Heather Buyce-Vasquez
Lyllian, October, 2016, Seattle
Icicles of apathy cling to the large tinted window behind Lyllian. Sluggish fingers type endless emails to blobs of life murmuring in quiet censorship. Sitting mere feet from Lyllian’s twisted half on hand me down boots too careless to walk the three feet to the boxes set against windows no one can see out of she clicks away adding smiley emoticons to divert minds from their typical knee-jerk reaction to her anti-pc rhetoric. Who can we piss off today?
In shuffles mousy Nell, headset bobbing precariously to one side on bushy black hair. “So..so I wonder if you think it’s appropriate that I send out an email to the office asking if anyone wants to pitch in on new Brita filters?”
Lyllian’s liquefied mind solidifies itself into some semblance of interest and forces a pleasant smile. “Sure Nell. If you’d like to ask everyone their thoughts on the Brita filters; that’d be fine…” Lyllian trails off as Nell backs out chirping a cheerful greeting to Barney Staple from accounting asking about the latest budget restrictions on of all things…staplers.
Lyllian’s head sinks down again into her chest and her mind again starts to melt into that ever present fantasy of writing. Really writing.
Not just the odd job blogs she sends out every week or so. About one year ago she had started writing out random observations, thoughts, anything to put to page. And it became enjoyable in a sense. She could reveal something of herself that was neither Mom, Wife, nor Supervisor, Daughter, Sister or Friend. Just Lylllian. Putting it to paper was the first step. Next she found herself googling how to’s on starting your own blog. And she was off. Endless winding words on herself, her marriage, her childhood, her children, her cube life, her place in this world.
But despite the release it was not enough. She wandered. In and out of fiction and the occasional blandness of her day to day life. She switches screens to a halfway written blog about Holidays in the Vega house.
Nope. Up again. This time it’s Eugenia. “Guess what?” she booms with a shit-eating grin on her face. Lyllian leans forward affixing her “I give a crap” expression on, “What?”
“I just taught Dr. Kitchner how to look up cancelled results in the Saga system! He was so amazed!” Eugenia giggles and scampers back to her box.
Lyllian’s eyes sink shut. Is this really all there is?
This is Lyllian Vega. She is 38 years old. She spends much of her life in an office on 1st Avenue near the black and crumbling bus barn. There is a crane leaning perilously over her office building constructing god knows what and the roads are potholed and slick with November rain and leaves. She sits on the 5th floor. Her primary responsibilities are to supervise her staff of five and resolve various issues between physicians and the hospital laboratory. Lyllian’s day consists of a lot of ass kissing, finger giving, curse word mouthing, jack off emulating and email writing; all of this under her desk while on the phone (well except for the email writing which she does on the alarmingly ergonomically correct ‘desk buddy attached to her desk).
She is happily married to Michael, a sous chef at a pretentious gastro pub, and they have two daughters, Frankie and Vivienne, aged 16 and 6. Lately Lyllian has begun to think life has played a cruel joke on her and somewhere somehow is her real life, bopping around town, eating at cheap food trucks, and seeking out happy hour, and practicing yoga in a comfy little room in her flat overlooking Manhattan. An endless carousel of vintage leather jackets and gauzy dresses adorn the chairs awaiting the right boot or wedge to venture where they venture.