The Lives of Tao

CHAPTER FIVE

DAY AFTER



Beep.

Roen woke up groggy, slowly gaining consciousness to the strangest sensation. Something didn’t feel right. His bed felt particularly stiff and the view was wrong. Now that he thought about it, it was also cold, and his blanket was nowhere in reach. He paused. Why was he sleeping on the floor?

Groaning, he sat up and stared at his Chicago Bears phone lying off its hook. Oh no, was he drunk-dialing again? He tried in vain to remember the events from the previous night. Roen often worried that he did incredibly stupid things while inebriated, things he didn’t remember the next day. Unfortunately, everything past stumbling through the front door was a big haze. Picking himself up, he walked to the bathroom and stared into the mirror. He looked like the walking dead, with bloodshot eyes and a haggard swollen face.

“I think I’m still drunk.” He winced, feeling the room sway back and forth. Roen flexed his arms and chest, and sucked in his gut. With a disapproving scowl, he slapped his belly and walked back into his room, surveying the carnage of clothes strewn over the floor. His stomach growled and he wondered why he was suddenly so famished. Well, who was he to argue with his belly? Time to eat.

Beep.

What was that sound? His cell phone! Roen rummaged through a pile of clothes, patting the pockets on each pair of pants. Finally, he found it in a wrinkled pair of khakis discarded in the corner. He sorted through the messages, finding two texts which were sent exactly five minutes apart.

It’s 11. Where are you?

I was expecting you in two hours ago.

Roen read the messages again, perplexed. Why would Musday care where he was on a Saturday?

“Crap!” he yelled as he threw on the same pair of khakis and frantically looked for a shirt. Now he remembered why he wanted to make it an early night yesterday. He was supposed to work this morning. As he was about to head out the door, his stomach growled again, and he nearly doubled over in pain.

Roen rubbed his belly and looked up at the clock. He didn’t remember ever being so hungry that it hurt. Did he have time to cook a quick breakfast? He was already late. His brain and his stomach had a tug of war for a few seconds on what he should do next; the stomach won and he rushed into the kitchen to make some eggs. It just wouldn’t do if he passed out at the office. Half a dozen eggs, two pieces of bacon, and three sausage links later, Roen rushed out the door, still buttoning his shirt just as the clock struck 11.45.

He stepped off the thirty-sixth floor in his office building a few minutes past noon and sneaked toward his cubicle, trying hard not to be seen. He crept down the hallway and turned down one of the aisles. Brushing his shirt to smooth out the creases, he walked by one of the cubicles and smiled at the person sitting there.

“Hey Jill, good afternoon.”

Jill Tesser looked up from her work, her thick-rimmed glasses hanging low on her nose; a hint of dimples appeared as she smiled, her face lighting up the room. Roen caught himself staring at her light auburn hair and the faint freckles that accented her bright hazel eyes. He looked away, his face turning bright red.

“Oh, hey, Roen. I see that the slave drivers got you coming in today too, huh?”

“Um, yeah,” he stammered. He tried to formulate a clever response. “Yes, they did.”

She grinned and went back to work. He stood there awkwardly, trying to think of something to say. She looked back at him. “Oh, I’m sorry. Was there something you needed?”

“Um… no. Just wanted to say hi.” Roen waved and then, feeling his ears burn, fled to the end of the aisle across three more rows toward his own cubicle. Trying to appear as casual as possible, he crept to his seat and powered on his laptop. He leaned back and looked around at his disheveled desk that mirrored the state of his bedroom. He was in a six-by-six foot cubicle with blue and red carpeted walls that probably were once popular during the 1960s. Assorted stacks of paper, books, and bags of snacks littered the desk. Roen picked up a half-eaten bag of stale chips and popped one into his mouth.

“I was expecting you in at 9am,” a voice said behind him. Roen turned to see his manager standing with his arms crossed. With a carefully combed-over hairdo and a hefty beer belly, Musday had the sort of rotund figure that Roen feared he’d acquire if he spent a few more years at the office. He already wasn’t that far off.

“I’m sorry, Mr Musday. I forgot I had to come in this morning.”

Mr Musday shook his head. “Everyone else got here on time. You’re letting the team down.”

“I’ll get right on it.”

“Good to hear.” Mr Musday gave him a plastic smile. “I know we can depend on you.” Roen preened and grinned as Musday walked away. When someone asked Roen what he did, he’d explain that he typed incoherent commands that performed virtual tasks to create intangible objects. At the very end of the day, Roen wasn’t sure what he did or why he did it – just that every two weeks, he received a paycheck for the hours of his life wasted, building these imaginary things on some server located somewhere. Hours later, after almost everyone had left, Roen struggled to finish his work.

Mr Musday walked by with his briefcase just as the sun was setting. “How’s it going?”

“Fine, sir. I’m almost done with our builds. Another hour and they should be ready. I can get started on the backups tomorrow.”

“Good, good. We need the backups by tonight though. Make sure they’re working before you leave. You’ll also need to be at the status meeting tomorrow at 7.30am. Will that be a problem?”

“Of course not. I’d be happy to.” Inside, Roen cursed his ill fortune. Work would ruin the rest of his weekend. Roen wilted under his manager’s expectant gaze and nodded. He stared as Mr Musday chatted with the few remaining coworkers still milling about, walked into the elevator, and left – probably to enjoy the rest of his weekend while his minions slaved away.

“I hate this job. One of these days, I’m just going to quit. I can’t believe Musday asked me to come in again on a Sunday! Sunday’s for God and football,” Roen muttered out loud. He opened his drawer and ripped open a new bag of chips.

“So?” said Peter, who sat in the cubicle across the aisle.

“It’s ridiculous. They don’t care about our personal lives.”

Peter turned from his monitor and looked at Roen. “Do you care about your personal life?”

“Of course I do.”

“Then why didn’t you tell Musday you’re busy?” Peter asked.

“I can’t do that. I’ll get a bad review.”

“But you just said you hate this job and want to quit.”

Roen paused. Peter reminded him of a plaid-wearing Dalai Lama with his rail-thin frame and shaved head. The man looked much older than his forty years. The wisdom he often spouted made painful sense to Roen.

Roen said, “I can’t just quit. I have rent, and a cat to support.”

“There’s your answer, then.”

“Doesn’t mean I have to like it,” Roen said, pouting.

“You’re not being paid to like your work.”

Roen leaned back in his chair and looked up at the ceiling. “You know, I wasn’t always meant to be an engineer. I was pretty good at debating. I bet I could have been a lawyer.”

“It’s not too late,” Peter said. “Go back to school.”

“Well, I’m already too busy with this stinking job. I don’t have time.”

Peter stopped typing and turned to Roen. “You’re still young. Study for the LSAT. Go back to school.”

“I can’t. I have rent and a cat...”

“I know about the cat, Roen. So are you going to do anything about it besides complain?”

Roen sighed. He said, “No, I guess not. Drag my butt into work tomorrow. You have any candy, Pete?”

Peter stood up and walked over to Roen’s desk, poured a few M&Ms onto the desk, and petted the large glass figurine of a Japanese lucky cat on Roen’s desk. Peter said, “Listen, man, figure out what you want to do and do it, or we’re going to have this same conversation when you’re fifty and I’m retiring. You’ll never be happy if you don’t have a passion for what you do.” He went back to his desk, and the two sat in silence.

Finally, Roen asked, “Do you have a passion for what you do, Pete?”

Peter gave his wise old man chuckle, causing Roen to visualize the Dalai Lama sitting in a cubicle, being an office monkey. “Honestly, does anyone dream they’ll be doing what we do for a living?”

“Then why do you do it?”

Peter turned to him and smiled. “Because I have a wife and two little kids to support, and they’re my passion.”

Roen hated that pragmatic response, and hated himself even more for not having a similar excuse. He didn’t even have a dream; he just existed. Depressed, he looked back at his monitor and slogged away at his work.

It was well past 10pm by the time Roen left the office. Heels dragging, he trudged out of the building and made the lonely walk to the parking garage. The clouds were out in full force tonight, common at this time of year, and a stiff breeze came in from the lake. Roen picked up the pace a bit as he walked the six long blocks to his car. He had the option of parking closer at the Grant Park garage, but parking there cost thirty bucks. That’s like two pizzas, so he was resigned to making the long trek to the further away but cheaper garage. He continued south on Wabash and crossed the street, hearing the rumbling of the train as it passed nearby.

Roen’s highly attuned sense of self-preservation began to let him know it was unhappy. Something didn’t feel right and he fidgeted as his eyes darted up and down the street. It was deserted except for a homeless guy crossing the intersection towards his side. There was no one walking behind Roen either. This part of the Loop was poorly lit and was a bit rougher than the business district just a few blocks north.

Then the homeless guy changed directions and moved onto an intercept course. Roen sighed. He had learned to always keep a few dollar bills on hand to give to beggars. It was the easiest way to get rid of them. Roen handed a buck over before the homeless guy even said a word. “Here you go,” Roen said hastily, and tried to pass him.

“Thanks, boss,” the homeless guy replied, shifting to his left to block Roen’s path. “Look man, I’m hungry. Dollar ain’t gonna buy much. Let me get a few more for a meal.” He stepped in really close. Roen could smell faint traces of liquor and the stale aroma of unwashed clothing.

“Sorry,” Roen mumbled and tried to pass him again. Again, the homeless guy blocked his path, more insistently this time. “Hey, back off,” Roen stuttered, trying to keep the homeless guy at arm’s length.

The homeless guy pushed him hard, causing Roen to stumble a few steps. “Why you gotta push me? I’m just asking for a couple bucks to eat.”

Not one for confrontation, Roen turned into a side alley and immediately regretted his decision. Alleys were where bad things happened and he just did the exact thing the Idiot’s Survival Guide to the City would tell him not to do. It was a dead end. He turned around and faced the homeless guy, slowly retreating. “All right, how much you need for a meal?”

The homeless guy grinned. “Price just went up, boss. You gone hurt my feelings.” Then he became a mugger as he pulled out a knife. “It’s going to cost you your cash, your train pass, that bag you carrying, oh hell, everything you got.”

Roen fought the rising panic climbing up his throat as he stumbled backwards. How did he get himself into these situations? He thought, Damn you, Musday!

“Look,” he stammered, barely getting the words out, “let’s talk this over. I can give you my money, but this is my work bag. I need the stuff in it. I’ll get in trouble.”

“You don’t think you’re in trouble now? This ain’t no negotiation, a*shole.”

Tell him that he can have the money, but you are keeping your bag.

Roen looked confused. “What did you say?”

“What’s wrong with you, boss? God, you dumb. Give me your stuff or I stick you.”

Roen retreated until his back bumped against a garbage dumpster. He began to hyperventilate.

What kind of a mugger uses a knife? It is almost insulting. Listen carefully, there are some wine bottles at your feet. Pick them up.

“Who is this? What’s going on?” Roen cried.

Your feet. Bottles. Pick. Them. Up. Now!

The mugger advanced. “I’m losing my patience with you, tubby. You’re going to be a fat dead man any minute.”

Roen looked down at the ground and saw several empty wine bottles. He picked up one in each hand and brandished them in front of him.

Hold them by the neck. The neck. The skinny part.

Roen hastily switched his grip. “Stay back,” he warned. The mugger paid him no attention and continued to advance. He was no further than a few feet away now.

Break the bottles and wield them in front of you.

For a split second, Roen saw an image of a black-armored gladiator standing in an arena holding two swords, one held high over his head and the other in front of his chest. He didn’t know what was going on or who was talking, but he was so scared right now that he did whatever this voice said. He took the two bottles and smashed them together.

Thunk. They didn’t break.

What the...? Roen looked down and tried again.

Thunk. Thunk. The damn bottles wouldn’t break.

“Oh, for the love of...” Roen gritted his teeth and tried again.

Thunk. Thunk. They finally shattered into two jagged shards and he waved them in front of him triumphantly, trying to imitate that already fading image of the gladiator.

Good. Say something mean.

“Wha’... what?”

Threaten him.

“You... you give me all your money!” Roen yelled.

That is not what I meant.

The mugger did a double-take. “What? I’m robbing you. Give me all your money!”

“Not anymore!” Roen cried. “I’m robbing you.”

“You can’t rob me. That’s not how it works.” The mugger no longer seemed so sure of himself and retreated a few steps.

The two stood far apart from each other, both harmlessly waving their respective weapons. Every time Roen advanced, the mugger retreated. And every time the mugger moved forward, Roen scampered backward. They began yelling curses at each other.

“Come on, you fat a*shole,” the mugger snarled.

“You’re a jerk, and you stink,” Roen answered.

Attack.

Roen’s eyes darted around the alley. “Is my brain trying to get me killed?”

Bullies are cowards. Attack!

Nearly a minute into their standoff, after a lot of bravado on both sides, something in Roen snapped. With a burst of momentary courage and the high-pitched roar of a raging mouse, he swung the broken bottles above his head and charged. The mugger seemed to have enough and fled. Roen chased him for about twenty feet before the physical exertion wore him out. He stopped and bent over, panting.

Let him go. You did well. Go home.

“Who is this?” Roen said, in between gasps.

The voice was silent. Afraid that the mugger would come back, Roen hustled as fast as he could to his car and drove home. He stepped through his front door shortly after 11pm, still shaking. His heart felt like it was going to burst out of his chest. It was too bad Antonio was working at the hospital tonight. He could really use someone to talk to.

Roen plopped himself onto the couch and turned on the television. His stomach growled and he decided that it was time for another dinner. He tossed his shirt onto the floor, popped in a frozen pizza, and proceeded to channel-surf, never staying on one for more than a few seconds. This went on for the better part of an hour as he tried to decide what to watch. It wasn’t until after he finished his pizza that he decided there was nothing worth watching.

Roen looked up at the clock; it was just past midnight. With a sigh, he picked himself off the couch, moved to the bedroom, and turned on his computer. He grabbed a bag of chocolate chip cookies lying next to his computer and began to dig through it. For the rest of the night, he played on the computer, immersing himself in a video game – until the clock reminded him that he had to be up in a few hours.

Wearily, he tore himself away from the computer and made his way to bed, idly thinking that he should sign up for a gym sometime this year. He had been saying that since New Year’s, and it was already March. Soon, he would do it. Just not this week. Maybe next month. Or maybe when summer started. Definitely sometime before the year ended.