Over-dramatization of Life: Day One

I have decided, somewhat oddly, to spend the next 30 days writing overly dramatized accounts of some part of my day. The events are based in fact, but fictionalized. Why? Because it sounds like a challenge.

Day One: Horrors.

"I am defeated... humiliated... stalled... and forelorn..." and that was the start of the email. Staring at the screen I couldn't help but laugh. Here, before me, was a plea for maybe £40 more towards the contract. "I beg... I plead... this is an insult to me."

Surely, this man has nothing better to do than look up the alternatives to suffering in the theasurus. Give it enough time, and you would think that the lack of a week's free maintenance would equal the hallocaust all over again. I slammed the laptop shut. That was enough.

"What terrors alight in the man whose contract is not what they wish!" I exclaimed, to no one imparticular. Next to me, the System Administrators looked up briefly from their bank of computers. With what would be considered a sort of group ritual they stared bewildered at me for a moment, then returned to their PuTTY screens. I had be yabbering about this man for days, they were out of quips.

Air, I needed air. Before I could start typing back the moaning client with words starting with "Dear Mr. Butthead, Shove it. Kind regards..." I needed a walk. There was mail, and down the street, a postbox. I would go there and back and by then a nice, civial response would form in my head.

"Be back!" I yelled as I jabbed the green 'Exit' button. The door opened and then locked shut right behind me. Three flights of stairs, three letters, and a 15 minute walk and I would be right as rain. Of course, I never really understood that phrase until moving to England. Where if it didn't rain after a day people became paranoid and declared an Earth emergency.

I stepped into the gray sunshine and instantly felt the gravel begin to invade the £4 Primark shoes. I had them on because they were flat and fit into my gym bag. Days I ran into work I never had to think about clothes. Not that I needed to think about clothes in a software firm where most of the 90% male population wore the same 5 shirts, but I did strive to be clean and match.

Up ahead of me was this masonry company whose parking lot read like a luxury dealership. I wasn't quite sure if they were really a masonry shop, but there were blocks of things were were trucked in daily, and apparently if you sold enough you got a Mazaradi. I was particularly fond of the red one, which, of course, is cliche. But there it was - front and center, outshining all the other cars that were worth more than my life.

Clutching the letters and the jumper on my form, I acted as casually as possible as I moved as close as possible to the vehicle. "One day," I said in a whisper, "I will have nothing better to spend my money on than a vehicle. Screw world hunger." I could see my reflection on the polish. The messed bun, the Primark shoes, and a man, who was standing right behind me.

"Ohmagawd!" I screamed out and turned. He stood there, patiently, black suit perfectly pressed. "I swear, I swear I was just looking. I wasn't going to do anything to it." I stumbled out. I was a good 20 feet away from the car, had I been heading there so purposefully that he had to ensure it's safety?

His silence rattled me more. He wasn't tall or imposing or the kind of power figure you would think owned a car like this. I really didn't know who actually would outside of the 80s jerk characters in movies. The highest I have ever gotten up on the luxury car rung was a Land Rover.

"It's not a problem," he said back. But that was all. There was no approach, no retreat, nothing. A man in a perfectly pressed suit was staring at me intently. Inviting me to converse.

"It's a nice car." I said, shifting and grinding more gravel into the cheap shoes.

"Hmm." came the response. Still standing. Still intent.

"I'll just go. Sorry. I wasn't planning to touch it," and with that I turned, though I could feel his stare on my neck. I had worn my 'fat jeans' that day, so it wasn't like my butt was looking particuarly recognizable today. Though, still, I didn't feel that the look was sexual. It was more, well, intentional.

I walked towards the postbox. Turning briefly and noticing he was gone. Thank God. Apparently the Mazaradi set includes well dressed, soft spoken lunatics. And to the postbox I went, all the while feeling the gravel grinding out the bottom of my tights. I had had enough of loonies this week, having dealt with the mother of all over such a small amount of funds that it would bring you to tears. In the phone conversations he wailed away about his numerous problems, as if somehow I would eventually bend to what I considered excuses. In the last conversation he spoke of 'pressing me to consider before it all went wrong.'

I gave a wide bearth to the car lot on my way back, and the moment I opened the main door I realized I had forgotten the keys to my floor.

"They are going to give me hell for having to press the buzzer," I thought. Shaking the shoes outside, I slipped them on and headed back in. When I reached the top stair I noticed the light over the hall had gone out. Standing in the dimly lit cooridor I realized I would need to tend to that right after I got back into the office.

As my hand headed to the buzzer I could here the ladies room door opened. This was weird, as I was the only one who used it on this particular floor. I turned, but as I turned I only seemed to help along the metal bar coming in the opposite direction. The connection was painful, direct. Cold metal against bone. Crack. And as I slid down the wall facing opposite the door I heard these words, "I am humiliated...stalled...forelorn...but I will not be defeated..."