Friday The 13th: Just A Regular Day?

Title: Bronson Murray By: William H. Mumler (American, 1832 - 1884) THANKS TO GETTY'S OPEN CONTENT PROGRAM.

Title: Bronson Murray, By: William H. Mumler (American, 1832 – 1884)

There was a pool of drool wetting the right side of my face. I realize that a heavy crust had formed on the side of my mouth as I moved my head off the warm pillow. Everything is blurry. BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! Friday. I mute the alarm and squint to see the date. Friday the 13th. Great. That explains why I woke up before my alarm. I peel myself out of the warm cocoon of my bed. I immediately step into the papers all over the floor. What did I do last night? Oh yeah, I was on a roll about Aaron going into the mansion after Beth. Shit, I can barely read my handwriting.

I take some clean underwear and head into the shower. As the warm water rushes over my skin, I thought of Margaret. She is so beautiful. Yesterday she brushed up against my arm as she rushed past me into her office. Her scent is always of this perfume that smells like sweet candy. I just want to lick her up. After I took care of my morning wood, I thought about my colleague, Harry. What did he want to talk to me about? The bastard probably wanted some advice to cheat some test or something. What an idiot. I dry myself off and look at myself in the mirror. I wish I didn’t have to shave today. Fuck looking clean and professional. It’s Friday. Last day that people need to look at you. Why do I need to look nice? Did my parents ever have to run this rat race? I bet my boss doesn’t even see me today. I took the razor and slowly cut the hairs. I never have liked the sound of my stubble being cut, it’s not a pleasant sound in the morning. I put on a day old white dress shirt and a black tie. I always feel like being choked when I wear this damn thing. I grab a coffee and a bagel and rush over to the bus stop.

I wish I had a car. Look at these people. They are so depressing. The only thing I like about riding the bus is casual Friday. Some people really take that to heart. Unfortunately not this week. So dreary. It always smells like body odor. There is that man that works in the same building as me. I have never spoken to him in the four years that I’ve been at this job. Not even the time I saw him crying in the stairwell. Am I a horrible person? Probably.

Outside of my 50-floor building there is a security guard, Carl. Good ‘ole Carl. He was talking to my boss and I wasn’t able to say hello today. No matter. I’ll catch him at lunch. UGH. I just stepped in gum. Who the hell is chewing gum and not able to throw it away in the trash five feet away?! Nasty. People are nasty.

At my desk, I see a stack of memos. Ten emails and a post-it from Harry. “Meet me in the bathroom at 11 o’clock Douchebag.” Idiot. I crumple it up and throw it away. What is with these memos? Send fax. Send email. Did you file that important form? So many issues. I work at a speedy pace. It’s not hard work just little details for this and for that.

I go to the bathroom in the middle of writing an email. I hate emailing my boss about updates. She is so lazy to come to my desk because I am in the corner of nowhere. I see Harry smiling. He hands me a piece of paper. It says, I just won the state lottery. I don’t want people to overhear us so I am writing you. I comeback, “You idiot. You could have just emailed me or texted me. Hell, you could have even called me.” He writes back, Then it wouldn’t be in person. I say, “Are you quitting?” No. Part-time though. I will miss hanging out with you. Going to the other office across town to be closer to my grad school program. Today I leave at 2pm.“Oh man. Sounds like a good setup. I will miss you, Professor Idiot. I wish you luck though” I leave the bathroom about half a minute after him. I smell candy. I see Margaret enter the women’s bathroom. I smile and go back to my desk.

I start to wonder about Harry and his dream to be an English professor. I had a similar dream of being a writer. He seems way more determined than me. I shrug away the thoughts. Candy. I look behind me. Margaret is standing outside of my cubicle. She is looking right at me. “You are Michael, right?” I blink a couple of times, “Yeah. What can I help you with- Margaret, right?” She looks around my cubicle, fixating on my posters and bobble-heads of Futurama. “I love that show,” she says awkwardly. “Bender is my favorite.” She just kind of stands there after I agree with her. “Did you want to eat lunch with me?” I smile like a moron.

Across the street, we sit at the cafe for lunch. She talks about art and books and movies. I couldn’t keep track. I am just happy that she seems into me.

We leave the cafe and go back into the building. As I sit in my seat in a dreamlike trance, I wonder where Carl was. He wasn’t outside the building. He didn’t get to see me with Margaret! That sucks. The time is now 4:50pm. God damn ten minutes to go. I hate this. All my work is done… Can’t I just go? This is shit.

I hear screaming.

I grab my things and run to the window with everyone else. There is a man with a gun pointing a gun at Carl. I run downstairs. Oh God. What the hell is happening?! I see the gunman, or rather the white guy I ride the bus with every day. He is crying about his wife and how she died because of some disease because the treatment wasn’t covered by his health insurance. He blamed his company. And aimed the gun towards his head. And that’s when I blacked out.

Michael was shot in the heart when the bullet went through the gunman’s head and ricocheted off a pane of bulletproof glass on a town car nearby. He was rushed to the hospital.
A note outside Michael’s apartment door:
You’re Welcome.

P.S. The number 13 has always been this unlucky thing. But truthfully, it really isn’t. I’m mainly talking about the day: Friday, the 13th. How is Friday supposed to be bad? It’s a good day! Last day before the weekend! It really should be Monday, the 13th. UGH.. Monday. That’s when people are the zombies… That’s when people say that they have a “bad case of the Mondays…” Seems sucky enough to me.

P.S.S. Another title: Shallow Musings


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