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BREEET BREEET BREEET

The sound grates like fingers on a chalkboard being amplified over a bullhorn. The accompanying fire truck colored sticks crudely form digital reminders that the morning waits for no man. In resistance, a solitary hand begrudgingly raises from slumber to halt the annoyance, falling solidly on the one button that silences reality for seven minutes more of the fantasy of dreamland before the hand falls exhausted back to the bed.

BREEET BREEET BREEET

Didn't that damn thing just go off? The hand, more prepared for the aural attack, strikes like an angry gorilla, flattening that same button, then returns its blood crusted knuckles to its place of rest under the cool feathered pillow which soothes the dull ache that comes with returning to the state of consciousness.

BREEET BREEET BREEET

FINE!! With blurring speed, the previously wounded hand strikes with a ferocious backhand, sending the pesky alarm clock on a non-stop flight to the wall. Fractured plastic, dislodged screws and electrical components scatter from the scene of impact. Back at the bed, the hand comes back down to the mattress and the body's other hand snakes across the mattress in the opposite direction, searching. Tattooed arm fully extended, the hand sweeps across the sheets then stops. Nothing. Sweeps another direction and stops. Nothing again. The body's head flops. Eyes force themselves open partially to scan for what the hand has missed but finds nothing more than an empty bed. Though disappointment is telling him otherwise, the tattooed monster rises to a sitting position, wincing with each movement at the welts, lumps and bruises covering his otherwise naked form. He glances one more time at the far end of the bed for certainty's sake. Nothing. A long breath. Then another. Finally, a groan as the body lurches itself to the floor and he allows his equally tattooed legs carry him to the shower.

The heat of the water soothes the aches his body continues to work through. Where is she? His neck is stiff. He brings his fists up for a confrontation and stares them down, the dried blood and swelling reminding him of the night before. The pretty boy with the expensive car and the plastic hair. The ditzy attachment with the bleach blonde hair and the back tattoo just above her ass. He didn't care about little miss Buffy and was frankly repelled by her cookie cutter appearance like she belonged on a GIRLS GONE WILD video but he knew that if he commented on how sexy her tramp stamp was and which tattoo artist did it that big bad Skippy would get pissed. Pissed is exactly what Skippy got and suddenly the conversation was man to man and nose to nose but at least it got Skippy to quit shoveling his bravado on how perfect he is and how he would have made pro football and how his politician daddy got him out of going to the war because only the poor should fight for their country, 'after all, its not like they can contribute anything else'.

The pounding of the synthetic rain drops have finally loosened and dissolved the scabs covering his hands as well as the one that separated his lower lip almost down the center and the one under his left eye. The blood begins to run off the back of his hands again. The grin of secret knowledge shines through. Then, as if to remind him, the cut of the lip lances a sting through his face and his mind returns to the empty bed. The smile is gone, replaced by a furrowed brow.

After the shower and finding the proper work attire which consists of a white button down shirt, some dark slacks, and an over coat so the tattoos can't be seen through the light fabric of the shirt, he trudges down the hall of his room. The first door he comes to, he stops at and opens. On one side of this slightly messy room, there are a lot of pinks and dolls, even a vanity covered with a scattered rainbow of crayons. The other half of the room is plastered with rock and roll posters and electronics tossed about the furniture. There is another vanity littered with darker colors than the other and is made up with lipstick, eyeliner and other assorted make up accessories; but no children. His heart heavy, he continues down the hall. The second door is already open and he leans against the door jamb, needing a small respite from the ache in his legs which he got from throwing Skippy through his own windshield and then jumping up on the fancy car and pile driving him repeatedly with fists of hammers.

This room is like the first, signs of usage but no sign of life. He nudges the toy dump truck from its parking spot in the hallway back into the room and closes the door. He continues through the home until he reaches the well kept kitchen where he grabs an orange juice bottle out of the fridge. He opens the juice and downs half of it, wincing slightly as the citrus invades his cut lip and a split in his mouth he just now realized, then turns to head into the dining room where he can see his briefcase sitting almost alone on the table, with only a sheet of paper to keep it company. With a glance into the living room and a knot slowly growing in his stomach, he edges his way to the paper.

"Pearce-" it begins, in the swooping fluid handwriting he instantly recognizes as his wife's, "You know I love you...more than anything else in the world but I can't keep doing this! It is getting harder and harder to hold it together when you are coming home late every night. I know things have been hard for you but you can't go on living like this! I can't go on living like this! I mean it, I love you very much and I would do anything for us to be happy again but I can only do so much! I don't know if you remember but marriage is supposed to be a two way street! I can't do anything more for us until YOU ARE READY! I don't know how many more times I can lie to the kids when they ask what happened to daddy? Why does daddy have cuts? Did daddy get into a wreck? Do you know how hard it is to lie to our kids? I'm not going to do it any more Pearce and I'm not going to do us anymore until you can straighten out whatever the hell is going on in that head of yours! I don't understand what happened or why you won't talk to me. Do you remember when we used to do that and everything always worked out?" At this point, there was something written and the author changed her mind and scribbled it out. After the circular chaos, the letter continues, "Forget it. IF you can figure your shit out, then call me BUT NOT UNTIL YOU DO! I love you. Good luck." There is no signature but he doesn't need one. He stands, head hung low. Long breaths. The more he breathes in, the sharper the pain in his back gets.

After the longest minute, he looks up at the clock on the wall. SHIT! He grabs his briefcase and bolts for the door, thinking like the rabbit in "Alice In Wonderland".

Pearce, in a hurry to get to work, forgot to grab his coat and now the chilling rain seeps through his clothes as he chases after the city transit that is pulling away from him at a steadily increasing speed. After half a block, the realization sinks in like the Seattle drizzle that there is no way he is getting this bus so he resorts to cutting across the street and down another block in hopes of grabbing a different bus that patrols this part of town. He hoofs it at the best speed that his aching legs will take him to the small corral of would-be bus patrons. Success! No more does he get to the bus stop than the chariot pulls around the corner and hauls to a stop, bringing with it the heavy stench of exhaust.

Dammit, I should have grabbed my coat. Pearce sits near the front of the bus and sets his briefcase on his lap after shaking and wiping the excess water off of it. He berates himself, first over forgetting his coat, then working back from there. For losing his family. For beating down Skippy. For even going to the bar in the first place. Even why he can't cope with common daily situations and random people. All the way back to his father's death or even moving away from Seattle in the first place. His grip tightens on the worn leather handle of his well used soft cloth carrying case and his knuckles whiten from stress and anger. The freshly scabbed cuts peel open with the continuing stress and the blood issues forth, yet again. Feeling the warm wetness on his fingers, Pearce looks down at his hands. Aww man! He looks around on his left and his right for a place to eliminate the evidence but finds nothing. He can't wipe it on his clothes. He searches outside his immediate vicinity and meets stares with a small, pruned, old woman sitting across from him. She was thickly bundled and well prepared for the cold rain, head covered in a yellow scarf and even accompanied by a bright red umbrella, sitting trustily by her side. She keeps staring. Pearce puts on a weak smile and nods in acknowledgement and begins turning his head as he notices her eyes focus on his hands. Great, now some stranger gets to tell me how much of a fuck up I am! He watches her dig into her purse. After a brief moment of rummaging, she pulls out a small packet of tissues. He looks back at her and her wrinkled scowl morphs into a smile, sweet as a box of raisins. Her withered hand outstretched, she offers to Pearce the tissues and gestures toward his hands.

Huh. I guess there are still good people in the world. Too bad they're a dying breed. He graciously takes the tissue packet and removes three of the cottony towelettes, hands the packet back to her, and repays her with a smile of gratitude. The woman, content with her payment, turns her focus to the world outside the windows of the bus and Pearce gingerly caresses his hamburgered hands. Whether its from the dry atmosphere of the bus or the pressing of the tissue, the wounds decide to finally quit spewing. A few more dabs and a couple well orchestrated brushes and his knuckles finally decide to clean up a little. While viewing his little soldiers, a worn and tarnished brass emblem positioned on the front of the briefcase winks up at him. His gaze strays to the little crest emblazoned with a shamrock and two raised initials inside the leaf pattern- C F. Cormac Flannery. His eyes begin to itch just under the lower lid and his breath falters and stumbles around the sudden lump in his throat. Dad. I should have stayed in Seattle instead of needing to find out who I am! So fucking stupid! The itch develops into small pools of water which he tries desperately to prevent running into twin streams down his face. Maybe if I stayed here, you would still be alive and I wouldn't have just this stupid bag as a reminder that you were always right and that I was a fuck up. Maybe it would be you on this bus going to work instead of me. We both know you were better at it. You were meant for this conformist bullshit life. I can't do it Dad! How the hell did you manage to do this every day?

Try as he might to dam the flow, one tear escapes and flees from his eye. Feeling both stupid for crying in public and weak for crying period, Pearce clamps his eyelids closed momentarily while he grabs the handful of tissue and cleans up yet another mess in his life, then with stern resolve, he forcefully reminds himself to get over it and to move on. Five slow breaths, heated as they expel from his flared nostrils, help him to collect himself before getting off of the bus and heading into work for yet another fantastic day of conformist non-fulfillment.

The run from the bus to the building is easier this time than getting from home to the bus. Pearce cruises right in, keeping a lively pace in order to try getting to his employer's office without being much more late. This is uncharacteristic of him and he nags at himself for being so stupid. If you hadn't spent so much time in the shower. You should have not hit snooze so much. Quit being a total waste and stop screwing up what life you have left! With some skillful navigation, Pearce slips into his office and slides into his chair in hopes of not being caught and feels confident of his success as he sees that his many fellow co-workers either take no notice or no concern. However; his sense of success is short lived as he glances up to the mezzanine and, sure enough, the fat man is perched high and peering down.

"Well boy, I knew it was only a matter o' time before your true colors started shinin' through." His voice booms, not only due to the copious amounts of space in this shared office but because hefty men seem to have deep voices and Big Lou definitely has a market on the hefty department. "I knew it was too much to ask, gettin' you to step in where your pop left off without havin' some kind o' problems."

Pearce shakes his head contemptuously as he begins to boot up his computer. It seems to Pearce that all that girth is just the container holding all the air in that giant gas bag which continues to leak, "That man was a real bright light bulb, your pop. He worked here for plenty o' years and I never once had a problem with him..." Pearce zones out the 'your old man' speech as he stares at his reflection in the monitor, tracing his most recent cuts and bruises with two fingers but still the wind bag pipes on, "...every time you won a science fair or grabbed another degree he was always braggin' 'bout ya and how much like him you were. Well, I don't wanna be the one to tell ya boy but your pop was a lot less like you than he wanted to think. Don't get me wrong, you are pretty good at what ya do but I gotta say, I don't have anyone working for me that I can't live without. So next time you wanna be late, why don't you ask yourself if you even want his job in the first place!"

Jesus Dad, did he bitch this much when you were in this chair? Pearce pulls out a couple comic books he stashed in his desk drawer a couple days ago and begins reading the spandex adventures as the tirade of Big Lou continues. Pearce attempts to cut him off and end the sermon, "Lou, I'm sorry I'm late, I had some personal issues to deal with at home."

"Well boy," God, will you please quit calling me boy? "I tell you what, why don't you show some responsibility and deal with your personal issues on personal time and then I won't have to get on ya like this!" Insensitive prick!

"Okay Lou, you're right. I’ll deal with it at a more appropriate time. Sorry."

Of all the people Pearce has scrapped with, he has never felt as much a desire to scrap with anyone as Big Lou. To punch that salami eating mouth once, just once...that kind of thinking will get me fired.

Yet another sigh escapes his throat. They seem like commuters in rush hour traffic today. It just doesn't end. Despairing at the futility of life and wondering what the hell the point is to continue, Pearce scoops up the day's log of scheduled workload and reviews his agenda. Resignation is slowly placed by resolve as Pearce scrolls down the impossibly difficult list of tasks that are 'required' to be done today and he regains confidence from his anger. That fat bastard is just trying to push me out. Thinks I can't handle a little squeeze?! Determination possesses Pearce and the majority of the day is spent hammering out task after task as the agenda list shrinks at an amazing pace. No speaking. No lunch. No socializing. No distractions. The day seems to sweep through with very little complication until he finds himself near the end of the day with no more tasks and twenty minutes to kill. With a scan of the room, he notes that many other people are still working or too busy socializing to be bothered by their job, which they will make an excuse for tomorrow morning and justify picking up some overtime by catching up on the previous day's work. Pearce flips a pencil in the air...then again...and again...one more time. He tidies his desk, rearranging his desktop items. Fifteen minutes. He organizes his pens according to color. Re-stacks his stacks of papers. Twelve minutes. He wipes off the frame that holds a picture of he and his family which was taken on their last visit to San Francisco, at Alcatraz Island. His family. A chilled pain sweeps across his shoulder blades and back around to his lower gut.

Knowing full well that anything gotten in life has to be earned, Pearce grabs his keyboard and begins hitting search engines and local listing websites. Nine minutes. Marriage counseling wouldn't work. Discount on groceries wouldn't do it. Nope, not viagra. Psychological analysis? Not community service. No recycling or penis pumps. Two minutes. Anger management. Yeah, that's the issue after all, isn't it? My anger. CLICK. How could there be so many options for the Seattle area? Is this really such an epidemic? Which one to choose?

Less than a minute is left and many of the office workers are beginning to grab their coats and other personal effects. Time is running out and most of the courses require a sign up. A-ha! A seminar with no sign up requirement and open to the public! Message in a Bottle. Pearce jots down the meeting time and address, logs off his computer and joins the masses as they shuffle out of the office and into the distraction of life.