I’m sweeping the floor.
The cat will die soon whether I feed it now or not.
I’m sweeping the floor and the fucking cat is going to starve to death.
If I go outside with food, my co-workers will say things.
They will whisper.
I don’t want them to whisper.
The fucking cat.
I can’t save it either way.
I’m sweeping the floor.
I can’t save the fucking goddamn cat.
I want to scream.
A cell phone is ringing, playing a loop from a popular radio song.
Really?
He’s calling me now?
(I hear this 8-10 times a night)
I just got here and the bastard is calling me!
What could he possibly need?
What is so urgent he has to call me already?
Fucking hell.
I am sweeping quickly.
I am sweeping like a manic fucking douche bag.
I am sweeping like this in order to decrease the amount of time I spend sweeping, to increase the amount of time I have to do other things.
Things I want to do.
Read, I don’t know.
Fucking hell.
I am lifting mats, sweeping beneath them.
The mats are black and rubbery. There are smudge marks on my fingers.
I am sweeping with the speed and agility of an uninhibited people.
I am sweeping with the speed and agility of an uninhibited people on Adderall – sweeping like a fucking shit-dick.
I bump into Laura.
‘S-Sorry,’ I mumble.
She doesn’t hear me.
‘S-,’ I begin again.
I stop myself.
You are a dickhead.
You wouldn’t even feed the fucking cat.
You suck, bro.
The floor is littered with vegetables.
Onions.
Green peppers.
They need to be swept.
I sweep them.
I should beat myself with this broom until I die.
I am going to kill myself right now.
‘Why are you doing it like that,?’ says Laura.
I don’t realize she is staring at me until she asks this.
Today is her birthday.
She doesn’t say how old she is.
I don’t ask.
‘You were just reading, looking tired like two minutes ago. Are you on crack?’
She smiles.
She smiles wanly, I think.
I shrug.
Continue.
Don’t let people get in your way.
You are a robot.
You are a machine.
Programmed for efficiency.`
I hang the broom and dustpan in the bathroom.
I pee.
Atoms, I think.
Things are just atoms.
Things are just atoms in motion.
Which, technically, is the same as not-motion.
The arbitrary, binary nature of the universe.
I flush the toilet.
I run the water for a few seconds to make it sound like I am washing my hands.
(I will wash them soon, after I mop and put the mats back.)
The cat is probably gone now.
The cat is gone now.
It’s too late.
I can’t save it.
I spray water from the hose attached to the sink directly into the mop bucket.
My boss explicitly told me not to do this.
‘Spray it into a container first,’ he said. ‘Not the bucket.’
The fucking cat.
I pour soap into the bucket, mixing it into the water with the mop as I pour.
It looks murky.
(This is the word I think immediately, and sporadically, later, while mopping, driving home, and once or twice while lying in bed. Murky.)
I begin mopping with what feels like finesse.
I vaguely think of something Japanese.
Caffeine.
Adderall.
I should drink caffeine now and function at a lower level of energy at school tomorrow.
A lower level of consciousness.
A lower ‘plane.’
This is good.
I am becoming a robot.
Good.
Great.
Neato.
No problem.
The mop gets caught beneath the leg of a table.
I yank the mop.
Soap flings upwards and hits me in the eye.
I crouch and remove the mop from beneath the table using my hands.
I resume mopping, more recklessly this time.
I am sliding the mop in and out of corners, behind trashcans, under tables.
I am practically running.
My co-workers are outside smoking.
This is my chance.
I am alone.
I am saved.
I double my speed, literally running backwards, the mop slipping and sliding in front of me.
I finish within seconds.
I dump the water out.
I roll the mop and bucket into the back room.
I run around putting mats back, chairs down.
I am done.
I sit down and open a novel.
In the novel, there are two characters named Will.
It is thrilling.
This novel is fucking thrilling, I think.
Thrilling fucking shit.
I am profound.
Thinking profound things.
In a pizza shop.
I hate working.
I don’t want to work.
I hate capitalism.
I hate not-capitalism.
Fuck the world, fuck it all.
Just kidding, I don’t know.
I mean – I do know. Fuck the world; I hate the world.
I hate bosses.
Cops.
Politicians.
Parents.
Teachers.
(Okay, maybe not parents.)
Lawyers.
(Yeah, not parents.)
Soldiers.
I am in this fucking pizza shop.
Reading a novel.
My co-workers are inside now, walking where I mopped, making it muddy again.
I don’t care.
I hate the world.
I hate myself.
I am going to kill myself now.
No.
I will not kill myself.
Not yet.
I will leave, go home, shower.
Check my e-mail, work on writing, eat something, drink caffeine.
No.
I will not drink caffeine.
I will lower my tolerance, go to sleep early tonight.
Self-improvement.
Robot, sweeper man.
The store phone rings.
The cat is outside.
No - the cat is gone.
The cat is definitely gone.
I answer the phone.
(Hello, this is Uncle Mario’s, how may I help you?)
There is a pause, breathing.
(Hello?)
Click.
Phewf.
I turn around wildly and immediately make eye contact with Laura, who is standing right behind me.
‘Don’t worry,’ I say stupidly, ‘It was a wrong number.’
‘What?’ she asks.
The cat is still outside.
Laura is looking at me.
I want to disappear.
I want to evaporate.
I want to evaporate and rain down onto Laura as organic green tea.
With agave nectar.
I start to speak, then stop myself.
There is nothing to say.
Organic green tea with agave nectar.
I am going to do things tonight.
Work on writing, respond to e-mails, kill my shit-ass self.
‘Nothing,’ I say.
Laura doesn’t hear me.
She has turned, walked out the door.
My other co-workers aren’t around.
I am alone again.
I look outside at Laura.
She is talking on her cell phone, laughing.
