Wednesday:

I woke at my usual time of 6:42am, continually hitting the snooze bar every five minutes till well after seven. Nothing in the world seemed more pleasing than simply lying in the cool air of the morning. Dancing back and forth between consciousness and the dream world beyond.
I didn't take a shower, or perform any of my other morning hygiene tasks. I stood up, dressed myself in clothes, which may or may not have been clean. Tossed a tattered ball cap on my head and sulked out into the darkness of winter. The sun just now daring to crest the eastern horizon of jagged rock and snow coated peaks.
I found myself staring blankly at a computer screen, time lost in space. BBC newsreels and emails with no reason for response spun wildly amidst the muddled hum of conversations and telephone rings.
After the, not so accidental, jamming of my printer, I had to vacation to the accounting department to run off my daily reports. As soon as I rounded the corner of the mass of cubicles, I saw her, standing gracefully near the fax machine, drinking a steaming cup of coffee or tea, making small talk with another employee. My stomach clenched, my throat dried, my spine liquefied.
For six months now she had been working here, and for five of those months I've been making up excuses to see her at least twice if not more each week. But, I don't even know her name. Constantly convincing myself of how easy the conversation could be, "Hi, I'm Guy, how long have you worked here?"
"Um, almost half a year, Erin, Erin Wilson."
"Well Erin, Erin Wilson, I was wondering if you'd like to have a drink with me after work."
This is where the story changes every time. Sometimes we go to this little pub a couple blocks north and have a great evening drinking beer and shooting pool. Others we catch a cab and dine at this fabulous restaurant on the west edge, bottles of wine from around the world and a moonlit walk along the boardwalk. But even in my fantasy, most of the time, she rejects me, so I never ask.
"Hey Jack, my printer broke, can I run my reports on yours?"
"Printer broke, ah? How many times is that this month? Two? Three?"
"Yeah I don't know what the hell is wrong with that thing, but I'll get someone from tech support down this afternoon. They always seemed to be slammed and doing nothing at the same time. But I guess that's computer science in a nut shell."
"No problem. Hey you want to get together at The Sunstrip after work?"
"Yeah, I'll probably be ready for a pitcher after today. Meet ya there."
I took my reports, went back to my desk and lost all sense of thought.
* * * * *
I glanced down at the clock – 4:27 p.m. – only three minutes left. I began to fidget and straighten various piles of paper on my desk. Waiting. Keeping myself busy. Waiting. The stapler is crooked. Waiting. 4:30. It’s time.
I gather my backpack, the same old book bag I used in college, shut down my computer, and walked calmly down the four flights of stairs in a vain attempt to avoid any undesirable contact with the work force. Too late.
“Hey, Gannon.”
I cringed. I twitched. I loathed my own name.
“Hey Bruce, you know you can just call me Guy.”
“I know but I like the old Irish names, you know. Anyway, are you heading over to the Sunstrip? There’s supposed to be a bunch of us from accounting and HR heading over there to watch the game.”
“Yeah, Jack was telling me earlier. I gotta run home first and grab a bite to eat and then I’ll be over, probably around, lets say, seven?”
“Alright man, then I will see you at seven.”
“Okay, see ya then.”
We went our separate ways, in our separate cars, to continue on with our separate lives.
* * * * *
I sat in the frigid air of my compact SUV, violently pushing buttons on the dash, hoping one of them would result in a burst of heat pulled straight from the engine. But the more I turn and press, the more I realize there’s nothing I can do to fix the fan, that hasn’t worked since I bought the piece of junk three years ago. Another cold ride home, 35 minutes in traffic, silent.
As I climbed the stairs to my apartment, thirty-six steps of solid concrete, I noticed a small flowerpot, curiously placed on the 13th step, just before the door to the second floor. It was some kind of orchid, unlike any I’d seen before. The petals fell in colors of purple, white and blue, small blooms along a long thing green stalk. I stood there just admiring the plant, so enthralled with it’s simplicity I didn’t even realize the door open.
“You like orchids?”
“Yeah this is a gorgeous plant…” Suddenly I was face to face with my accounting fantasy. Her long legs and short hair filled the doorway. I was frozen, mid poise.
“Hey, don’t you work at InterCore?” She continued, “I could swear I’ve seen you before.”
“Yeah, actually, I do. I work in the large accounts division of customer service. Up on the fourth floor.”
“I knew you looked familiar. Do you live here in the building? I just moved in about three weeks ago,” she motion to the orchid, “as you can see I’m not fully settled in yet.”
“Oh, sorry,” handing over the plant, “Yeah I’ve lived here for almost two years now. It’s not a bad place. I mean, sure there’s some vandalism problems and the appliances never work quiet right. I’ve been trying to get my dishwasher serviced for six months now.”
I wanted desperately to stop talking, before I said something, before I did something, I would regret. “The manager seems more into watching the young girls play in the courtyard than maintaining the building.” And there it is. “By the way,” desperately back peddling, “what are you doing tonight? A bunch of us from the office are going to get together and watch the game at the Sunstrip. You should come.”
“Actually, I already have plans…”
“Oh, no pressure I was just saying.”
“…to go to the Sunstrip. So maybe I’ll see you there?”
“Definitely. Yeah, I’ll be there.”
She walked away and I was left standing in the glowing stairwell. No energy to move even the slightest. Thinking about the orchid, her hair, her…I never even asked her name.
* * * * *
I arrived at the bar just before seven to find Jack sitting at a booth near the large screen television, with a pitcher of beer and the daily paper. The Sunstrip was a dive, nestled between a shoe retailer and a pharmacy on the west side of town. The same people were always working, and even if they weren’t working they were usually there, just for the hell of it.
Years of stale smoke hung in the air, moving slightly from the pull of the fans, never being enough to fully extinguish the cloud. They provided darts and shuffleboard, pool for a reasonable price, a few videogames placed haphazardly around the low-clearance room. There was a small kitchen in the back where they prepared nachos, French fries and other standard bar-fare.
I went up to the bar and ordered my beer, then moved slowly over to the booth, so not to spill on the large cigarette burn they try to play off as carpet. By the time I reached the booth I was left with only one of the original six seating options. I squeezed into the booth, slightly spilling my pitcher in the ashtray as I fumbled into the vinyl bench.
“And Garron shows his face in public!” Bruce announced from the end of the table.
“Good to see you too, Bruce. Hey Jack, who’s playing tonight anyway?”
Jack finally put down the paper, “Well it looks like the Trailblazers and the Hawks, not much of a game. If you asked me, the hawks had this one won as soon as they landed in Portland.”
Bruce perks up real quick, “Now that’s sacrilege!” His arms fly into the air, nearly taking out the entire table and both people next to him. “There is no way in hell Atlanta is going to pull up in the Rose Garden and start pruning this back!”
“Bruce, shut up, you know damn well they don’t have a chance,” Mark injected from across the bar while honing his skills with the trackball at the most recent incarnation of bar golfing.
“Just keep rubbing your ball over there, Mark. We’ll see who comes out in the end,” Bruce replied over his shoulder. “Would anyone care to make this a little more interesting? Lets say a small wager?”
“I’ll take your money, Bruce.”
“And Garron comes out of nowhere. What’s the price on the game?”
“I’ll put in a cool hundred on this.”
“Well son, you’ve got yourself a bet.”
We shook hands just as she was walking in the door. Bruce noted her arrival and yelled towards the door, “Hey Erin! We’re over here!”
She walked through the mass of people milling around by the entrance and I stood up promptly and motion to the bartender, “Can we get another glass over here?”
Joan turned from behind the taps and yelled, “Hey, can you just grab it yourself, they’re right there.”
“Hey Joan I’ll grab it,” Todd, another employee, not currently working, replied.
He brought me the glass, which I promptly filled from Jack’s pitcher and placed in front of Erin. I smiled and said, “Don’t worry this ones on Jack. He’ll never know the difference.
Which was very true. Jack had arrived at the bar shortly after we all left work. Eating dinner, reading the paper and going through a full pitcher before any of us even left our homes.
“Well, thank you very much Jack,” Erin said while leaning in his general direction. He took no notice, as he was much enthralled with the tip-off.
“So, how long have you been working with InterCore?”
And the conversation began. Amidst the cheers, jeers and general belligerence, we talked about work and people from work. Everyone else was caught up in the game, screaming at the television and pounding beers. I had a hundred bucks riding on the game and didn’t even know what players were on the court, not to mention who was winning. We talk for over an hour before the dialogue took a more personal turn.
“So do you have an kids?” She asked in such a nonchalant way it got me off guard.
“Well, actually I do. I have two kids; a nine-year-old boy, David, and a seven-year-old girl, Sarah.”
“Do they live with you?”
“No, they live with their mother just outside the city. In a beautiful house, with a huge yard and two dogs, bigger than they are.”
“Do you have pictures of them?”
“Not with me. I do at my desk at work, you can come see them anytime you want.”
“Maybe I’ll do that. Do you know what time it is?”
“Uh, yeah, it’s about a quarter to nine.”
“I should probably get going. I need to get to the office early and catch up on some things. Are you busy on Friday?”
Friday! “Um, well, not really, it’s my birthday, but I actually don’t have any real plans yet. I think these guys were thinking about taking me out, but I can blow that off easily.” Friday!
“Your birthday, huh. Well let’s get together.”
“Alright I’ll give you a call tomorrow at work. What extension are you at?”
“213, I’ll talk to you then.”
And she stood up and walked away, leaving me in the glowing bar, surrounded by drunken men. The air stank of smoke and sweat, while my bones ached in the false warmth. Thinking about Friday and how to break the news to Mary.
* * * * *
I got home and poured myself a scotch on ice. My apartment felt dry and barren from the heater running for two weeks solid. The air was so thick I was struggling to breath, but wouldn’t dare to open a window and let the winter seep in. So I drank, alone, at my desk, with nothing to thing about.
The computer was already running, so I turned on the monitor and decided to check my email. Two bold face headings came up:

Assassin@blowyourbrainsout.com Kill People for Fun! January 10, 2004 2K
Mary Wright Birthday? January 10, 2004 5K

Ignoring the blatant junk mail I moved straight to the email from Mary:

Gannon,
You need to tell me right now if you ever want to see your children again. I know this may be bad timing with your birthday and all, but I’m not going to stay here for you anymore, if you’re not even going to make an effort. I really hate to do this, but you have three days to decide whether you want them in your life or not. I hope that you make the right decision, it’s been a while.

Mary

It has been a while. Four years, a while. Would they even remember who I am? Would I even be able to recognize them? Has everything already been lost? I feel asleep with these thoughts swirling in my head.
* * * * *
Thursday:
I woke up, a slight taste of alcohol on my breath, and proceeded to call in sick. I don’t really know why, but I kind of knew it was going to happen. After explaining to my supervisor that I have the stomach flu and assuring him that I will be in tomorrow, I went back to my bed and laid in silence till 10:30 a.m. The questions from the night before still hanging from the hooks of my mind.
I finally mustered up the strength to make a pot of coffee and two eggs fried in butter. I ate the simple breakfast while watching a daytime soap opera, where one of the characters was suffering amnesia, while another was in a coma and the first was the only one who knew how to end the coma. I became confused and moved to talk radio.