Working a Day Job

Link

Link

Link

Link

I've noticed that when I sit in the library that there is a new tone to my day.

An edgier one, a sharper one. Maybe it's the commute. Maybe its going shoulder to shoulder, toe to toe with my fellow man and woman. Well, going toe to toe with a woman always feels good, but you know what I mean. The maddening crush of the rush hour, of commuting, of getting from here to there. It changes a man.

And I didn't even commute with the rush today. I came into the city by train at the best time. After everyone was at work. Ahhh, if I was old, that's the only time that I would ride the trains. After the press, after the fire.

But I am also enervated. I feel alive and my thinking is less dark. I think about things that are happier, livelier. I walk through the same library that I walk through day in and day out, six days a week, and it feels like I'm heading into an office building, finding my little cubicle with familiar others. I take my seat, turn on my laptop and check my emails. My work day begins. I move to my blogging, then to my posting, then to my writing, then back to my emails, then current events. I'm peripatetic in my day. I'm all over the place.

Electra is physically like me. Some of the day she is at my side. Others she is away at a computer for reservation here at the library. I know she is because she always pops up on IM when she is. My brother will wander over some time during the day and we will take the time to catch up and bullshit. Then, just like on a job, coffee break will be over and I'll go back to work.

Today, has to be different though. Today, the female security guard that has a hard on for Electra comes by. I'm busy, not bothering a soul, not nodding off at my desk. I'm honestly doing something until she comes up to me, pointing to Electra's bags that she leaves atop her desk. "Where is she at?" The security guard asks. She's probably at one of the computers in the computer lab. "No she's not. I've checked all three of them and I can't find her. She thinks she's playing a game here leaving her bags and going off to who knows where." She's probably in one of the labs. Check again. "If I come back here and she's not here I'm taking these bags to the Lost and Found." I turn my back to her and return to my laptop. Do as you must, I tell her over my shoulder. She walks off in a huff. Personally I would like to see her take Electra's bags, because Electra uses a lock and locks them to the desk. No doubt Ms. Malicious didn't notice that. But she will if she tries to move them. If she did I would have burst out laughing in her face. She deserved little else.

The rest of the day was uneventful. I worked on my screenplay for the bulk of it, played a little 2142 and watched a Guy Richie film: Revolver. Pretty good movie so far. I've only seen half of it. I find it hard to start a movie and I give them only a few minutes before I start feeling bored. They had better catch me right away, and Revolver did. Some of the situations were interesting too...and then there is nudity. That's always a good thing, nudity. Not the male kind though. Sorry ladies, I'm sexist and a red blooded male. I happen to like naked women more than men.

So, back to Revolver. Pretty good so far. I find myself in the Madison Starbucks for a few hours. What else is new? I get back on the fucking screenplay, but I'm pretty much petered out. The characters are less vibrant, more tired. I don't want to push it. I stop and blog. I can blog completely exhausted. There is nothing that can keep me from blogging. Nothing.

I enter the Box and Mike Murder is as stoned as a brick wall. He asks me if I have any hooch on me the minute I come in. Nope Mike, I'm dry. As I walk past him to go to the bathroom, he is screwing open a bottle of vodka. I smile, but as I walk by him he holds out the bottle to me, in plain sight. Any Tech could walk in and I would become suspect just like Mike is. I walk off, telling him that I'm not interested in drinking tonight.That's right boys and girls, I TURNED DOWN A DRINK. But Mike Murder is insistent. He hops out of bed and sits next to me on my bed, placing the bottle between us. That's alright Mike, I'm good. "But why?" he moans. Because I don't want to drink tonight. "But why? I don't understand." He sounds like a child asking why he can't go out to play after dark. I grow hard edged. It's alright Mike.

He gets the message and sulks off. He'll get over it.

We all have to get over some things, now don't we.

I'm like you. I can't believe that I turned down a drink.

I'm going to bed.

Hb