A Day In The Life

Short Fiction - Written Summer 2022

About time I got some writing done. The past couple weekends, I’d been out of town. Yesterday, Wednesday (my Saturday), I gave myself the day off as a little reward for making it through another week of the type of work I actually get paid for.

So it all came down to today. Fortunately, I have the ability to get up and at ‘em with the roosters and trash collectors of the world, a writer’s asset. Unfortunately, I also have a strong tendency to dick around quite a bit in the morning before putting pen to paper. But self-awareness, another virtue for a man of my persuasion, can do wonders in this regard. So, with no small effort, I was able to stave off impending procrastination and leave the house before 8 am, with bag packed and sights set high.

But, first, come to think of it, I’d better eat breakfast, in the interest of getting the juices flowing. So, only slightly discouraged, I walked back in the house and whipped up a couple quick eggs-on-toast. And back out the door, my roll slowed but not halted.

First stop, coffee shop.

One might point out: isn’t it possible to get breakfast at a coffee shop? Or, rather, coffee at home? Fair enough, but the truth is I do it this way based on a meticulous calculus of dollars, minutes, and words. Paying $12 for a breakfast I’d be no more satisfied with than my eggs-on-toast at home would put me $12 in the red (we could litigate the amount I spent at the grocery store on eggs and bread and my gas bill for the stove and whatnot, but let’s call it negligible, for simplicity’s sake). Making coffee at home, while saving me the $3 I would spend buying it, would lose me the 18 minutes it takes to brew and drink it, since lord knows I can’t get a lick of work done at home. If we assume I have the ability to write 10 words per minute on average, including time to think and stare off into the distance, and using a crude approximation based on data I couldn’t possibly explain here, let’s say there’s a 1:1 conversion rate between minutes and dollars. That would mean I’m down 150 words ((12+3)*10) if I buy breakfast and coffee out or 140 words ((18-4[time to cook eggs])*10) if I make both at home. Which is why, splitting it up as I did, I’m only down 70 potential words (do the math), and thus minimizing waste.

Now, it can be argued that spending however long coming up with these calculations and scrutinizing my arbitrary conversion rates is about the least productive thing I could be doing out of all these options.

Either way, it was now about 8:45 and I had coffee in hand, seated comfortably, ready to get down to business.

A woman with a notably skittish aspect took a seat at the table next to me. This would be fine by me, but for the fact that her table shared a bench with mine and she was twitching and tapping her legs along to some sort of internal deep-house EDM soundtrack, which included a lot of experimental time signatures and instruments I wasn’t familiar with. Eventually, the dude who took my order came out with two beverages and sat down opposite the quiver-legged woman, sliding one in a transparent cup across the table. He’d handed me mine out the window without so much as an “enjoy”. 

“Is this iced tea?” she asked.

After a moment, with great pain in his soul, he said, “Yeah.”

I noted the oddly informal barista-customer dynamic between these two.

She let out a nervous chuckle. A few, actually.

“I mean, it's fine, but I told you I wanted a coffee.”

“You said iced tea. I can get you a coffee. But you did say iced tea.”

New theory: these two knew each other prior to today. 

“Here, I can get you a coffee,” he sighed. “It’s not like I work here or anything. Have you taken a sip yet? I’ll dump it out.”

Why would it matter if she’d taken a sip if he was planning on dumping it out?

“It’s fine. I can drink an iced tea.”

Four months earlier, she’d come to buy coffee there for the very first time. She’s always been a coffee person, usually going for a grande drip (black) at starbucks. New to the area, she had been on a tour of local coffee shops trying to locate The Spot, but, more than that, trying to get to know people. Friends, a meaningless fling, someone to really connect with, casual coffee-shop-regular acquaintances, all of the above. She came to this particular shop, and, right away, knew she could find what she’d been looking for here. The ambiance was right: the outdoor seating shaded, a glass wall on the inside separating the espresso machines and industrial hotchpotch from the outside world so one could see, but not hear, the nitty gritty of what goes on.

She came up to place her order, the words “large black coffee” locked and loaded on her lips. But if this place was different, maybe she would be too, today. She came up to the man behind the bar and, before processing the ramifications, ordered a 20 ounce black tea, iced.

“Wow,” he said, as he wrote it on the cup, “Iced tea at a coffee shop. Different.”

With that, they both looked up and met eyes for the first time. There was a bit of a flicker of danger in her eyes, a slight softening in his.

But they couldn’t stay locked-in like that for more than a moment, for fear they’d be stuck that way forever. She took her iced tea, found it sorely lacking compared to her usual, but left knowing she’d found her Spot and maybe a future connection with the cute guy taking orders.

The next day, when she got there, before she could place her order, he passed her an already filled drink. The ice in the tea had long since melted and in the “name” spot, he had written, “Iced Tea Girl.”

He had pre-filled it on the off-chance she showed up. And she had.

This time, when they locked eyes, they didn’t look away for minutes on end. In fact, they maintained eye contact for most all of the next 3 months. She came back every day, and, each time, he had a (somewhat) fresh iced tea waiting for her.

What I’m saying is, they fell in love. He with her, and she with him. They got to know (almost) everything about each other, mostly through long sessions of peering into the other’s soul via the eyes and watching their beloved conduct themselves around that microcosm of the 21st century world: the American coffee shop.

But still, 3 months in, she hadn’t broken the news that, really, she was a coffee drinker. It had reached a point in which, after drinking her iced tea, which, admittedly, was crafted with love, and watching him glide around the place like a man possessed, she was forced to sneak a real coffee at a gas station, Starbucks, or (god forbid) another local coffee shop, to get her fix. She felt ashamed for keeping her secret, borderline unfaithful.

But what could she do! If she came clean, not only would the embarrassing truth be revealed that she was too much of a coward to ask for what she really wanted this whole time, but it might also eliminate the whole foundation of their relationship. How many girls came in here everyday and ordered a black coffee? By being “iced tea girl,” she had been the one who was different. He’d said so himself. But was his perception of her worth setting aside one of the great joys of her life or else carrying on this sneaking around ad-eternum?

Before she could make her decision, though, the truth came out accidentally. Arguably the clumsiest way it has of making an appearance.

On a break one day, the barista saw her driving up and decided to surprise her in her car. He allowed her to park (safety first) and then pounced! She was beside herself with joy, pausing the giggles only long enough to invite him in, the silly boy. He got in the passenger side, grin hardly fitting on his face. What a moment.

But then… what’s this! A cup bearing the insignia of a nearby competitor. Had she been getting iced tea elsewhere? Were his leaves not good enough for her? But his place just used Tazo… Surely other places couldn’t have home grown stuff. Would the quality really vary that much? Unless…

You can imagine the fallout. Him pointing fingers, her scrambling to explain. The ground falling out from beneath them. In the month since, they’d tried to make it amicable, but it’d been pretty touch-and-go. And now, of all things, this mix up.

I got out of there around 10:30. What a waste of time, coffee shops. Next thing’s next. I still had it in me to get some stuff done in a more controlled setting, so I made my way to the library.

At this point, though still early, the first indicators of another day wasted would ordinarily begin to creep up. No writing yet, not even stationary or stable, hardly even an idea kicking around. This sort of thinking is liable to get real existential. Can one call themself a writer if they don’t do any honest-to-goodness, words-on-a-page writing? Have I ever really written anything? Am I an undeveloped talent deep in the thralls of ADHD or a deluded phony?

Not today. I assumed a brisk pace and continued towards the pleasant, moderate, inoffensive library. No chance for distraction or self-doubt there. And if, under those notoriously ideal conditions, I was still unable to make headway, I’d hang it up and accept my lot as an uncreative type. Or maybe I’d compromise and find another medium. Interior design?

Gum would be necessary. I popped into a convenience store, but not before falling victim to a little stutter-step routine with a spatially oblivious exiting gentleman in the doorway. Eventually, I ended up having to hold the door wide open and take a dramatic couple-three steps back to let him out without so much as a “thank you” from him. Jackass.

Pack of gum, $1.99. Is that too much or what they always go for?

In line to check out, I composed a brief elevator symphony in my mind to stave off pervasive discouragement. Nothing too groundbreaking.

When I reached the register, the two ladies working in tandem to ring folks up (one at a time) were carrying on with verve.

“I told her how I felt.”

“Yep.”

“About what Ganzee did to me.”

“Of course.”

“It’s just really not ok.”

“It’s not ok.”

“So I told her.”

“And that’s all you can do.”

“All I can do about it.”

“And you did it.”

“I mean, I had to!”

“Is she gonna talk to Ganzee?”

“Honestly..?”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Ugh.”

“You know how she is with stuff like that.”

“All too well.”

Somehow a sale was conducted involving my two dollars and their pack of gum during this portion of their exchange.

From the customer’s perspective, conventional wisdom would suggest this interaction might have been seconds faster had there only been one cashier and that cashier been focused on the speed of sale. And considering the sum total of seconds lost to preoccupied cashiers, it is possible that the average person could lose up to 5 hours every 10 years. 5 hours which could have been spent, I don’t know, working on the Next Great American Novel, for example.

But in reality, neither of these women, in particular the one who had been wronged by Ganzee, missed a single beat during the checkout process. If a customer came up, laid out items, and presented method of payment without waiting to be prompted, the interchange would have been a picture of efficiency. The problem here was neither the checker nor check-ee, per say, but the cultural standard that says a sale should involve a conversation. If only the average consumer would learn to get with the program, time would be in abundance for everyone.

On the library grounds, some sort of celebration of second-rate art was underway. Booths lined the walkways and 3 small stages had been set up. At this time of day (still before noon), a DJ performed for a handful of ragtag ravers. Most folks browsed the vendors and debated whether it was too early for a drink. For the first time in all the years I’d been coming to the library, I appreciated the size of the area; it was one of those rare places that feel significantly bigger when jammed with festival-goers. 

For a moment I thought the building itself was closed, which would have been just about the last straw for me. But eventually I got inside and was ushered directly into the library auditorium for a screening of 4 short films by local artists. 

Before I could object, the first film was being presented by the programming director of the festival. He drew attention to a pregnant woman standing 4 feet from me near the back of the auditorium and introduced her as the filmmaker. There was no walking out now; I took a seat.

“The Emerald Button”

We open on an interior shot of a pubescent young woman slyly entering what one is forced to assume is her mother’s walk-in closet. She inhales the rarefied scent of the collection of hanging dresses that flow like a waterfall over her upper body as she passes through. She sifts through the bra drawer, holding one up in anticipation of what is to come for her.

After a couple minutes of reveling in the garden of womanhood, our protagonist locks in on what she came for: a flowy, flowery blouse hung all alone on a standing mannequin (possibly impractical for an otherwise modest closet). The girl approaches the blouse. She admires it, begins petting it longingly, zeroes in on a large green (excuse me, emerald) button on the front of the blouse, and, in a dramatic heel turn of tone, rips it off! The tender, orchestral music that has been playing so far comes to a halt with a grating record-scratch sound effect.

She gets out of there before anyone is any the wiser. 

What we don’t know yet is the function (and metaphoric significance) of the titular button. 

Her mother enters the room. She is a fading beauty, recently bereft of her daughter’s father. This information is conveyed in one simple shot of the mother (played by the writer/director/triple threat/now-pregnant-woman in the auditorium) beholding an old silver-framed photograph of her wedding day. She holds the photograph for a second longer than a movie-woman with a living husband would, her face betraying what one might call melancholy. And just like that, we know. Economical storytelling.

With the first spoken exchange, we discover today is the mother’s big day! She has a date (possibly set up by the daughter – it is unclear) with a single dad from the school. She is exhibiting reservations, but the daughter encourages her to hold strong. Is the mother still not over her dead husband? Or just nervous to get back out there? 

Either way, the audience is put through a few minutes of will-she-or-won’t-she. The comedic middle of the film consists of some mother-daughter back-and-forth and a lot of runaround from both in an attempt to get their way: the mother coyly avoiding the prospect of the date and the girl steadfastly redirecting her back towards the night’s plan. A lot of it has to do with the outfit the mom plans to wear. At one point an iphone is being tossed around with an unsent text looming on the screen and we get a tense slo-mo shot of it flying through the air.

After a bit more ado, our suiter arrives and mom comes down the stairs wearing… What's this? A sweater? The cinderella/prom girl trope is turned on its head as our hero’s plan is foiled. After the daters exit, the girl takes the emerald button from her pocket, crestfallen that the garment of her liking will not be featured this time around. She walks up the stairs and heaves a sigh of resignation. Oh, her foolish mother; squandering the twilight of her vitality on needless grief. What was so great about dead dad anyways?

But! It turns out the mother has forgotten some ever-important item from the kitchen. She comes back to grab it. As she walks out the door for a second time, we catch a glimpse of a little duck tail poking out from under her sweater, adorned with a familiar floral pattern…

The date happens, and somehow, despite the frumpy sweater, he seems to like her. And, knock on wood, she likes him too. This part of the tale is told in montage fashion. We hear a soft indie song rather than their dialogue, but we can tell from body language that a connection exists.

Then, the big reveal. Too caught up in the flow of the night to keep her guard up, she takes off her top layer. The blouse is there, and the two sides of the v-neck are modestly overlapped in such a way that they cover what really does seem to be an appealing bust.

At this point, the daughter’s devious intentions become clear. Without that button, there is nothing holding the top part of the shirt together but happenstance. With bated breath, the audience (as well as the man on the date) waits for her to move just so…

And with a reach behind to fetch something from her purse, our wish is granted. The folds of the shirt come apart and time slows. She looks down. He freezes. Everyone in the restaurant admires her cleavage. 

Her daughter has tricked her! But as they drive off into the sunset, she has to admit, the kid had a point.

Courtesy be damned, I staggered out of the theatre before the auteur could take the stage to field questions. I had now made it to lunchtime without anything to show for it. In a fit of self-flagellation, I decided to skip lunch and power through. The library would be open for about 4 more hours. Put up or shut up time for me.

This late in the day, I could not afford to be precious about the perfect table, the perfect lighting, all that. So I took a table on the second floor and set up shop: laptop, notebook, water bottle, pack of gum all set out in a semicircle as if to say, “We dare you.” 

A word on the library’s layout. This was the City Library; no small, suburban affair with 10 shelves of books and a couple computers. It was 5 stories high, replete with a cafe, sizable donation-based store, books in 32 languages, and dozens of white oak work tables. It was a feat of stylish contemporary architecture, by my city’s standards, but not without its practicality. The walls and ceiling were mostly made up of large windows, which gave the interior a fine natural lighting, conducive to reading and writing. Half of each floor housed shelf upon shelf of books and the other half was a thin strip of tables with windows on one side and retaining banisters on the other. No walls separated the halves, perhaps an egalitarian statement on the relationship between reader and writer. All loomed over a large atrium on the ground floor, with a couple glass bridges on each floor spanning the two halves.

The effect was such that one could be seated at a table, glance over the atrium and across to the other side, and see practically everything happening among the books on all five floors, depending on how you craned your neck. The only thing obscuring the view were three elevators, also made of glass, in the center of the bookshelf side.

My desktop was a mess of open tabs and textedit popups containing random reminders and undecipherable ideas for stories. I dedicated a moment to cleaning it up a bit, in the interest of streamlined focus.

I began to hear a monotone, synthetic whine behind me. It approached and the sound grew louder. A dude about my age motored past at a steady clip, holding a portable music machine. As he passed, the tone shifted equally and opposite to the way it had come. I recognized the Doppler Effect in action.

I followed the rogue musician with my eyes, as he crossed the bridge and made his way around the loop. He pressed a couple buttons and by the time he made it back to me, a steady arpeggio was brewing.

He looked pretty yuppish; rocking a brown leather satchel and leopard-print spectacles, clomping around on the Jesus-sandals of the moment.

Was he Christ? Sent here to test me anew? Or a bored performance artist trying to see how long he could get away with pissing off the patrons?

After 4 trips around the floor, he entered an elevator and took the show up a level. 

An older gentleman on the shelf side of my floor with an earpiece and a name badge set down the books he was shelving and began to follow the sound like a rat after a piper. He could hear a sound above, so he checked into an elevator going up. The music man, meanwhile, got in the elevator one over and descended. They made eye contact as their glass elevator cars passed one another. The musician crossed over to the table side and was spotted from the book side one floor up. By the time the employee reached the spot, the culprit sat nonchalantly where his pursuer had been a minute prior. When one took the stairs up, the other was trapped in an elevator going down.

From my vantage point, it was an exhilarating chase. By now quite a few loops were playing on the little synthesizer, and the escalating tempo seemed a fitting soundtrack to the action.

At last, the hunter identified the offending elevator and jammed the “up” button until it reached his floor. He entered the car and looked his rival in the eye. The player sat in the corner of the elevator, knowing the jig was up. They rode up and down that way for a while.

As this drama was picking up, I was aware of a gradual proliferation of footsteps and voices as well as some scuffling about on the ground floor atrium. I tuned it out and tried to keep my mind on my work. I flipped through past projects, trying to decide which was worth adding on to. Metallic clanging joined the fray below. I gave up on my old work and opened my notebook to start something new. The ruckus crescendoed, and then, for a moment, simmered down.

“Finally,” I thought, “Now I can write.”

A lone tuba broke the silence, and after a few introductory measures, a full band came in. I rolled my seat to the banister and beheld the scene. Assembled in the atrium: a high school orchestra, presumably an act at the arts festival taking place outside, allowed in for some reason.

In such an open hall of books, the acoustics were phenomenal. And the kids played with power. However, I am of the opinion that live music of any volume should not find refuge in a public library. 

By now it was 3 pm. I didn’t feel like writing at an active concert venue. So, I packed up, walked out, and punted on this one. I wasn’t quite sure where the day had gone, exactly, but I certainly hadn’t gotten anything done.

There was always next weekend.