Onward
Jack sits motionless at his cubicle staring at his computer screen. 112 messages in his inbox and a stack of files to his right, 15 or so deep, all waiting. Waiting for him to take action, but he can’t move.
He hates it. The computer, the job, his clothes, his life, his inability to act. It’s the same routine every day. Wake up, shower, dress in the corporate uniform, fight traffic, sit in a putrid yellowish prison of steel and cloth and review cases while attempting to avoid gossipy busy bodies whose entire lives seemingly revolve around office politics and which fast food dump they’ll select at feeding time.
The goal of the review is to save THE COMPANY money and make the bosses richer, although such action almost always means some poor soul somewhere, some little person that apparently doesn’t matter, will die while profits soar.
A mother with systemic disease joins the unemployed. She’s racked by pain and her disfigured limbs are now useless to the corporation she formerly served. Daily, she contemplates how she might bring about her own death. She’s the product of his work.
He knows he’s guilty. He’s one of them. He brings these things to pass and his guilt cuts through him like a scythe.
During his break, he slips away. He dreams of living under a viaduct. Dropping out and no one ever knowing what happened. Working as a ranch hand in Southwest Texas. Washing dishes in Marfa. Anything but this, a life that’s a gaping wound, draining his spirit.
Finally, he closes the laptop, stands up, shoves the chair back under his desk and walks out.
“Under the desert sun, in that dogmatic clarity, the fables of theology and the myths of classical philosophy dissolve like mist. The air is clean; the rock cuts cruelly into flesh; shatter the rock and the odor of flint rises into nostrils, bitter and sharp. Whirlwinds dance across the salt flats, a pillar of dust by day; the thornbush breaks into flame at night. What does it mean? It means nothing. It is as it is and has no need for meaning. The desert lies beneath and soars beyond any possible human qualification. Therefore, sublime.”
His things are already packed and in the truck. They’ve been there for two years. Crossing the Mississippi, he looks back at the city. Behind him, towering grey edifices cut through the sky like shards of glass. They’re hosts to parasites, the bloodsucking apostles of growth. CEO’s, corporate lawyers, real estate agents and people selling solutions for erectile dysfunction, bad debt and insomnia. None of it works.
He decides to stop just past the state line and lighten the load. He walks to the edge of the bridge and hurls his cellphone over the edge into the swirling chocolate abyss, walks back to the truck, turns off the radio and drives onward.
Onward. To the desert. It calls…..
Excellent writing!