Clock Out — Draft 1

Clock Out

Slender, tall John Thompson leaned forward as he read the newspaper and attempted to sip from a spoonful of french onion soup he held suspended somewhere in front of his face, out of his field of vision. He sighed when he heard what must have been most of the spoonful of soup fall back into the bowl, then licked the melted cheese off the spoon and submerged the spoon in the quickly cooling liquid. He was reading a piece about Barack Obama’s speech in Berlin urging the western world to tear down figurative walls. The walls they themselves created, thought John, half smiling at his own observation. He leaned back and took a sip from his iced coffee. Truthfully, he was not much interested in what he was reading, but was just passing the time. He checked his phone: 6:07 p.m. He was due back to work at 6:15 so he figured he would at least finish the story.

It ended much as he expected, on the ambiguous note demanded by the American standards of journalistic neutrality. He sipped the last of his iced coffee and popped off the cover. He lifted up the flimsy plastic cup and examined the bottom and he could see some granules of sugar still stuck there. He jiggled the cup so that the ice would spin a little. He held the cup to his mouth and slowly tilted it until an ice cube fell into his open mouth; a few others hit his lips and gave him a chill despite the heat of the café.

The best part of iced coffee, John thought, is the sweet light residue that’s left on the ice cubes. Truthfully, he had never liked coffee and always found its taste too bitter, but work was long and there was nothing else to do but drink caffeine to stay awake. He thought how he went through this routine every day on his break, ignoring the bitterness of the coffee and relishing the pleasure of sucking the sweet ice cubes. He finished off the ice cubes one by one, brushed his lips with a napkin and got up, pushing in the chair he had occupied. He carried off his plates to the bus bucket and tossed his empty plastic cup in the trash after hesitating a few seconds thinking about the eternity it would soon begin in a landfill somewhere far away.

As he walked to the sink to wash his hands, John felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. He pulled it out and read the message he had just received: Caitlin would not be coming over tomorrow, she had agreed to see a movie with her younger brother. After a few seconds John shut the phone and put it in his pocket. Her answer was nothing less than what he had expected. He adjusted his shirt to make sure it was still tucked in well, then turned on the faucet. He let the cold water run over his hands for twenty seconds at most then shut it off and wiped his hands slowly with a paper towel, going over and over to dry them completely. The cheap things never did the job; he threw the soaked paper towel away and his still moist hands felt cool as the water slowly evaporated off them.

A minute later, John strode up to his cash register with his visor, apron and name tag back on. He pulled down his visor so that it shaded his eyes from the brightness of the fluorescent flood lights that shine down on the cash registers day and night. His name tag was white, with the name of the café in bold black lettering and his name in even bolder black lettering beneath it. He entered his pin number to log into the cash register and called out for the next guest in line, an overweight man with his son. The boy must have been ten or eleven. He had shaggy hair and wore a Red Sox shirt and shorts. When he smiled his blue eyes smiled too.

–Thank God. We’ve been waiting so long. I hate waiting. The line was so long and I hate waiting in lines.

The son smiled as he spoke; the father cast oblique glances of annoyance at him. They placed their order, first the father then the son. John told them where to pick up the food when it was ready.

–Is it going to take long, the son asked. I’m really hungry.

John found his urgency amusing in its immaturity; the father just shook his head.

–I hate when it takes long. And I’m really hungry. Can I have a cookie? Dad, I want one so I can eat it if the food takes a long time to come.

–Thank you, the man said brusquely, and grabbed the boy’s shoulder to guide him away from the register. John called out for the next person in line. After interacting with a few customers, John sank into the monotony of taking orders, the boring sameness of the cadence of human voices. It was easier to read the automated responses and suggestions given by the register, he thought, than to interact with people. After some time, the boy with the smiling blue eyes waved to John as he and his father left: John thought how short the wait for their food must have been. John waved back lucidly before returning quietly to the haze his mind occupied during the long days at work….

At the end of his shift John took off his apron and name tag, hanging them up on a rack in the back of the café where he would find them tomorrow at the start of his shift, just as he had found them today and the day before and the day before that. He walked to the barista counter and began to make himself an iced latte. He pushed the double shot button on the espresso machine and put the graduated stainless steel mixing container underneath the spout.

–Who is that for? asked his manager, coming around the corner. John lifted his visor a little and laughed.

–It’s for me. I’ve kind of had a long day, he said, and poured milk and sugar into a plastic cup as he waited for the espresso.

–You and me both, buddy. You gonna pay for that?

–Not a chance, John said. The manager stood in silent frustration, hoping John would feel some guilt for stealing the drink. John pulled his visor back down, poured the espresso into the plastic cup, covered it and spun it around to mix it. John could feel the heat from the espresso dissipate and be overtaken by the cool milk and ice. The ice cubes rattled against the sides of the cup but the sugar sank to the bottom, as usual. He rinsed out the graduated stainless steel mixing container and left it on the counter to dry. He put a straw through the cover and turned away from the manager toward the door, lifting his hand in a perfunctory wave goodbye without looking back. That was all the respect he would give to the greedy bastard.

He untucked his shirt as he walked out the door, looking suddenly unkempt and rumpled. He took off his visor and stepped outside into the cool summer night. It was drizzling. It had been drizzling for a week. The snow was general all over Ireland, John thought, and laughed halfheartedly. He got into the new car he had gotten for his birthday a week earlier and began the drive home. He looked down at his wrinkled shirt and stained pants; he would have to change into something nicer when he arrived.

He did not turn on the radio. He liked the music in his head better. The road was not well lit and the darkness made it feel empty and desolate. John rolled down the driver’s side window and let the cool breeze blow on his worn and tired face. Had anyone been there to see, he thought, his grey-blue eyes would have looked vibrant even in the dim reflection of the headlights on the wet road. But he was alone. He thought of the passing time. How old was he? The years had begun to roll by and he was helpless to stop them. Would he stop them if he could? Some days there is glory and life in the world, he thought, but today there is solitude and emptiness. Yes, there would always be a movie to see, a shift to work.

He sipped his iced coffee. Oftentimes he would lose himself in despair and would have to distract himself from his thoughts to calm down. He turned on the radio and was glad to find a song with simple lyrics and a steady beat. In the midst of his thoughts, John had been driving by memory alone. He was aware now of the street lights, and that he was approaching the center of town where there would be cars and traffic lights. He continued sipping his coffee; he was nearly done with it now. The song ended and the next song had virtually the same beat.

–Oh, Adorno! he exclaimed aloud. He always cheered himself up when he could make an erudite cultural allusion, if only to himself. Perhaps no one would have gotten it, even if someone else were in the car. Caitlin certainly would not have understood. But he knew their attraction was not one of transcendence and intellectual gravitas. He pictured her green eyes, her pretty brown hair, the way she pulled his arms around her when they had lain together. He remembered what he said to her after they snuck away from their friends at a party a week before. They lay in bed together while everyone was dancing downstairs.

–Have you wanted me this way as badly as I wanted you? he asked her. Did you ever stop thinking about me?

–Yes, she had replied, and no.

John smiled whenever he replayed that moment, but since that night she had shown little interest. She had desired every iota of his affection and every pound of his flesh, yet once she had it she attempted to vanish. His desire for passion and her passivity stood between them and frightened her away. He saw now: he would be alone forever because he was overzealous both in lust and in intellect.

Suddenly he realized he was pulling into his driveway, had driven right through town entirely oblivious. He turned off the car, shut off the lights and picked up his quarter-full iced coffee. He got out and noticed a car parked on the street in front of the house. He recognized the car. It belonged his mother’s friend James (Jim! he would insist). As he walked up the driveway to the door, he straightened out his short hair and attempted to shake out the groove left by the visor around his head. The rain coming down lightly on his head helped. He opened the door into the back hall and he could see through the french door into the kitchen his mother and James talking. They waved as he closed the door behind him. He mounted the four steps up to the french door, kicked off his shoes and went into the kitchen. It was warm.

–James, how have you been? Hey mom! John said, and smiled widely.

–Jim, really! How’s it going, man? Haven’t seen you in a long time.

–Oh, I’ve been working a lot.

–I hear you’ve been around the world. That must have been awesome.

John looked at his mother, who smiled at him and then at James.

–Oh, my mom told you everything, I guess? Yeah, Ireland was a bit cold and rainy but I got to reread Dubliners, which was really fulfilling.

–Oh, James said, and hesitated, I’m sure it was. Well, I’m glad you had a good trip, man. Anyway, Carol, like I was saying….

It was in fact very warm. John pulled lightly on the wrinkled bottom of the shirt he was about to take off. He set his coffee cup down on the speckled granite counter and turned to go upstairs. He glanced back at the cup: it was sweating onto the cold granite that would keep it chilled in the hot room. As he climbed the stairs he pulled out his phone, found Caitlin in his contacts and pressed the call button. He took off his shirt and threw it on the floor. He sat on his bed in the dark and stared at his reflection in the mirror on the opposite wall. It looked less fit than he imagined it in his memories of him and Caitlin together. She picked up.

–Hey Cait, got your message…

In the oblique light cast by the screen on his phone, John thought his face looked ghoulish. His nose protruded unnaturally, his eyes sank into shadow.

–When? he heard himself ask.

The voice at the other end of the phone stuttered something about work. John understood.

–Okay, he said and faked a smile. His teeth seemed unnatural in the light from the LCD.

Well, we’ll figure something out sometime soon. Night.

He hung up the phone and put it on the table beside the bed. He always rushed, always felt an inexplicable immediacy in everything. Apparently Caitlin had no such feeling, no desire to see him nor to outsmart the passing time. It vexed him that she could move so slowly, even in her rejection of him, as time moved so quickly. He did not understand Caitlin’s lack of interest, but knew she had no thoughts of passion or death. His hands went to unbutton his pants, but then he remembered James downstairs, who he would have to walk by on his way to the shower.  He stood up and walked across the uneven floors of his Victorian house, down the steep narrow stairs, and through the stifling sitting room to the kitchen.

–Oh, we went there once. John’s mother turned and saw him in the door frame that had no door. James and I were just talking about white water rafting in Maine. Remember?

–Yes of course I remember. It was really fun, pretty intense rapids.

–Yeah, James said, my girlfriend and I are going. We can’t wait. We’ve been before but this time we’re staying the night.

John crossed his arms over his chest.

–Oh, it’s in a very exciting place, he said and rolled his eyes. He and his mother laughed.

–Very exciting for moose spotting, she added.

–Yes, it’s great. You should go to Jackman. We ate lunch there…. Fifteen miles from the Canadian border, by the way…. A woman in the restaurant actually had her house phone there, in the restaurant. I heard a phone ring and was so excited at the prospect of getting cell phone service. Then I turned and saw her pick up a big cordless phone. It was really unreal.

They all laughed. Jim shrugged and nodded his head.

–It’s really another world, said his mother.

–You know, John continued, supposedly Jackman is going to be a huge tourist spot in a few years. They have a lake up there that is still really undeveloped. Apparently people have been buying property up there.

–It’s so far, said his mother. What would they want to do up there?

–Rich people like to find unspoiled places then plow down some trees so they can build a summer home and enjoy the outdoors, I guess.

John laughed honestly and his eyes smiled as he did. He grabbed his iced coffee. The bottom of cup was moist with cool water now. James appeared to be thinking about what John had just said. He seemed on the verge of something.

–Well, he said at last, that’s how it always happens. Rich people find a nice area and decide to build a vacation home. But then where does their sewage go? What nice restaurants do they have to eat in? It’s such a pristine area up there. But that’s what some people call progress… Man, people ruin everything.

He laughed halfheartedly but sighed. He knew himself to be right, and John did too. John looked at his mother, who sighed as acknowledgement and tacit agreement. John quickly sipped up the last of his iced coffee.

–Well, I gotta jet. See you later, man, James said, and turned to go.

–I’ll walk you out, John’s mother said, and opened the door to the back hall. John, I’m guessing you’re taking a shower.

–Yeah, in a minute. Bye, Jim. Have a good time.

–Thanks. And Carol, next time we’ll have wine.

–Yes, of course!

They walked out into the hall and closed the door. John was alone in the sweltering heat. He popped the lid off the plastic cup and put it down on the counter. He lifted up the cup to look at the bottom, but he already knew there would be granules of sugar stuck there. He could make out the distorted reflection of his vibrant grey-blue eyes in the glossy side of the cup. He saw how greatly they contrasted with the sunken holes on the haggard face he had seen in his dark bedroom. They were more honest than Caitlin’s, he thought. Honest like James’ sighing laughter and his mother’s sighing assent. At least he could see that clearly.

He did not know if he had ruined his chances or if she had ruined their passion. He could not see that, but he could see the present: he was alone despite his best efforts yet accompanied despite his missteps. He tried, but could not apprehend the future, the inevitable random events that would shape or cut short his passions. No, the future lay in a haze like the long days of work.

John remembered the boy with the smiling eyes. The boy had yet to be drawn into the structured repetition and monotony of work and adulthood. He could still exclaim passionately just about wanting a cookie. John wondered if he himself had been drawn in yet. He was not trapped like his older coworkers with children and mortgages. He could perhaps still find some passion beyond Caitlin, beyond taking orders. Yes, his desires would someday be indulged, his passions electrified and his intellect exalted. He wanted to scream, he wanted to holler like a bushman in pursuit of a lion. But he tamed his excitement: he did not want to bother the neighbors. He held the cold, moist cup to his forehead for a second, then rubbed the condensation onto his face. It felt nice until the water dried up.

John began his ritual of sucking the sugar off the ice cubes. His mother and James must have been talking outside still because the house was silent. When he finished with the ice cubes he tossed the cup into the recycling bin. He walked into the bathroom, shut the door, and took off his pants. He again looked at his reflection, bare but erect.  The world is too much, he thought. At the base level everything is anarchy. All else is purely our imagination.