ONE
Drive
Frantic, she's sliding, shaking into the driver's seat.
Again.
Tremble, twitch. Adjust, sweat, pant.
Overworked and underpaid.
She begins.
Mind-numbing.
In, out. Senseless lane changes.
Metronome clicking. In her head or in reality?
Red, stop. Yellow, green. Go. The sky is blue today.
Dust pings off the side of the car. Flicking, blowing, dancing.
Up the hill, under the bridge. Left, right. Upside down?
She doesn't know. Keep driving.
Gas, break. Shift, clutch. D.R.D.1.2.1.
Blind spots? Who cares?
There are too many mirrors anyway.
Three bad songs. Two many buttons. Scratch that. Too many buttons.
How many miles away from nowhere is she?
Where is somewhere? Anywhere? Elsewhere?
One empty parking spot.
Three bird shits on the hood.
Five more pills.
Slam the door.
High heels click on shiny floors. Office floors.
Seven plastic smiles. Four more than yesterday.
Keep a tally.
Three-dollar coffee in a five-cent shithole.
First weekday. Twenty-sixth year in hell.
Come inside.
Take a seat. In fact, take two.
You're going to be here awhile.
Welcome, unlucky stranger.
TWO
Work
Monitor shakes. Or is it her pupils?
Dancing eyes. Pupil tango. Cha-cha?
Preferably salsa.
Tap. Tap. Tap on the keys.
Endless letters, numbers. And combinations of both.
The cameras watch. Twisting and swiveling. Creep to discover.
Interoffice dating. Fraud. Under-the-table. Scandal. Feed on the tragedy.
It's what they do best. Those happy, life-destroying camcorders.
Smash.
Please, turn them off.
Too many men in too many jackets.
Pinstripe is common. Black. Blue. Gray.
Yellow? No. Never.
Polka-dotted, perhaps.
Small, white cubicles.
Why cubicles? Who not square-icles? Rhombusicles?
Definitely more entertaining.
Print a memo. Scan, fax, copy. Send.
Wrong question, right person.
Tomorrow's meeting.
Whatever.
Too many people on too many computers.
Crashing due to infection.
Viral, bacterial? Cancerous?
Save her hard-drive.
It's got pneumonia.
Chicken pox.
AIDS.
You name it.
Hypnotizing fan buzzing. Back and forth. Spinning.
Soft elevator music all day long. Numbs the brain.
Emotionless drones work harder.
Cattle prodding.
Monotone everything.
Sterile, yet deadly.
THREE
Lunch
She pulls away from her desk.
Rolling backwards, reaching forwards.
Snaps out of her coma.
Sleepworking.
Eyes wide open. Vacant.
Insert soul here.
Still-life people painted into the working-class world.
Not a stir. Not a word. Not even a blink.
Nevermind smiles.
Wax people don't move.
Feel.
Half an hour of freedom.
Keeps her one quarter sane.
And one tenth alive.
Smoke, eat. Smoke, smoke, smoke.
Rinse. Repeat.
King-size regulars make for queen-size ladies.
Fast-food, slow heartbeat.
Ba-boom. Ba-boo-, Ba-...
A fresh slab of greasy death on your choice of freshly-baked buns.
Sesame or Italian?
Topped with family favourites.
Angina.
Clotting.
Spicy heart disease.
Cancer.
Cancer.
Cancer.
Take ten sips of carbonated poison.
Engine cleaner.
Eight steps until she's out of breath.
Six years until she's out of functioning organs.
Tick, tick, tock.
Boom.
Game over.
FOUR
Home
Backwards into the driveway.
Forward to the door.
Slip, slide up the steps. Down the pathway.
Drop the keys. Drop the purse. Drop the brain.
In the lock. Sideways, upside down.
Jiggle, jiggle, click.
Roasted, toasted, corrosive.
Fills the nostrils.
Fills the room.
Fills her life.
Shuffle, shuffle.
Error, breakdown.
Dark room, dark house, dark life.
Black.
Click to the news.
Happy, beautiful people reporting sad, sad lives.
Top story today, yesterday, always.
Death, death, weather.
Dying.
Can't take it.
Soft buzzing, bright appliances.
Maytag. Kenmore.
Ikea. Ikea. Ikea.
A combination of breakfast, lunch, dinner.
Lucky charms. Lettuce.
Mangled pig babies.
On shiny silver cutlery.
Fancy coloured plates.
Compensation comes in a variety of patterns.
Mixed platter. Slice, dice, chop off her head.
Too much work.
Water will be fine.
...that's all i have for now.
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