XLV.

Posted by Jeff Craven on January 4th, 2009 filed in Writing

I didn’t even notice

You’ve got to be kidding me. I’m late. So fucking late. Running out the door like the house is on fire late.

I am late for work because for some reason my alarm never went off. I always set it at the same time every night: 11:23 p.m., right after I settle in with Jamie and watch the end of the Daily Show with Jon Stewart. Then, I turn over, look her in her beautiful sky blue eyes, run my hand through her bleached blonde hair, and turn the bedside lamp off. It’s like that every night.

So now I’m up, jumping around trying to find my clothes like some deranged monkey flinging its excrement at horrified zoo visitors and I can’t seem to find any excrement. It’s gone. In fact, most of my stuff is gone. I rummage through the dresser on my side of the bed to find that all my clothes are gone. My briefcase is gone, too. Completely missing. Did Jamie decide on a whim to burn the midnight oil and suddenly donate everything I owned to Goodwill while I was asleep? What the hell? There must be something here.

Finally, I find something. A baseball jersey and a pair of ratty old jeans from the “I’m unique” stage I went through in college. The guys at the office are going to love this. I pull on the pants, finding that they fit surprisingly well in the five years they’ve spent derelict in my closet. The Phillies jersey has a nice mothball smell to it and there’s a giant hole where the P should be. Hillies. My favorite baseball team. Just for good measure, I throw on a Phillies cap hiding in the corner of the shelf in the closet. Now I’m set for work.

I run out the door to find that the car is gone. Awesome. This day just keeps getting better and better. Remembering Al Gore’s infinite wisdom, I decide to walk the four blocks to the cubical farm rather than contribute to the destruction of humanity. But it’s not so much walk, and more like run as I realize that there is no way in hell my boss is going to let me live this one down. I was supposed to give a presentation today on how the company could cut costs to save money without cutting jobs. If I am any later, my boss would solve that problem for all of us by cutting my job.

I’m almost there. Less than two blocks to go. Maybe I’m overreacting a bit. After all, I’ve never really been known for being late to work before. I imagine what my boss, Tony, would have to say to me.

“Jenkins! We missed your presentation earlier. We’re wondering how it was.” Tony’s always been a smug asshole, but I don’t think he would fire me over just one day. One block left. I think I’m in the clear.

Until I hit yet another roadblock, but this one’s a bit more literal. There are two police cars horizontally parked across the intersection preventing traffic from going through. An officer dressed in a yellow vest waving traffic around the wreckage of a crumpled car. There’s no running here: I stop to survey the damage. I accidentally kick a suitcase lying on the ground and it skids across the street. I chase after it and pick it up, looking to deliver it to one of the officers wandering around.

I trod up to one of the officers surveying the wreckage. I yell out to him, but he doesn’t answer. I yell again. Still no answer. I shrug and set the briefcase down on the hood of the car. It’s here I realize that the smoldering pile in front of me is very familiar.

It’s my car. Did someone steal it? Did Jamie take it to—oh God, Jamie. Please tell me she’s all right.

I look at the briefcase and flip the scuffed locks open. All my documents, spreadsheets, and pictures are inside. The golden name engraved on the outside rim, “Robert T. Jenkins,” sparkles in the morning light.

You’ve got to be kidding me.