After another sleepless night, Jeff didn’t feel much like his usual self as he clambered out of bed. His deliberations were devouring with wombat skill the court of his mind. The ferociousness was enough to present him with a migraine. A pill to start the day and he was rolling.
"Damn neurotransmitters are messing with me. I don't know how much more of this I can take".
As far back as he could remember, doctors were never able to help him with his inability to get past stage 1 of the sleep cycle. He never could quite get to REM as so many do. He was deprived of the type of slumber people tend to brag about. In fact, Jeff had grown impatient with people who claimed to 'go out like a sack of cement the minute their shit filled heads hit the pillow.’
He also tried everything within limits to lull himself to sleep. People's advice and suggestions were many. From eating bananas to sipping Port nothing worked. God, he even listened to tapes of the ocean tide for three hours. He was closer to suicide than slumber after that incident. He had read somewhere that people who suffered from sleep depravation did not have sufficient melatonin in them. Perhaps the time had come to buy some pills. He tried to avoid supplements but he did not see any other alternative. He resolved himself to go pick some up at the pharmacy at some point.
Lack of sleep has been blamed for many -and there were many - of his problems. As a teenager he was diagnosed with Restless Legs Syndrome.
Whatever caused his affliction be it decrepit DNA, bad learned behavior, bad habits - he was fond of espresso before going to bed. The darker and smokier the roast the better - it did have an impact on his unacceptable math skills - and a colorful assortment of nervous ticks. Shake a leg wasn't a timeless cliché to him but a real habit.
The neighbor - so magnificently irritating - wasn't helping matters. Arms folded, Jeff found himself paralyzed between the failure to sleep and obsessed with the movements of his actions. Which of course, only made him more tense.
"Who in their right mind does laundry at midnight?" The humming sounds of a dryer would be comforting to some. To Jeff it was an invitation into the unstable mad parts of his brain. He could never add up enough bravery to confront them. Oh, he imagined it alright. Playing over and over in his mind what he would say but he never acted on it.
This was just a thought to him. He knew he would never get to it. Besides, Jeff was not convinced his neighbor spoke English with any clear diction. He wasn't an immigrant but one would not know it by his speech for a third generation citizen. Jeff would rather put up with slamming doors than listen to a byproduct of a dilapidated broken school system.
There was no need to describe his neighborhood. One just had to witness the local regressed vernacular. It stank to Jeff. He was not fit for life in the city. He had taken to wearing earplugs all day long to block out the noise around him - A habit that saved him from biting his nails to his skin. Despite feeling like an outsider in his district, he still could see the charm that it once held. Old stock Italians, Ukrainians, Irish and French-Canadians moved and settled here and never budged.
Such was his life: his morning. He was not accustomed to such a lethargic pace. He searched for energy but could find only a black out.
"I don’t feel like a man, man. Time for a change," he murmured to himself with an awkward smile. He had no clue what he meant by that. The theme of this day - one among several hundred - had been set.
The television - one Jeff had been hoping to replace for several years now - was on all night. The TV set was still on by sunrise, and Jeff watched with perverse enjoyment a crying soldier wearing slippers while protesting some war.
These images seemed to stiffen Jeff. The intensity in his eyes was noticeable. Had anyone had been there, they would have surely felt the immediate tenseness that invaded Jeff's nerves like Tamerlane's army. Jeff prepared himself for work.
On his way to the shower, passing by vintage frames on the walls of his hallway, Jeff inspected his face. He attempted to floss his teeth but was not able to cut the floss from the built-in cutter.
"This is a nice start to the morning," he muttered staring down at the sink noticing grime build up. He immediately reached for the cleaner and began scrubbing.
He returned to the floss with little success as he had more than enough floss to strangle someone. One would get the feeling that if someone were there - and he's lucky nobody was - he would not hesitate. Whether floss was an effective murder weapon was unclear.
His light, piercing green eyes were not stabbing the mirror this morning. Jeff's normally stylish careless hair, long and multiple in various shades of brown, had decided it needed to be combed, lest he look aesthetically foolish to the world at large.
Carefully selecting a hand cream for his persistently dry skin, Jeff began thinking of the female race. These angels who possess certain organs men could not resist were less from Venus and more from Pluto as a result of forward progress. Life's social complexities demand that men and women blur the lines that once segregated them. "These aren't the 20s that's for sure" as he applied cream. "Women want real men. I don't care what feminists say or think. They want to be held around their wrists or waists firmly. They want to be pulled towards their man."
Once the mechanical and superficial check-up was complete, this intriguing specimen crawled into the shower. His routine was very much like a car moving along on an assembly line. This was no handmade custom Ferrari.
Later, upon completion of a thorough cleansing that lasted about 18 minutes, he crept toward the kitchen to make himself breakfast - French Toast with a slice of cantaloupe and some icing sugar.
In his routine, disrupted by inner-thoughts that continued to hammer at his senses, he almost forgot to prepare a cheque for his favorite charity. Jeff was a diligent person and remained loyal to his charitable duty. Jeff had problems -like being stuck in a job that meant little to him for instance -- but he had always kept a sense of healthy if not absurd perspective. Some may have quipped without fact that Jeff wasn't always aware of his humanistic side until recently. In Jeff's defense, that was a tad harsh. It's a simplistic art this kind of cynicism. A cynic finds a home for the hopeless.
Dressed exquisitely in earth tones, he padded his hands and knees and began to dial the phone. 555-2671, "Hello? Mrs. Dwyer? It's Jeff. Will you be needing anything today?"
A few years ago, Jeff's best friend Eric was killed in Afghanistan. Eric was not only a friend to Jeff but also a big brother and a mentor. When the news came home about his death it crushed Jeff.
It also meant that Eric's mother had no one to take care of her in her old age. Suffering from arthritis the pain was so penetrating it rendered her incapacitated just like the British royal family. She needed help. Eric's father Mike, died when he was 14. It had always been just Eric and Elaine. Until he was killed that is. This is where stepped right into the role of helping her.
"Ok, I'll call you tonight." He hung up and went for the door. A glance around his place and with a satisfied demeanor was off.
His day started with the usual startled stares, bemused glances and befuddled faces as he waited for the elevator. Jeff painted on himself the expression prepared for the occasional person who would fall over him.
"Hey, why don't you look down while you're walking, jerk?" Jeff hollered to the alarmed expressions of people. "Why don't people notice me?" he wondered. Out of nowhere he heard a voice. "You're built too low, sir." It was a child, no more than seven years into his life. Such maturity and insight he thought!
He tried to keep his head up, but today was difficult. Along the walk to his office, stockbrokers were getting their hands manicured and other white-collar professionals were having their hair styled at a trendy hair salon. A fight broke out in a shoe store between two men fighting over the same pair of footwear. They also hissed at one another.
"It seems," he thought to himself, "the only real men 'round here are construction workers."
This led, inevitably, him to a cliched ephemeral reflection of his life. Quickly, it began to emerge that his appearance was possibly hampering his advancement. He thought about time when he attempted to make the track team in high school. He excelled in none of the disciplines - be it the long jump, high jump or 100 meter dash. It never bothered him. Until today.
"You did your best" his mother - that cryptic woman - would tell him.
Was it his best? Or did he just - to quote a famous line - suck? "Was mom lying to me all these years?" This nostalgic voyage into a time since played had to wait as he reached the building where he worked.
Before heading to his office he stopped at LVCS - La Villa Coffee Shop. The line was uncomfortably long that morning. It so happened, to make matters worse, that he was right in the middle of a parade of commuters disembarking the subway. Much to the annoyance of everyone, Jeff, who was not particularly agile, slowed down the collective frenetic paces of a thousand shoes. With a swirling wind of passersby bumping and shoving their way past him without care to his presence a sudden moment of self-inspection filled his mind "No wonder I always finished last".
Nervously he said to himself, while looking down on the ground, "They're like Goddamn rat-squirrels in a cage without nuts." He was glad when the line moved as it took him out of the firing range.
Jiles had been observing all that transpired. Over time Jeff got to know the tall black gent behind the counter, who also happened to own the place. Big, muscular and reliable Jiles was a model worker.
"The usual, Jeff?" Jiles asked. "Yes." "'Spresso! Hey, you hear me, gal? I said 'srpesso. Presto." Jiles, in his athletic black manliness, lightly shouted to his worker. He was cordial and always asked - as if it were worth anything to him - when and if Jeff was ever going to be a 'stand up guy'. "The lunatic fringe belong to the unstable night" he would say.
Jeff never understood what was meant by anything Jiles - the black man behind the counter with an apron - would utter. He reached for his espresso, as he continued to observe Jiles and reflected upon the comment.
On his way to his office, balancing a copper mug on his back, the hounds of discrimination hounded him.
"Hey, freak! Can you spit shine my shoes for a Miss Drury token?" The laughs around him were louder than usual. His fists tightened. His heart began to pound with the fury of a Joe Louis punch.
The taunting never bothered him before but suddenly the stereotyping stung him. No matter how severe and malicious the jeering were, Jeff refused to file any complaints or join any special interest group that was all the rage. He felt they did more harm than good to the people they purported to help.
He slithered into work without saying hello. He didn't notice the fresh coat of gray paint on the walls. Though he did notice that the carpets remained dirty as ever.
Mick, a colleague, walked over to Jeff's tightly kept and well-decorated office. "What's up with you this fine dreary morning, Jeffy?"
Without acknowledging the question, Jeff curtly and without warning asked Mick what he thought of him. Mick, while scratching his bald indecisive head, was caught off guard and was inarticulate - as was usually the case when he was under pressure. "Er, well, Jeff, it is kinda strange. Ah, forget it. I was made manager today!"
Jeff wondered to himself how this could be so. Upon reflection, Jeff understood Mick was an essential to the corporate world. He possessed the three 'U's' critical for vertical movement - Unmarried, unimaginative and unaware.
Some people reserved the wall behind them for a picture frame or painting that reflected who they were. Others, who have no such values, used the wall as a smokescreen to mask their shallow qualities. For Mick, a generic frame with planes flying in synchronized fashion was enough for him. Superimposed on the rainbow was the caption "There is no 'I' in teamwork. Just 'Us'." This is the type of man he was.
Jeff climbed onto his desk "Congratulations. I didn’t know you were up for a promotion." "Thanks." A pause ensued. "Be truthful. I insist." "Well, it's…." Jeff waited eagerly.
"It's odd how you move around on all fours. I don't know how you do it."
There was another pause. Not a breather typified by its deadness but one closer to a semi-coma. Mick, as if a weight had been lifted from his partially wide and non-threatening shoulders, was empowered to say more.
"Actually, it's sort of creepy that you never grew out of something the rest of us did when we were a year old. What I don’t get is why?"
Shocked and amazed at Mick's obvious assessment, this was something Jeff was determined to find out.
Jeff thought about Mick's move to management. Mick was a lot of things but management fabric suited him like clothing from Old Navy suited a Tibetan Monk. Mick's code of ethics lacked any dynamic equations needed to deal with the complexities of Mankind. It was all about him and he went through life trying to make being inoffensive a scientific discipline; never ruffling his own feathers let alone other people.
Was this a strong indictment of his character? Possibly. Jeff knew as well as anyone that there are many Fishbein's in this world - People who occupy positions they have no business holding. It's the plain fact of life.
Still, he liked Mick very much and found him to be a conscious and diligent worker. He just did not think Mick was fit for such an endeavor. It was very much similar to an athlete who trains for a 10k run and tries to run a 25k. The athlete is bound to fail. On the other hand, he of course was more capable. If only he made sounder choices in his life. One of Mick's favorite quotes for the last 4 years was 'It's not my problem." Now he wonders how Mick will react about suddenly inheriting everybody's problems.
All this personal gossip came to a halt with the powerful shouts of their boss. "Mick! Where's that son of a bitch?" "Y-yes, sir?" "Where in shitty hell are those reports, Mick? Are you already trying to make me look bad one day into your new post?" Mick was frozen. Like a tasteless cauliflower.
Without much thought and with affirmed quickness Jeff came in to help out his friend. "Mr. Gribbs, if I may?" "What is it, Boyardi?" "The reports were my responsibility. I was not aware they were to be ready today." A stiff glare from a seasoned man who knew a ruse when he saw one looked straight at Mick and said "Fine, Boyardi. I want them in two hours. Got that?" "Yes. Without fail."
Jeff did what had always come natural and it did not go unnoticed. "Jeff, I don't know what to say." "You've said more than enough. Two hours."
After work, Jeff did not head home. Straight to his favorite eatery he went. To digest he crawled around town aimlessly in the dark. Only it wasn't exactly dark. The streetlights made sure of this. Bright enough for Jeff to avoid the pot holes which had become part of the city's rustic architecture.
Everywhere he turned and looked there was someone or something demanding he fall prey to coy advertisements - Do this, think that. At one point on his urban mini-journey, he read a sign in a window that said in order to succeed one needs to find their niche. For a fee, this person could help find that niche. "I'd like to bend him over and show him my niche."
A perfectly happy person would have just gone back home. It was now 11pm and there was no end in sight for Jeff's night. He found himself in a smoky sultry lounge and as a consequence of entering such a saloon drank for a while. "Sambuca black, no ice. Wait a minute with ice. No, make it no ice." "You sure?" "Yes, dammit!"
Maybe it was the atmosphere of the place filled with lost unfulfilled souls that galvanized him. Whatever it was, he uttered to himself as he stared at the glass, "I'm going to do it."
"Pay me?" replied an alluring waitress interrupted. "That would be nice as my shift is officially over."
Ill-at-ease, Jeff struggled to reach his pocket as he asked if he could drive her somewhere.
Why not? She had a certain sensual mysterious flair about her. In her eyes, he could see that a rich history resided in her bones. That history had evolved and unfolded crookedly and had now given way to a struggling contemporary existence. He did not see a mere woman serving drinks before him, but an ancient princess with exalting beauty seeking her kingdom stolen from her.
It was not the sort of 'in your face' provocative beauty prevalent to modern sensibilities, but the kind of subtle beauty not apparent upon a first glance. Understated to the point that if she ever did porn he would never have guessed it. Regardless, one needed to excavate her like the studious mind of an archeologist. He could see the hidden gems of her reincarnated soul - polluted or otherwise.
Her physical form and shape intrigued him. "What a shape to that shadow!" Wide defined shoulders, hips that meshed perfectly with her upper body and legs. She had, in his eyes, ageless pristine hands too. He saw beyond the exterior and believed she saw this in him, too. He pictured the two of them together. Like Swanson and Valentino.
He had become weary of the usual stiffs who camouflaged as women he was used to dating lately. The last three ladies he frequented had a combined 26 fingers, obvious poor dental plans and were property, he was convinced without proper facts to support his creative suspicions, of covert international scientific labs.
She looked at him with a gaze that revealed both astonishment and amused bewilderment. Finally, after she realized he was serious, she murmured "You are not man enough for me. You wouldn’t complete me." Jeff was taken aback. He was so sure that they had a connection.
That was the final straw for Jeff. He never felt so inadequate in his whole life. "How could my usually accurate perceptions have been so wrong? Again! Oh, dear once more I have been fooled!"
