Rosey's Story (Unfinished)

There are days when the sun never makes an appearance, when it stays backstage behind the curtains of the clouds. Maybe it does not feel like putting on the show for a cold, despondent crowd, maybe it too is tired of all the muck going on in the world and it would rather pull down the blinds way down low and be left alone, solely mingling with the stars.
Today the sun did not feel like showing, for whatever reason, and for whatever reason, Clive had to get up and face the dull hours smothering him into submission. He had to walk down the muddled brown stairs for the seven hundredth time that year. Clive would then drag his feet to the shore where he could close his eyes, just for a moment, before his “real” day began. Or the day that counts so much to all but himself. The day when he must put a thin and increasingly fragile skin—a shield, which guarded Clive from all he interacted with. This self-same veil, of sorts, made it so he could face the vileness and despicable emptiness of the society around him. It allowed Clive to simply nod at an ill-intended glance, or so that he could merely dissolve into the other facades around him. Unseen and unnoticed, he had no wish to stir up guile or a spat. This second coat let Clive speak to others with words drained of substance and let him fill up the void with meaningless conversation without shattering with shame. But when Clive got home he would stretch his mouth open wide, let out a long held-in yell, shake his head, and mess up his hair to peel off the slimy skin soiled with the bitterness and sickening falsities of the day. Clive found refuge by numbing himself with excessive sleep, despite the fact that he was a clinically prescribed insomniac. And although insomnia had plagued his entire adolescence, Clive was not always this way. As a child he slept like baby. And as soon as his therapist had discovered this bit of enlightening information he devised a nightly ritual in order to bring Clive back to his boyhood mind and permit him to sleep. It was mix of routine bedtime procedures, meditation, and downing a few glasses of whiskey before rolling into bed. What had brought Clive to this moment in his life? This degrading lifestyle he had succumbed to is not altogether clear. But what is clear, is that Clive had not the slightest inkling of an idea who he truly was. Did it bother him that he had to be damn near medicated to sleep? Or that he had no one to divulge his inner most bouts of joy or sadness to? He had no one to pose a question to and no questions to answer…and he had answers. But none too friendly. See, Clive really just wanted to get by without bothering anyone. He never hurt a fly, he just bobbed along. But all the same he bothered more than he’d have liked. People did not take kindly to his carefully kept “kindness,” but they never showed it flat out. They simply dropped hints, a stabbing glance, a rolling eye, or an all too sarcastic comment that Clive eventually collected until he knew full-well that he had worn out his welcome. And as soon as Clive realized this, as soon as he had had enough proof, and not mere paranoia, Clive felt more lonesome and more frustrated than ever. He thought he had designed his cloak well. Yes, he thought it was seamless and that he was doing just fine with the doldrums of the world. But they had all sensed something just not quite right with Clive, something even…unnatural. It was his feigned normalcy that they had detected, his perfect veil that allowed him to be just as false as the next guy. The coat he donned each day to endure their pathetic, pointless arguments and their rather unfunny and mean sense of humor. Clive thought he was doing them all a favor by abiding by their dim standards of life and thought and interaction. He did not want to kill their buzz, so to speak. Hell, he should be thanked for so ardently playing the part they had cast to him. Or to…well…everybody. But Clive did not receive any kind thanks or approval from the crowd. He did not put on their theatrics with heart. No, he was a terrible actor. His dialogue was completely unnatural and his face was blank as he said a trying phrase, because the emotions were not there. They wanted them to be there but he just could not feel them. He could not feel what they wanted him to feel. And he could not force himself to laugh, laugh, laugh at all their irrelevant jokes. Clive could not sympathize with these people who really did not necessitate sympathy. Clive found their conversations atrociously empty, and therefore most boring. So he kept his trap shut for a good portion of the day. He had nothing to add in the least! But they kept looking, nay, staring at his face demanding some form of real, real dedication to his part, to verify his interest in them. And if they were the directors, they might pull him aside and say, “You know Clive, you’re getting the character all wrong, and you’re really bringing us down with your lack of enthusiasm. You see he wants to be here, he really does care about what they other actors are saying, and if you obviously don’t want the part then,…we’ll just have to call in the understudy, you know, he works really hard for this, harder than you, and I bet he would be a lot more grateful than you are for being in a production as prominent as this.” And they’d do this hoping to scare him into real, prime-time submission—to actually change into the person they wanted. Sell his soul to the devil just to fit their niche for him, and want to fit it, and fit it well. And maybe if they had something more to offer than a hollow crust of an individual, perhaps Clive could get along with them as he and they intended. But there was simply nothing there. Save a few with true gumption and charisma, Clive saw not a soul he wished to associate with. And, I suppose, and Clive supposed, that they noticed this and they did not want an imposter around. Would they like him better if he did not act at all? If he did not try to keep the settings comfortable? If he no longer filled the role? No, I do not think they would have enjoyed that either. Clive had an idea that they did not want to hear how silly they all seemed to him. They could not stand a person as genuine as he, because to themselves, they were as real and as the day is long. They don’t like Clive fake and they would not like Clive real, they would not like Clive around at all. They do not like green eggs and ham. They do not like them, Sam I am.

Clive’s eyelids lifted to present to him the Sea. His eyelids said, “I present to you the sea. Here it is! Hello, sea! Hi Clive. You see it everyday but do you really know what it symbolizes for you? Like a…like a deep metaphor that you used to have de-riddle in high-school English? Or when you listen to lyrics and then sit around actually trying to find out what they mean? Doesn’t it seem kind of like a tub of tears? That’s a lyric. Well, maybe I’m getting carried away here. No? Let me put it this way. Look out there. It is vast. It is endless. Ah, there’s a seagull. Cute. Look how it’s swooping up and down. Way, way up there….and…back down, there he goes, back down and up! Searching for breakfast I’m sure. But look: ocean, stretching farther beyond than you can really fathom. That’s just it. It’s unfathomable. Do you know some parts of the ocean are so deep so incredibly yawning that they don’t even know how deep they are. Scientists! And there’s just no way in telling. They don’t call it, “the deep” for nothing. I mean, what if the sea reached the core of the earth. Well, now, that’s unlikely. But why not… Why, you don’t even know how much time could pass before you would meet land again. And yet, you come here everyday…ignorant of what it offers you. Don’t you get it? You’re here, standing on the shoreline, and it’s out there…its way out there, quite a ways and have you ever even touched it? Have you tasted it? Well, I’d hope not for health’s sake, but have you ever tried cat food? Cause it’s the same deal. So why not…taste it. Taste it. Dunk your head in the ocean. It is a pretty profound part of earth, yes? Go swimming in the profundity. Is your head swimming yet?”
Clive’s eyes were wide with wonder and his breath was held, his legs in a stance as if he was ready to jet into the water. Then he blinks and it’s just the sea again, nothing too special. He looks at his watch. “Work-time” it urges. He pauses before turning away for one last look at the ocean, and he almost—“No,” he thinks, “No, I’m not going to jump in the filthy shallows and I don’t care how deep the freaking ocean is. The deeper the creepier, I say. Plus, I already took a shower today…and I’m going to be late.” Instead he kicks a rock to the waves and tips his hat to the gulls. .

Walking down the street to his “office,” (because it was hardly that) Clive did not recall having eaten breakfast, or dinner the night before, for that matter, and he felt as empty as a school on Christmas. He reached in his pocket to pull out a TLC Kashi bar. Almond and Flax-seed. They made Clive feel pretty healthy. “Tasty Little Chewies,” the label says. “And that they are…” Clive chuckled to himself and gratefully ripped the wrapper open with his teeth.

Clive worked as an assistant at a graphic design firm on north Weber Street. The place was always bustling with grown-up overachievers. It also had its fair share of those who put on the appearance of a go-getter, but who were in fact just as lazy as the bum outside the office doors. These particular people were notorious for losing their head over nothing and then proceeding to scream at people and tear their hair out for equally irrelevant reasons. Clive suspected that putting on these sorts of dramatics made them feel and look more productive and extra serious about work. And the thing that boggled Clive’s mind more than anything was that the boss as well as the other ringleaders actually bought the crock these people were selling. The office also had a few tools in the tool box and that is where Clive was placed. Clive did more work (quite a bit more) than the lazy schemers but a healthy morsel less than the highflyers. This firm was considered a moderately hip place to work. The employees were graced with both creative and intellectual potential. They were all well-learned people who had no less than the wittiest senses of humor.

His shoes, his worn leather lace-ups that he had bought second-hand because they had class and style, called up to him from the ground, “Clive, where are you going to? Your job? Don’t you know you can’t stand it there? Why don’t you keep walking…right on past it and go get something hot to eat. You know you’re starving. Go get a bite, got get a coffee. You could use the caffeine. You’re always so tired. Is that because you sleep so—ah, no! Don’t go inside! Ah…useless.” Clive had taken no heed to the shrewd words of the leather shoes. Time had given them inherent wisdom, but Clive really hadn’t the time. He entered the doors to the office much to the shoes (and his own) dismay.

Clive’s desk was at the far end of the room next to the windows. Everyone thought they were being pretty sly putting him over there. They all hated the back-wall with the windows because it was either excruciatingly cold or stifling. Clive, on the other hand, loved the windows. They were grand and old and had domed tops. The panes were slightly warped with age and in each corner and along the rounded tops were stained glass squares of purple. He would stare out of them and daydream multiple times a day. Or rather, he would simply people watch and wonder, what that man’s name is crossing the street with a black hat on. Or where did that gentleman grow up? The one who his inspecting the buildings as he walks. And what are those two ladies talking about who are sitting outside the café? Is that person depressed? They look so sad. Is that one married? Did that one go to school somewhere nice? They look fairly smart. Is she just visiting or does she live here? Now, he looks content, I can’t see why. And Clive could make-up back stories for each and every one of them, and be lost in a stranger’s world for long bouts of time before someone barked at him and chucked a stack of papers his way.
Clive usually had only about ten minutes to himself in the morning, to work on his assigned tasks before he would be interrupted by someone demanding this or that. Today, not three minutes had passed before Jarline sped over to him and slapped a stack of papers in front of him. They all had the same logo printed on them over and over but in different colors, sizes, and styles. “Rick says he likes this one” she said, jabbing her finger into one of the logos. “But…” her voice trailed slightly as she frantically leafed through the stack. Ah, she found it. “But with this font,” she continued, pointing at another logo. Clive cringed at her long maroon colored nails which stabbed the two distinctly fashioned logos, as if to kill them. “We need an initial print in…” she looked up at the clock, “…fifteen minutes. Get it done.” Then she was gone. Jarline was always like that. Well, really, everyone was somewhat like that, but Jarline was the worst. She was perpetually frazzled and would always come speed-walking over to Clive. She would be in and out, speaking with such speed and urgency Clive never said a word. In fact, Clive had not said a word to Jarline in about a month and a half. And yet he saw her everyday for five days a week, sometimes six. Not that he actually ever desired to converse with her. Truth be told, Clive would prefer to never speak to her again. He could set records. Jarline had an air about her that gave Clive the willies, but feminists always did.
The office was full of them. Feminists. Or so it seemed to Clive, because they obviously were not all feminists. In all actuality, none of them were feminists. It just appeared that way if you walked in unawares. The women of the office were very strong-willed, most of them seemed angry, and they held much power in the staff realm. After all, the boss was a woman but the C.E.O was male. You give some, you take some. There were of course women who were not so…vicious. Heartless? Cruel. There were also a decent number of men. The office was about two-thirds women and one-third men, so it was not as if they were running a brothel.
As soon as Jarline had turned her back and was gone in a flash, Clive sat still for four minutes. Four minutes, because it took him a minute to take in the order Jarline had assigned him. She always pointed things out to him as if he were a toddler. He was, after all, an assistant. So now, instead of paying too much attention to what she was saying, he would just stare at her face and wonder about her as he had wondered about the people on the street. Jarline’s face filled his view and his mind would wander, “Jarline. Jarline. You look sad, again, Jarline. Like a Christmas song in the middle of summer.Your face hides it well, but not well enough. You see the redness in your eyes? Have you cried? You don’t have to be so serious, you know. You don’t have to be so scared. Are you scared? I understand this is work for you. Are you so passionate about it? I know it is just a job, to make some money, to pay some bills, to buy some comfort, a little luxury here, a little luxury there. Are you angry with me? With anyone? With everyone? Then why are you so stern? Jarline…I hope…I don’t know what I hope for you…” And then she was gone, and Clive would sit for four minutes. A minute to reflect. And another minute to examine the hideous logos before him. The flashy style with the subtle font was to be meshed with the simple one with the gaudy font. Thus, flashy style and gaudy font were demanded by the clients. “Oh come on,” Clive would think, “We’ve designed these so tastefully for you and you change them for the worst.” Then he would take a minute to find some sort of justification for the ugliness of the logo. That’s easy. It suits them well. Ostentatious people with an ostentatious logo. Fair enough. And finally, a minute to accept the unsightly logo as final. Then Clive would set to work. The polished logo would be done in five minutes tops, and onto Jarline’s desk it would go, the product of another man’s senselessness.
At 1 o’clock it was lunchtime. The hour of lunchtime was always random. It lied partly in the hands of the staff’s work efficiency and partly on Jarline’s own diplomacy. Lunch was the time of day when all of the hushed and muffled words of gossip and private conversations were amplified ten-fold all over the office. People chuckled, murmured, murmured louder, louder, and then burst into laughter. Whispered arguments accelerated into fully fledged shouting matches and small talk succumbed to boisterous chitchat. A few oddballs continued to work through the lunch break with nothing more than a handful of trail mix to suffice them. A gaggle of others made it a fervent endeavor to leave the office each and every lunch break and go out to some distant eatery. The rest of the horde stayed behind, at the office, munching on their brown-bagged nutrients or microwaveable provisions. Today, Clive, being painfully hungry and without a lunch, chose to accompany the daily escapees on their trek to a nearby café. It was a group of five. They pushed in their chairs with much haste and rushed out the door with somber but desperate expressions on their faces. As if they could not get out fast enough, as if someone would chain them down if they lingered a moment too long. Clive barely caught up to them clamoring down the stairs with their black wool coats on and their hands deep in their pockets. They spoke quietly but ardently as if they were part of a conspiracy in fear of being overheard. They apparently did not hear Clive coming down after them, and so to prevent their thinking him an eavesdropper and a creep, he stomped noisily down the steps until one of them turned.
“Oh hey Clive,” a tall monotonous guy said. He went by the name of Greg and he was awfully skinny. Some may even suggest, freakishly so.
“Forgot my lunch” Clive responded, “where you guys headed?”
“Just a place down the street,” Greg answered indifferently.
“Ah…” Clive nodded in complacent accord. Other than that initial interaction, few heads were turned and they continued their conversation with no further acknowledgement to Clive’s presence. They pushed through the doors at the end of the stairs and came out onto the street. A chilly breeze greeted their face and they dug their hands further into their pockets. Those who wore boots clicked along the sidewalk. Those who did not simply shuffled and scraped along.
“So anyway,” a girl in black boots continued, “I thought the colors were way off, and I told her, you know, but Chloe just went ahead with it anyway, and it turned out looking terrible”
“Well, of course,” joined another, “never expect Chloe to do anything right”
“Frankly, I think she should be fired, but that’s just me”
“I think that’s everyone”
“I’m starving”
“Do you think she could have let us out any later?”
“Like, I’m going home in a few hours anyway so…thanks”
“Doesn’t a Panini sound amazing right now?”
“I don’t know…a salad sounds pretty good”
“A salad? It’s like two degrees out, why not soup?”
“I’m trying to be healthy”
“What’s not healthy about soup? It’s got vegetables and shit in it”
“Well, leafy greens are supposed to be the healthiest for you. You’re supposed to eat them with every meal”
“Gross. Have fun with that, with your lettuce pancakes.”
“You can put greens on an omelet…or in a breakfast burrito, juice them…you can get creative”
“Why do you keep calling them ‘greens’? Just say lettuce like everyone else”
“I don’t eat ice-berg lettuce, I eat mixed greens, it says it on the box, that’s what they’re called”
“You eat your salad out of a box? Weird.”
“No, not a box. It’s like a plastic container thing…you know? It keeps them fresh”
“Where the hell do you shop?”
“Um, Safeway? Where do you shop?”
“King Soopers. But where do you find lettuce in a plastic box?”
“They’re everywhere. Visit the produce section. Trust me; it really is not that bizarre. At all”
“Guys, have you ever seen lettuce in a plastic box?”
“What, like at the store?”
“Yeah.”
“Yeah, those containers of mixed greens? Yeah. That’s what I get”
“See?”
“Really…”
“Really.”
They turned the corner and entered a small, warm café by the name of “Davinci’s”. Inside, it smelled like coffee and soup. Clive had been there many times. They had good coffee, and many places rarely do. Not that it mattered much to Clive. Caffeine worked wonders on Clive, terrible wonders, and if he drank a cup of regular joe he would not see sleep for days. His limbs would become shaky; people would think he was having a stroke and all hell would break loose. Clive’s stomach growled. He looked up at the menu board. Amidst the neon-colored chalk scribblings he found his heart’s desire, a ham and cheese croissant with a side of bacon and hash browns. After the line had dissipated and the rest of his coworkers were sitting around two small round tables, Clive stepped up to order.
“You know what? We’re actually out of those today,” The bearded man sporting a cap and a band t-shirt with gages in his ears said. Clive knew these types well. Not a single coffee shop was without them. It is a hip enough job for someone making music on the side, hoping their band gets big in the meantime. They are usually in their late twenties, pushing thirty; some of them are even pushing 40. They are either offhandedly charismatic or gratuitously sarcastic. This guy, with the beard and smiling eyes was thankfully on the brighter side.
“Ah, come on…you’re always out of those…,” said Clive his eyes studying the board again for an alternative.
“I know man, sorry, it’s our damn kitchen, they’re lazy”
“Could I just get like a ham sandwich or something? Do you do sandwiches?”
“Yeah, well…our panini’s are excellent and they are just a heart beat away from being a…like a legitimate sandwich. So personally, that’s what I would recommend”
“Okay I’ll just get the ham one.”
“That, we can do” the bearded guy assured him.
“Thanks”
Clive turned around to take in his surroundings. His coworkers were front and center in the middle of the café crowded around a couple of tables. In the outskirts were middle-aged men and women typing on laptops and sitting alone. There were a few two-tops with two people chatting away in low tones. Clive thought how his colleagues must look like real jerks coming in here, interrupting everyone’s peaceful afternoon. They looked pretty dignified and important compared to the gloomy, quiet customers sitting along the walls. At least that’s what they thought. They made quite a ruckus skidding tables together and dragging extra chairs up. They took the liberties of talking far too loud and laughing whenever they had a chance. Clive was ashamed of them and their rowdy behavior. What a transformation from their hushed voices on the staircase at the office. When Clive pulled up a chair, he made every effort to carefully pick it up and set it down soundlessly. He sat down without a word and witnessed another meaningless conversation held by his…peers.
Traipsing up the stairs to the office, everything was soft again. They talked quietly and bitter faces re-emerged. Clive had not left the office for lunch for a long time before today, and he had forgotten what it felt like to come back and see the rest of the workers faces. They were always uninterested, unconcerned, uncaring of this elite group that had breached the prison walls. The air was always very delicate, like you had walked into a graveyard or rather forbidden territory with forty guns pointed in your direction. The majority of the people had resumed working whereas others milled around smoothly striking up a discussion here or there. Most of them, nay, all of them ignored the cluster of workers coming through the doors. Clive knew how it was, as he stayed in at the office nearly every day for months on end. And every time he would be at his desk working when this bunch would come through the doors to disturb the peace. And he would pay no heed but simply think, “Oh, more annoying people to fill up the room. Great.” And he would continue to work. And the incomers ignored the people already there as they thought, “what buzz-kills” and it was all very uncomfortable for about thirty seconds. Of course Clive, and nearly everyone else knew how each side felt but they kept their grudges because it was routine. And after that habitual thirty seconds, the shoulders were dropped and everyone was “family” again and it was all forgotten until the next day when it would happen all over again.
In fact everything at the office was so cyclical that Clive nearly died. But he could not decide if it was due to absolute boredom or total madness. Clive was obviously bored of the people and the barrenness they so zealously pursued. But he was also tired of playing their silly games of human emotion and interaction. He tried to be nice. But then Chloe or Greg or Dave or name after name after name, would send him a message all too clear that they do not need someone to be “nice”. And so, “pardon me,” Clive would think and he would not be nice to those people, he would not be anything to those people, he would steer clear of those people. And then they’d give him looks that asked him, “why so straight-faced? What’s wrong with you? You are always so dull.” And so, “pardon me,” Clive would think and he would try his hardest to lighten up and liven up, but oh no! He had gone too far. What right had he to be happy today? He did nothing special, he made no cunning jokes, and he just worked! What is so enjoyable about work that Clive would be smiling today? And so then Clive would let his happiness seep out of him with every breath and he would not be sad, but more annoyed, but not too annoyed because those people were dense, and they did not know better, and so he would just be empty. And that is when it almost seemed as if people liked Clive, when he was as dry and as empty as a canteen.

Clive was one of the last few people to leave the office that night. It was he, a girl named Lauren, a girl named Kim, and a guy named Ruben. Clive took his jacket from off the back of his chair and put it on rather slowly. The rest of them were talking freely.
“Doing anything exciting tonight?” This was Lauren. Clive could tell that she was actually the one who desired to be asked this very question, but no one would ask her. And her answer would probably be that she was, in fact, doing something exciting tonight.
“I’m eating dinner with my parents who are visiting from Portland” Kim answered sounding less than enthused.
“Oh, that’s nice, how about you Ruben?” Lauren pursued.
“I’m planning on going home, finding something to eat, reading that new Chobsky novel, and going to bed at 9 ‘cause I am ti-i-ired.” Ruben said distantly gathering up his things. There was a beat of silence.
“Clive, what about you?” Lauren asked flatly.
“Huh? Oh…yeah, I’m just going to eat dinner and go to bed”
“boring…”
“I know.”
“Well, I’m going on a date, so you guys should wish me luck, just kidding, haha,”
“Good luck, haha”
“Shut up, Ruben”
“Haha”
“Okay well, I’ll see you guys later,” And Lauren left. Kim and Ruben gave each other looks.
“Oh Lauren,” laughed Kim, and Ruben began chuckling along as if it were a hilarious inside joke. Clive started for the door.
“Have a good night, Clive” Ruben called.
“’Night” Clive answered and flung them both a weak smile. Out of the office and on the streets, Clive began wondering. After he had left, did Kim say, “Oh Clive” and then she and Ruben go on chuckling away? He would not be surprised; indeed, he would be more surprised if they did not do just that. Now, at the end of Clive’s workday, when he could bear the mocking people no longer he felt the tug of sleep more than ever. Sleep, sweet, sweet, sleep. No troubles there. No troubles at all. He would be safe in his bed from the hatred and bitterness of people. He could be alive and be guarded from the judging eyes of the world. He could shrink away and shrivel up into a speck in his sheets. Sleep, his safe haven and his last resort! But it was sleep with a price. Being an insomniac and addicted to sleep was no easy deed. He practically drugged himself to sleep each night, but it was all he could do.
Clive stumbled through the door of his apartment with exhaustion. Sleeping so much began to strip the energy out of him rather than restoring it. He dragged his feet into the kitchen where he searched through the cupboards for a decent thing to eat. And he found it, it was the perfect thing to eat, especially since it came from his childhood, and everything than reminded Clive of his childhood helped him to fall asleep. It was a box of Cheerios that Clive had found, and he at them in a yellow plastic bowl with banana slices on top, just how his mother used to fix them. Clive ate with much eagerness for sleep was knocking lightly at the door. When finished he jumped right into his other childhood rituals. He changed into his cartoon pajamas and brushed his teeth with bubblegum toothpaste. He read himself his favorite frog and toad book and switched his night light on. And this was all very well, he was feeling sleepier and sleepier all the while, but this was not nearly enough. Then, of course, Clive had to sit cross legged on a mat and meditate. He had to envision a piece of his childhood in his mind, a distinct episode, and a strong reverie would take over him. He began to think, “Childhood. Childhood…I was eight, and I had a bowl-cut, I hated that bowl cut. Who gave it to me? Oh yes, Uncle Ron…Uncle Ron. Where was I? On the steps of the brick house in Williamsburg. Oh, I remember,” Clive let out a laugh and he was off, “the trees arched over the steps like a canopy and in the fall I’d run under them and catch the leaves. And in the winter bits of snow would fall on you if you walked under them at the right time. And on a the big tree at the end of the row there was a rope swing, left from the family who lived there before us. I loved that rope swing. It was the best rope swing. And you had to stand on that rock and jump off to swing. And you’d swing high, almost touching the branches and then low and you had to hold your feet in the air so that they would not drag in the dirt and grass below. Back and forth. To and fro. And the wind would blow so tenderly in your face, which felt so nice in the summer. Hmm..hmm...hmm…” At this point Clive was swaying his head slightly back and forth and humming slowly. He was almost asleep but not quite yet, for then came the whiskey. Clive sat up and kept his eyes partly closed, he had to cling on to all the work he had just done to lull him to sleep. He reached under his nightstand for a bottle of Jack Daniel’s and poured himself a glass. He lied down in his bed, put on his bose head-phones and drank his whiskey. He continued to dream as the dissonant chords of Paganini charmed his ears. Of course, the drinking of whiskey was not something entirely from his childhood. Simply, his grandfather allowed Clive a few sips before bed when they were camping and it was cold. As Clive was already almost asleep the whiskey simply finished the work, and courteously knocked him out.
Clive was out like a light by seven thirty, and if he had botched any one of his nightly customs he would never have been asleep at all. Instead, he would be lying in his bed wishing so much that he could fall asleep and be staring at the ceiling be haunted by the misfortunes of his day. Or he would be pacing around reading this and eating that, lying on the floor, on the couch, on the pile of clothes next to the closet, trying to find a comfortable place which would be so kind as to let him sleep. He would most assuredly not be able to fall asleep until about six o’clock in the following morning. No, if it weren’t for these childhood exercises, suggested so brilliantly by his therapist, Clive would be done for.

Clive awoke the next morning on the button. On this day, the sun was barely breaking through the dirty white clouds. It was peeking through the curtains unsure whether to come out and shine or to stay unharmed backstage. And if that was not cheesy enough, I do not know what is. Clive rolled out of bed with a yawn and stretched out his back with a crack. He felt very dull this morning, and very tired of feeling so dull. Clive’s days were bleak, bleak and dreary. I suppose, today he felt something underneath the usual tedium. Something was undeniably astir in his blood, in his subconscious, in the back of his mind where none too many go. There was a certain restlessness and restiveness which was occurring underneath the standard anxiety. Only Clive dismissed this shard of hope and revolution as insignificant and bothersome and it made him nervous. He started his day just like any other, but today he remembered to pack a lunch. The last thing he wanted to do was go out to lunch which that flock of geese he mingled with yesterday. A standard lunch of a sandwich, an apple, some chips perhaps, and a cookie, was prepared by himself for himself.
His legs took him to the shore much quicker today. His walk became much more brisk as he approached the cold gray waters, lapping lightly on the blackening sand. He stepped a bit more gingerly up to the waves and found himself closer than he had ever come to the water. One more step and his leather shoes would be splashed with water, and fill up and soak the bottom of his pant legs. A hint of a smile graced Clive’s face as he came in such proximity to risk. He seemed to begin to enjoy this tinge of edginess. His eyes sparkled, “Ah, Clive, you are back! This is the sea, but you have met it yesterday. You have met it on many days. It held out its hand but you were too busy to oblige. You just walked away. You always walk away. Walk. Walk. Walk. Where are you walking to? To work? To money? To success? Hardly. Maybe. But will you oblige today? Have you found some valor in your schedule today? I surely hope so. It surely seems so. See, you’ve come this far, a little further and there you’ll be. Will you let your clothes get salty? Go on, get your clothes salty. I implore you.” But Clive could not see why he should jump into the ocean. What was so important about getting soaked right before work? He’d have to go home and change. But then he looked at the situation from a different angle. Why shouldn’t he jump into the ocean? He’d never done that before. It could be thrilling, maybe even freeing, and the worst that would happen is that he’d have to go home and change, or maybe he would get sick, but that is neither here nor there. Eventually, Clive sighed and hung his head and said, “All this apathy is killing me.” And with that Clive sucked in his breath and ran headlong into the crashing waves.
It was as cold as ice and Clive laughed hard. His legs carried him into the water and he laughed at the absurdity and at the frigid cold temperature of the water which stole Clive’s breath from him. But in the splash of the cold and the salty dampness and the squish beneath his feet, Clive felt no fear, no fear of anything, and all at once he felt himself to have lost his entire sensible mind. The mind he cultivated so carefully prior to this instant in his life. Oh yes, he had forgotten to paint himself in carefulness and forethought. He had forgotten to cover himself in that veil that protected his mind from considering freshness and novelty, and kept the fire in his belly at a low, low burn. Oh this epiphany was strange. He had to jump into an ocean of wakefulness in order to feel its vigor. He thanked the salty sea water and the cold of the day and the shying sun. He leapt into the air and dunked under water again, splashing around in a vain attempt to get acclimated to the water and warm himself. But it was to no avail. And after moments too short Clive dragged his soggy self onto the shore again and laughed to himself saying, “Well that was a stupid idea.” But he did not mean it, no, he enjoyed that bout of inanity. He was laughing after all! And on the beach he stood shivering for at least a minute. Clive was debating whether to go home and change and be late for work or to just show up to work in these drenched garments. You would think this decision would be easy. But for Clive, with this newly acquired nerve, he really did not care if he arrived at work being completely soaked and smelling like seaweed. It would not be the first time someone showed up looking and smelling like a sea urchin. Thus, Clive trudged along to work ringing water out of his jacket and squeaking in his sodden shoes.
Clive’s appearance did not help him to go unnoticed at the office. After he quietly opened the doors and began squeaking along in the direction of his desk, many took the opportunity to comment on his…guise. A man called Gus from the upper ranks of the business seemed oddly insulted, and his offended eyes followed Clive, without blinking, all the way across they room and to his desk. “Now, Clive…” was all Gus could manage to utter before his confusion took over him and he was forced to only purse his lips take a seat back down.
“Well hey, Clive, what happened to you? It’s not raining is it?” Ruben asked with a badly forged look of concern on his face. In fact it was more like an amused leer.
“Nah, I just jumped into the ocean—I mean, the ocean jumped out at me. It happened really fast and it was kind of confusing. So…”
“Oh really—“
“What smells?” interrupted Chloe.
“It’s Clive” Ruben said, unable to understand why Chloe had failed to notice this soggy cat until just now.
“What? Oh. Wow…that’s really something,” she couldn’t help but laugh. “And what happened to you?”
“I’d rather not talk about it, you know? It’s just one of those things that I’m not really comfortable to talk about right now. If you can respect that...” Clive answered.
“Oh sure….” She said with a crease on her brow.

It was not long before Jarline heard tell and called Clive into her office.

“Clive, this is absolutely unacceptable,” Jarline said grimly.
“I know, but I couldn’t help it”
“You know, the waves aren’t big enough to splash you on the sidewalk, I can see them from my window”
“Well, I am very sorry Jarline, and I hope you will accept my apology. You see, it’s easy to say you’ll do things tomorrow or do things later. You think they’ll be easier the next time you approach whatever it is you have to get done. But I say, just deal with them right then and get it over with and you can always work through the ruts…or just drive right over them”
“Alright, and right now I don’t know what you’re even talking about. Are you referring to something in particular, or…?”
“No, that’s just my philosophy”
“Right. Well, my advice, what I would suggest, is that you go home and change right now and never let this happen again”
“Yes ma’am and I support this decision one-hundred percent”
“Okay.”
“Okay... and I’ll be leaving now.”

Later that day, when Clive was back and dry he was assigned to tweak about thirty different logos. It was excruciatingly tedious work. Perhaps it was passive punishment for showing up drenched in ghastly shore water. Perhaps it was just malignant chance. Clive looked down at the next one doomed. It was the same logo as yesterday, the one with the hideous font that clashed all to well with the style of the logo. “I cannot bear it” Clive muttered and made the decision to confront Jarline. He knocked lightly on the edge of her desk.
Her eyebrows rose and she said, “Yes?”
Clive simply stood for a moment, fearing he had made the wrong the decision by bringing something relatively petty to Jarline—too late now. “Look, I can’t find anything clever to say so I’ll just put it out there. I think this looks…well, look at it” he showed her the logo, “it just looks dumb, and I think we should tell the company, we’d be doing them a disservice if we let them keep it like this..”
She was not amused. “You think we should go back to square one after weeks of working with this client just because you, Clive, think it looks “dumb”?”
“Wow, you really articulated that last word…umm yeah, I think it looks dumb, tacky, makes me sick, want it to die, how about you?”
“I don’t care what it looks like as long as the customer is happy.” She paused. “You’re really surprising me today, Clive”
“Me too”
“And it’s not in a good way.”
“I realize I’ve been talking some liberties that need not be taken but bear with me, it’s…I feel good about it, at least.”
“Just do your work and stay out of trouble, Clive,”
“Yes ma’am”
“Stop calling me ma’am,”
“Yes…sir”
“Excuse me?”
“I’m going to get back to work,” said Clive, backing away and motioning to his desk with his thumb. “I’ve got a lot to do, and I apologize for any inconvenience I may have caused you”

“What has come over me?” thought a befuddled Clive as he strolled returning to his desk, “What is it? What’s missing? Something’s missing. Is it my fear? I’m not afraid anymore, you hear that? I’m not afraid anymore! Home Alone does wonders. Nah, it’s not fear. Oh, I’ve got work, I’ve got work.”

It turned out to be a strange day for Clive. Indeed he was not afraid anymore of Jarline or anyone else, but he could not remember if he was ever afraid of them in the first place. And this in turn frightened Clive. He felt like a different person and the only way he could describe it was not feeling afraid, feeling rather bold. But it was not that it was an absence of fear, because how could it be absent if it were never there? Rather, it was the introduction of something, an addition, that being a verve for being daring. Clive’s base was apathy and it was originally paired with neither fear nor courage but was solo, solemn, boredom. But today boldness, courage, veracity adorned Clive’s life that he felt compelled to do something. What? Anything.

Clive strolled the streets that night after work, pacing from this avenue to that, with a liveliness he had long forgotten. Usually he would be in bed by now, slumbering away with his childhood days, but how could sleep, how could he ever sleep again with this kind of vivid distraction? This may not seem so vital or profound but to Clive it was everything. His world was shaken sideways and he was clinging onto this branch of bravery that was his only hope. He could not return to his despondent days, never, never. And now, with his slate cleared of his characteristic lethargy he could be anyone he wanted to. He could be anyone in the world. Nothing would change but people’s opinion of him. And for that he could care less of. Instead he found them fascinating, people’s judgments. They can take in whatever you have to offer them, whatever you put out there, and they might assess the material of your self and it changes how they act. It reflects on their interaction with you. And so people are sending waves back and forth and constantly affecting one another, like an emotional ecosystem, people are all tied together.

And what Clive decided to do was to just experiment with different personalities to just get a taste of what the general public falls for, in a good way or a bad way. Or what any single individual falls for. What they tolerate in society and what they do not. It was rather entertaining for him to see people’s reactions to various…actions. Personas…characters. Clive could be devilishly debonair, suave, to say or a dweeb of many sorts. He could be an arrogant prick or he could strive to be as kind as he could muster. Clive could be cunningly droll or peevishly lackluster. He could be timid, flamboyant, or as snarky as can be. He could be in love with music, a sports buff, a literary know-it-all, a chef, or a grade-A nonentity as long as he could pull it off, that is, as long as he could act well enough.. Clive knew, though, that all in all, his coworkers and cohorts would initially (and perhaps ultimately) find him completely crazy. But Clive figured, crazy, not crazy, he was not their cup of tea anyway, so why bother with the anxiety. He was just bored with the usual bull-crap he put up with everyday and he was not going to quit his job or move away. There were chumps like these everywhere. He almost could not escape, unless of course, he spent a life of solitude, as a hermit in a mountain hovel. Guffaw. And this proclamation of setting aside his monotonous self to try on the characters of others, or of something he dreamt up himself, was in effect immediately. And perfect timing as well.

Clive sauntered casually into a nearby bookstore by the name of “Shelley’s Leaves” (but nobody ever called it that, they either just said “Shelley’s” or just said “Leaves”). Clive mulled around the stacks looking for something compelling to read, something to really set the cogs in his brain to turn and twist and crank. He had not picked up a book to read, just for his own enjoyment, since grade school. (Unless, of course, you count the Frog and Toad books he reads before bed.) Therefore Clive hadn’t the slightest idea what his tastes were in novels and the like and found it both intriguing and overwhelming to see such a vast array. “Oh you books, where have you been all my life?” He asked aloud eyeing the spines of hard-covers like a kid in a candy shop. But something more alluring than a charming title of a book caught his eye. There, milling around the bookshelves one isle over, was one of his most achieved coworkers, and one of his most dim-witted. He lost no time in approaching them. He sidled up to where one was reading a page of a book Clive cared not for and the other was perusing around.
“Evening ladies,” he smirked from behind his olive-tinted shades.
One of the girls, the perusing one, the dim one, looked him up and down. “You don’t look so good” she said with a tinge of worry.
“Oh, don’t I?” he smirked again, “you on the other hand look—“
“You look tired,” she interrupted.
His face dropped—his smirk vanished and he began in a bored tone, “I’m actually quite the opposite….It’s called sleep…sleep drunk”
“Sleep drunk?”
“Yaaass, sleep drunk” Clive continued annoyed, “I get far too much sleep for my own good and it starts to have the reverse effects than the intended, healthy, amount of sleep…” He thought for a moment. “Almost as if I were sleep” he chuckled for a pause, “deprived”.
“Then, why do you sleep so much?” she just had to ask.
“To escape…to dream uncommon dreams…need I go on?”
She shook her head, and he said, “You know, you’re not the brightest one at the office,”
“Well thanks Clive”
“Let me put it this way. Why do you sleep? Why does anybody sleep? Answer that and you’ll know why I sleep and I simply get it in excess,” he drawled.
At this point the girl had shrugged and walked away to the magazine section and Clive was left standing alone next to the other lady coworker who was reading.
“Fair enough,” he muttered and nonchalantly swiped a book off the shelf. He flipped it open, only to slam it shut not a moment later. “You? Out of the office? That’s unheard of,” Clive said with an air of complete shock and appall.
“Not as unheard of as your voice” she answered in a flat voice and a mocking look of surprise.
Clive dismissed this with the wave of a hand. “That’s yesterday’s news,” he sighed.
“And what’s today’s”
“What?”
“What’s today’s news?”
“Oho!” he chuckled, “well, I was just saying…but you want to play games, eh? Like a cat with a ball of yarn…Then today, the water is especially cold”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Literally, the water, I mean, the ocean is cold today”
“That’s not news, Clive, it’s always cold”
“Okay then, good point…very good point…but you never have first hand accounts...”Clive trailed off. “Say, what are you doing here?”
“I love it here, I come here everyday, to read… or to think…or to browse around”
“Well that just sounds like a dandy of a time.”
“What are you doing here?”
“I should be sleeping now, shouldn’t I…but I was taking a promenade and I was in the vicinity…I haven’t read a book in far too long a time”
“That’s too bad…do you have any ideas?”
“I have plenty of ideas.”
“Of what to read.”
“Oh so you want to help me do you?”
“I never said that, I just asked if you had an idea of what you want to read.”
“Well, I never said I wanted to read a book I just said I hadn’t read a book in a while”
Clive then received the most cutting look he had gotten all day. It was silent for what seemed like many minutes.
“Do you ever read poetry?” She asked holding up a book of Wordsworth’s poems.
“No,” Clive said drawing out the word into three syllables.
“It’s short so it might be easier than reading a whole book”
“I’m not illiterate.”
“Well, its good stuff”
“Depends on who you ask”
“I don’t think anyone would say Wordsworth is a bad poet”
“Yes, but if someone’s to say its good is kind of irrelevant to the fact that they don’t like his good poetry. If it’s not their style then…who cares if it good or bad”
“Well, I enjoy it, that’s my opinion; you can read it and see for yourself”
“Sold.” He snatched the book and flipped through the pages then he paused on a page. “Ah,” he said, “here we go, ‘A slumber did my spirit seal; I had no human fears: She seem’d a thing that could not feel The touch of earthly years.” He shut the book and examined the cover “hm,” he uttered. It was silent again for minutes.
“Well, I guess I’ll be seeing you…at work, its inevitable…”Clive finally said.
“Shame,” she said.
“Well, good-bye.” And Clive turned and walked away, out of Shelley’s Leaves, onward and homeward, with a stillness in his heart.

It was nearly 8:30 when Clive stepped across the threshold of his modest apartment. Clive began his nightly rituals right away. I suppose eating dinner had slipped his mind, as it was now preoccupied with the hunger of the heart rather than the stomach. He tried to read his bedtime story but his thoughts were with neither Frog nor Toad. His meditation always came back to the same instant in time, the same voice, the same face. Sleep would be hard to find that night, it was certain. Clive lied on his bed for many hours without the shuttering of an eye. At this point he was doomed to be awake all night, and there was nothing he could do. On nights like these Clive often called his therapist and that is just what he did this night.
“Hello?” a voice said groggily over the wire.
“Dr. Paulson?.... It’s Clive”
“Oh, I should’ve known. You’re the only person I know who would call this late” He chuckled. “Can’t sleep, can you?”
“No.” said Clive.
“Did you do your exercises?”
“I tried…my mind was somewhere else”
“Oh…I see. Why don’t you tell me about your childhood again, growing up in Williamsburg.”
Clive’s breath crackled through the phone. “I can’t” he said.
“Is there anything in particular you want to talk about right now?”
Clive sighed. He did not know what to say.
“Clive?” Dr. Paulson said again.
“I…don’t know…there’s nothing much to say”
“About what?”
Clive thought it best to just change the subject and to curb the pang in his heart.
“Doc?”
“Yes?”
“Why do you let me call you in the middle of the night? Why do you put up with it? If someone called me up in the middle of the night I’d be pissed”
“Why would you be, you’d already be awake?”
“I mean, if I was a normal person I’d be pissed”
“Well, I’m sorry to oblige”
“No you’re not, you’re elated”
“It’s called sarcasm, Clive”
“I know and I hate it. People are way too sarcastic all the time”
“You don’t think you are?”
“I said I hate it. I’m sick of it”
“Very well then”
“But why? You don’t get paid for it.”
“But I like to help people anyways, it’s not just about the money. Besides, if I didn’t, who says you wouldn’t fire me and find another therapist”
“I wouldn’t do that.”
“Well, I don’t mind”
“So you just don’t mind…that’s real genteel of you”
There was silence for a while.
“Are you sure you don’t want to talk about anything?”
Clive changed the subject again and began, “When I was a kid I used to lay a graham cracker across the top of a glass of milk.”
“Yeah?”
“And I would break up another cracker along the dotted lines into fourths, you know, and then I’d pretend the one over the cup was a bridge and I’d take the other ones and make them cross it and then jump on it to break it in half and crash into the milk…”
“Ah yes, graham crackers and milk.” He made a sound of a crashing ship which muffled through the phone. “Delicious.”
And Dr. Paulson did not receive a response because Clive was fast asleep.