and things will be fine.”
“Thank you Mike, don’t let this
place drain all of the life out of ya,” shaking his hand once more.
I step through the paint chipped doors
and through the alley. As I walk down the alley I open the envelope given to me
by Mike. The card reads, “Get Well Soon.” Opening the card reveals a jingle. It
reads:
From all of us here at Gateway Bank, we would like to thank
you for your service.
The card is littered with signatures of
my co-workers, all of them with some sort of sentimental message. Rebecca’s
signature stands out.
I
know you can beat this Ralphie, you’re stronger than cancer, I love you.
Stepping onto Central Ave, I take a
second to look around. Nothing has stopped, nothings changed. Life goes on. I’m
just like my father, just another statistic, a drone. Setting the box down, I
pick up the picture of my father and embrace it in my arms. Leaving my jacket
and card in the box, I start walking down Central Ave until I come to a
stoplight. The light is red and the stoplight is flashing do not walk. I look
down at my father’s picture.
“I can’t get out of this one dad.”
I
pull out my crumbled up pack of cigarettes, place it to my lips and light it.
Inhale. Exhale. Looking at the cigarette.
“So lung cancer huh.”
Stepping
into the street I follow the painted lines marked on the ground until, until I
hear a horn.
