Ring...
...Ring...
...Ring...
“Hello?” Joan's
voice came over the receiver.
“Hi, Joan,” Matt
began excitedly, she hadn't answered his last few calls and he was
beginning to think that she was avoiding him. “How are—
“Just kidding,”
Joan's voice interrupted. “I'm not able to come to the phone right
now so please leave me a message. Thanks, bye.”
Matt hung up and ran
a hand through his hair. Greasy. He hadn't showered in a few days and
it was beginning to take its toll. Old habits died hard, and besides,
it wasn't as if he had any reason to clean himself up. The Bleeding
Edge had been less than impressed with his last couple of entries and
they failed to send him a new assignment to work on after he finished
the last one.
Matt eyed the filing
cabinet beside his desk where he sat. Countless papers stacked on top
of it were covered in a fine layer of dust; he hadn't touched it
since his college days. Inside lay every note he'd ever taken, every
piece of homework he'd ever turned in and every test he'd ever taken.
And at the very back of the bottom drawer, beneath a stack of
photographs, Matt had hidden away the small, carefully bound pages
that had ruined his life, the pages that could change the world. Matt
had stopped going through the filing cabinet years ago but he
couldn't bring himself to throw it out. Everything that his studies
meant to him, everything he still dreamed of accomplishing, held him
back.
Matt ran a finger
over the piece of paper on the top of the stack. The contrast between
the dust and the clean stripe stood out beneath the lamplight. His
desk was slightly better but only because of the frequent work he did
at his computer. He swiveled around in his chair and looked around.
His one room apartment was cluttered with dirty laundry, cast off
food wrappers and remnants of partially eaten food in varying degrees
of molding. The smell, though he was immune from exposure, he was
sure would stagger anyone else. Even the rats seemed to have left out
of disgust, that or the filth was so deep now that they were simply
burrowing beneath and out of sight. Small trails lead through the
mess where his walking had packed down the debris.
“I'm a mess”
Matt said aloud to the empty apartment and he leaned back, staring up
at the ceiling. Cobwebs. Matt cringed and looked down to his feet. A
cockroach, ignoring the light from his lamp, was crawling over his
bare foot.
Matt jumped to his
feet and put an end to the brazen roach with his eager stamping.
Matt's face contorted as the goo between his toes squelched
unpleasantly and he marched awkwardly over to his sink. Ignoring the
dishes, he lifted his foot into the basin and rinsed off the bits
that didn't come off during the walk over.
Matt tried to tell
himself that it was because he didn't have time to clean, that his
work and his research prevented him from doing more. Perhaps it
started out that way, while he was still in college. But now, if Matt
was perfectly honest with himself, he had no excuses.
Matt put his clean,
if not wet, foot back down on the floor where it immediately gathered
a new layer of filth. He let out a sigh that sounded more like a
grunt. The depression that had been threatening to strike for the
last several days seemed to rise up before him out of the piles of
garbage. The frustration and self-loathing that so often accompany
depression weren't far behind and he thought he could just make out
the shady form of paranoia taking up the rear.
Matt shut his eyes.
He unclenched his fists that he hadn't realized were clenched and
steadied his breathing. His heartbeat pounded in his ears and his
head throbbed with each pulse. The pressure mounted and Matt turned
back to the sink. A drink of water always did wonders to calm the
nerves. He grabbed the first glass he could find in the sink and
filled it with water. As he brought it to his lips he saw the crushed
back half of the cockroach from before, still twitching, floating in
the glass.
The glass shattered
against the wall feet from where Matt stood, spraying his face with
chunks of glass and littering the floor with near impossible to find
shards.
Silence, for a
moment, as the shock and the sadness turned to rage. Matt swept the
counter clean with one fluid motion, scattering dishes across his
apartment. He grabbed piles of junk and threw them at other piles as
if that would somehow punish them for existing. Sharp pain erupted in
his left foot as one of the pieces of glass pierced it. Matt swore,
trying to shift his weight to the right, overcompensated, and fell.
The disturbed piles of trash tumbled down over his face as he hit the
floor and he distinctly felt the scratching of tiny, clawed feet
scurrying across his body as a family of rats sought refuge from the
terror. Matt twitched but knew the rats had already left him for some
other hidden burrowing spot.
Blood ran down his
left foot and tickled slightly. It helped distract from everything
else. Minutes passed and still he lied there, feeling the warm
trickle along the sole of his foot, listening as the garbage settled
around him.
Ring...
...Ring...
...Ring...
Matt fumbled in his
pocket for his cell phone and drew it out right before the call went
to voice mail.
“Hello?” The
utter defeat in his voice seemed to carry loud and clear through the
phone and it was a few seconds before the person on the other side
answered.
“Is Matt there?”
a female voice asked.
“This is Matt,”
he droned, “Who is this?”
“This is Joan
Darcy.”
Matt sat up, sending
the trash that had fallen on top of him flying. Excitement surged
through him where despair had been before.
“Joan, hi. How are
you? Thanks for returning my call,” Matt spoke at double speed,
unable to control himself. “I was beginning to think you were
avoiding my calls, silly really, I know but that's what—
“Tomorrow,” Joan
interjected before Matt could go any further.
“I, what?” Matt
asked as he'd been too distracted by being interrupted to actually be
able to tell what the interruption was.
“Tomorrow,” Joan
repeated, “Tomorrow, for an interview, if that works for you.”
Matt scrambled to
his feet, still limping on his injured foot and having to stifle
several grunts and groans on his way to his desk.
“Okay,” he said
as he pulled out his planner and flicked it open to the following
day: blank. “I've got a spot in the afternoon and one in the
evening.”
“I was actually
hoping for a morning slot,” Joan said.
“Umm,” Matt
feigned looking up and down his planner even though Joan couldn't see
him.
“It's just that
tomorrow's my burn day and I thought you'd like to come and, I don't
know, take some readings, and then afterwords we could have the
interview.”
Matt blinked. Sure
he'd been upset about not getting an interview with Joan, but neither
had anyone else and now she was handing herself over to him on a
silver platter. Regardless of how he felt about working for The
Bleeding Edge, he needed the job and an interview with Joan Darcy
would surely make up for his recent, less than exemplary pieces.
“Hello?” Joan
asked through the silence.
“Oh, sorry, I was
shuffling some other appointments,” Matt lied, “Morning would be
fine. What time and where?”
“Meet me at nine
in front of those steps I pushed you down before,” Joan said with a
hint of a laugh.
Matt hesitated.
“You're not going to push me down them again, I hope.”
Joan laughed in
earnest and said, “You'll just have to risk it if you want that
interview, bye,” and she hung up.
“Bye,” Matt said
to the cell phone and pocketed it once again.
He sat, silent again
and staring down at where he'd written down his appointment with Joan
in his planner. The reality of it finally settled on him and he
leaped up from his chair, “Yes!” he cried out and then
immediately winced and fell back onto the chair as the piece of glass
in his foot reminded him that it was still there.
No comments:
Post a Comment