Cubicles - Chapter Three

Chapter Three

Mold – the smell of it burns in my nostrils. I feel the gagging reflects come into action, and I heave forwards, I gag several times. Vomit rushes up my throat, I taste it on my tongue, and it begins to run down the corners of my mouth and drips onto the floor. I have to stop living like this. The dishes are stacked in grimy piles near the sink, I’m not sure how many days I’ve been unemployed - just like I’m unsure whether my neighbor has two cats and one dog, or two dogs and one cat. But things like this don’t matter. All that matters to me right now, is getting a job. But I don’t want any job, I want my old job. Because I don’t have the guts to just come marching back in, and having toad-man looking at my work from over my shoulder.

I couldn’t care less about my friends. Really, they weren’t my friends, just co-workers. There was only one woman who I felt something more for, but she moved off and got married. Now I’m alone. Now I have absolutely nothing.

I know, I sound stupid, I sound like a whining two year old. But this is how I feel. In a way I do want my job back, I want the economy to be back to what it was. The first night I came home I remember waking up in the middle of the night, thinking it had all been a bad dream. Now, I’ve been thinking, if I have nothing to live for then what’s the point of living? Sometimes, thoughts crept into my mind. Things I shouldn’t take pleasure in thinking about.

But, I thought about these things. I pictured myself, my body hanging from the ceiling, a twisted rope knotted around my neck, my face blue and bloated, and my eyes wide and gaping at the wall. Now, I know this isn’t something I should think about. I know I should go see professional help if I’m thinking about these things seriously.

I look at my reflection in the mirror, and I look like hell. My green eyes which are usually serious and wide awake - are now red and heavy with lack of sleep. And my skin, it’s plain, not pale or tan. I would never, in a million years, describe myself as attractive – with my brown shaggy hair that sticks out everywhere, and the stubble on my face from lack of a good shave – I’d say I’m far from it. Then again, don’t even celebrities believe themselves to be ugly once in a while? After all, isn’t that why they fall into the trap of plastic surgery?

My thoughts are always drifting back to death now, I never thought of it before, even when my grandfather died at the age of twelve. I didn’t think of it happening to myself.

‘It’s a fact of life,’ my father had told me on his deathbed only two or so years ago. ‘I don’t want you crying, it happens to all of us. Don’t mourn my death, I’ve lived my life, and I’m proud of it’.



And that was it. I never thought of death as anything bad. If someone was murdered on television, then it was just their time to go, and that was the way they were meant to be sent to the grave. If a pregnant woman was stabbed to death, then she wasn’t meant to have her child, neither her nor the child were going to live another day on this cursed world. Now, I’m not saying that this is true, it’s most likely not. I’m just saying how I feel. As for what happens after death, I don’t think that matters to me, I won’t worry about it until I’m dead. And when that happens, I’ll find out.

Now, I was becoming really into suicide, like, seriously considering it. I mean, it was either that or starving to death because I had no money for food. So, I was serious, I had finally marked a date on the calendar and everything. And for the rest of the week I was going to straighten up my relationships, say goodbye to everyone I know, all that. So, as I’m walking to the couch with a phone in hand I flip through the phone book. It falls out of my hand, and lands face up on an advertisement.

The job is nothing that big, some man who needs a caretaker because he’s in a wheelchair from an accident that happened a month ago. I’m interested. Not because I want to help the man, but because of the amount of money he’s offering. I’m staring at the ad and thinking ‘Dang, this guy is filthy rich!’. And I know that I have to get this job before someone else takes it. So, I pick up a phone, and dial the number.

I wasn’t put on hold, in fact someone answered on the second ring. How eager is this guy? I think as he coughs on the other end, he’s coughing loudly, and clears his throat several times, leaving me waiting and in an awkward position.

“Hello?” he rasps, his voice is a deep growl, finally he clears his throat and his voice comes out clearer and stronger. “Hello?” He asks again.

“Hello,” I reply, forcing myself to sound as polite as I can despite my lack of a friendly personality. “I’m Nathanial, I was calling in regards to your advertisement in the phone book.”

We talk for about thirty minutes or so, the conversation very formal and awkward for me. It was like my job interview all over again. Finally, he said I sounded perfect for the job, gave me his address and hung up. I hadn’t had a friend for ages, not since Robert, who strayed far from me after a while. And part of me was longing for a friend. Now I’m looking at the sheet of paper, his address written on it in my barely legible handwriting. Placing the sheet of paper on the kitchen counter, I went to sleep, since Kale wanted me at his house by six and his home was going to be a two hour drive.