The Hallway

Toward the end of the semester with each joke, or commotion one could visually see the mans patience break. I remember it was a Thursday; another classic. Around the class a gambit of jokes and laughter bounced from row to row. Usually Mr. K would turn, make a sly remark, and remind us of an upcoming due date. Specifically on this Thursday he turned silently and gazed across the class with a look of what at the time felt like sadness. With age, I now see it as a profound sense of defeat. He walked purposely down the row, locking into my bagged youthful eyes. With only a gesture of the hand, I was directed outside. In fairness to him, up to that point in the class it had been my comedy club. A masterclass in mediocre teenage humour; a lecture on hormonal crowd work. Alone in the quiet hallway, on each side matching grey and green bricked walls with beige lockers stood, in what seemed like perfect symmetry. I stood in contrast as the anxiety poured on. He swiftly exited the class, moving fast and effectively. With each movement moving to utterly mitigate the reverb of the closing door. The state of his tired face, and salmon pink dress shirt between the beige lockers is burned in my mind. After a large inhale, he put his hands in his pockets and softly said,

“At the cost of real potential, you are committing to the collective, because everyone feels safe in a group. But being safe, is to disappear, and disappearing is to divert from what makes you, you. Nothing is worth that.”

In a few simple sentences, I was leveled. Every lonely night had been a musical note in the crescendo of my conformity.

In the final hours of my time there, I left his goodbye for last. Eventually, I stood in the hallway like an anxious fan; yearbook and pen in hand. Nonetheless, all that was to be found was an empty room of lonely, cleared desks. However, somehow that seemed to be the perfect goodbye, the lack thereof.

Sudden Reality

  Every morning began the same way. That same alarm clock that I had since I was thirteen reverberated between the walls of my apartment. The only perk of this new job was seeing the city before it imploded by seven. There was a beauty in the stillness of the air. Maybe this was only beautiful because I knew in only an hour, I would be another cog. In the machine that would fill the air with that distinct city buzz. The towers and buildings still shine down into the streets. I carefully maneuvered between the stacked manuscripts that occupied every surface. Usually, I would take this time to sit down, make a coffee, light a cigarette, and get at least a chapter done; for one of the many stories, I had on the go. The real issue these days had become choosing which of the countless to contribute to. Every stack represented a different escape that I had been forced to leave. The darkness within my room had been shadowed further by the purple haze of that winter sunrise. However, those bagged eyes stood out in the mirror of my sliding closet door. I reached in and pulled out my Wednesday go-to. A navy suit jacket, beige pants, and cream shirt alongside my favorite paisley tie. I sat in the kitchen for some time. Staring at that silly work case gifted to me by Michael at last year’s Christmas party. It was a leather-bound briefcase. Across the front in bronze casing, it read “Freeborn Legal Services” regardless of its usefulness in transferring court writings from the office and jolly ranchers from the convenience store across from the courthouse; it stood as a signifier of class. To make sure that any wondering human would understand where I worked, like a stamp of submission; but more importantly ownership. I had spent eight formative years working to this position. Completing major after major, traveling across the country in order to find the version of who I wanted myself to be. Nonetheless, in these moments I knew I had my stories. A reflection of an easier time. A reflection of home. That week I had been working on the first volume of my novel  “Arthur Hunt: Covert Operations” while mostly for amusement, it was my ode to those same spy novels that transported my youth to faraway lands and ultimate danger. This weeks writers block had lasted six days. Probably because of the Merryweather manslaughter case that Adam had thrown across my desk the previous Thursday. Which itself had consumed my every waking moment. Samuel Merryweather had been charged with first-degree manslaughter. Samuel contested he wasn’t on his phone, and that the cocaine found within his system was weeks old. Which played no part in his reportedly erratic driving. This is because as in his own words it was “a standard within the trading community” I sipped my coffee and wandered to the shower. Constantly asking myself “What would Arthur do” on my way down the icy and loud morning city streets.

  While I’m sure Adam would want to hear that we were comparing case notes to witness statements. Mostly I was assessing new material. Margarat had this way of cutting out the uselessness of words. Often, I would be mid-sentence and hear a sudden “Stop! That’s boring” from the corner couch. While blunt; it was a helpful tool. Regardless, every night ended the same. Cigarettes on the roof. I can vividly remember one time, we smoked in the stairwell, leaving the rooftop access door a jar. She was a fan of modern French philosophy, Star Wars, and thrillers. She had been the biggest contributor in creating “Arthur Hunt” a former C.I.A analyst turned contract killer. He was a modern spy. He traded his martinis for late-night red bulls and deep thought. He was a walking contradiction. On one hand a stone-cold killer. Recovering “packages” from garbage bins, building suppressed nine-millimeter pistols within bathroom stalls. While on the other, he was also unable to sleep from the damage he had seen and inflicted. Frequently breaking down within his safehouse bedrooms. A true representation of masculinity. All writers include aspects of themselves in their characters; I think Arthur was my morals. Stuck between the commitment to this work, and the reality of who I was working for in all aspects.

            I was making what we call “the walk of death” around the office. Over the course of the next hour. Individually, all of the 5 new partners would make their walk to Adam’s office to present their own opening statements. Normally, the statement that made it would be in there for just over 27 minutes. Every other door in the office was the recognizable beige of fake wood. Each had the same silver handle with no locking mechanism. However, his was different. Featuring dark maple staining, the top middle of the door held a gold plaque that read “Adam Freeborn (Co-founder and Lead Partner)”  The handle itself was a bronze globe, like the handles of my childhood home. I stood outside the door with bated breath. Maybe it was the combination of my lack of enthusiasm and my interpretation of the client. With every closing of my eyelids, I saw flashes of Arthur Hunt’s new mission. It was all I could focus on, unlike other days when I would forcibly silence the artist. Something inside of me was screaming and clawing for expression. After fiddling with my watch, to set a twenty-seven-minute vibrating alarm. I put my hand around the bronze globe and whispered to myself

“You are Arthur Hunt”

A Sequence of Somewhat Distant Memories

The parking lot had been blanketed in sheets of freshly fallen snow. As the tires of that beaten Escape drove spot to spot, the snow made its distinct buzz of compression. An ironic reflection of the driver; filled with the competing emotions of curiosity and impending collision. In parking, the lights of the bar signs that once danced across the dashboard now stood reflected in absolute stillness. Like a lighthouse of desperation, calling onto those young and old who wished to make their night and life even more complicated. It had been four years since they had last read each other’s words across the screens of their phones, let alone spoken face to face. For both parties, their mere presence stood as a time capsule of dark days. When the price of liquor was cheaper than the price of trauma. Where the banks of foreign lands, destroyed the finances of newly created families. Little had changed between them; always more friends than family. Things were better this way. The advice was less adamant and life lessons were never expected. Thinking of that young man, on that cold February, Friday is a frequent thought these days. Sat alone in the family car. The sound of Frank Ocean through blown speakers echoing across the original floor mats; Which had seen the soles of uncounted adventures. Smelling like cologne from that year’s Christmas stocking, probably from Grandma; admittedly with a hint of cannabis. Life itself was unruly in its dichotomy. Holding the letter filled with promises that had been slipped through the mailbox two weeks earlier, like many before it. My deep sigh was muffled by the reverberation of the cars heating. Every fiber of my body stood in protest, demanding a sound reason as to why this was happening. It wasn’t your standard nervousness; it was the definition of overwhelming

Nonetheless, the warmth of rushing air from the opening and closing bar door pulled everyone towards the lights. With each smoking patron opening the door, the previously suppressed sounds of the bar blasted into the outside street. From the sound of clinking glasses and moving stools, between the multitude of conversations; all occurring simultaneously in space and time. He purposely passed the front entrance and entered the wood lined room, featuring a large rectangular bar draped in various laminated flags. As he maneuvered himself betwixt the table of young people; whom he was sure he remembered from a Saturday night escapade. Next to the standing older couple. They were quietly arguing, about who had forgotten to buy a lightbulb for the front porch. He reached a small table with a booth back, underneath a painting of a lake.