Resignation, Chapter One - "Gray-skied morn"
Even though it was the middle of August, there was very little light in the hallway. That was odd, considering there was a large pane of glass set behind the stairs – yet it seemed much brighter in my room. Maybe I was imagining things. The shadows did not flicker around the six doors lining the hallway until I moved to the stairs, blocking what little gray light filtered through.
I descended the stairway and looked over the railing as I habitually do. In the dining room, I could see that the lights had been turned on, and I could hear the shuffle of paper. That meant Dad was awake. (Who else would it have been?) Cool. Meant I didn't have to make coffee.
I continued my stride down the last couple steps and to the left, where I entered an archway that lead to the downstairs hall. From here I had four options: to the back room, the bathroom, the dining room, or the kitchen.
Naturally, I chose the kitchen. As soon as I came upon the beautiful, beautiful scent of energy and wakefulness, I veered right towards the cupboard and dug through the myriad of things in search of my personal mug. It was nowhere to be found.
I shrugged and filched a green cup from one of the top shelves and hastily grabbed the handle of the hot pot. I counted the seconds as I poured and should have stopped at three, but I kept going for four. Three was a good amount, but four was better. I set the pot back down and turned towards the fridge, opening the heavy metallic door and grabbing the milk. I poured just a little bit of the sweet liquid into my cup. I put the jug back where I found it, closing the door like a gentleman and unlike a buffoon, took a spoon, dropping it into my cup, and spinning it around the cream-laced black liquid before heading back through the hall and into the dining room.
Dad didn't even look at me as I entered. But that was okay – I could see his eyes speeding over the newspaper. I didn't know what he was reading nor what he was looking for in that dreary babble, and I didn't really care about it. “Anything interesting?” Of course, I still had to ask. It was almost customary. Plus, every now and then there would be something to talk about.
He took a sip from his coffee (which was as black as my hair (which was a rich brown not unlike the colour of wood)), set the paper down, and looked at me in the eye before answering, “Depends on how you define interesting, and if I last remember, nothing in the paper ever quite matched yours.” He did a lop-sided smile that indicated he won whatever witty high ground there could potentially have been. “Truth or no?”
I rolled my eyes and smirked just a little. “Not true. It's just that the drivel they always publish in that,” I nodded at the paper laid neatly in front of both of us as I sat down in the chair opposite to his, “doesn't quite pique anything remotely close to interest. For myself, of course.” I hesitated on the last bit because I had to remember that I was only talking about myself and I didn't really know if Dad actually liked reading the paper. Plus, he would have jumped on my ass about it.
He was very prone to do that.
Ignorant (hopefully) of my internal reasoning, he nodded sagely, accepting that answer before doing another witty grin like a man with a trick up his sleeve, flipping to a page with an indent on it. I didn't quite understand the importance of this act - partly because it was upside-down - until I actually read what it was saying.
“Writers wanted,” he commented as I dragged my eyes over the letters. “I know you're good with words and you like to write. At the least, will you give it a thought?” he casually pleaded.
He knew that my summer job of being a lifeguard at our local pool was over in two weeks. How thoughtful of him to consider my having a job while I complete my senior year of high school on top of extracurricular activities. Gee, thanks.
I had to admit though, it was a nice idea. I did enjoy writing – even if I write... specific material that I did not share with anyone other than the Internet. However, besides the difference between my personal pieces and my theoretical column pieces, I wasn't too keen on even thinking of getting a new job just yet, nor making writing my temporary career path. I really liked the job I already had. Plus, I was far more interested in computer science and technology than literature.
If only there had been an advertisement that said something like “CODERS WANTED” - that would have been way better. Too bad that my amazing skills would have to wait until I could actually find a job like that.
Fat chance of that, honestly. The entire town was convinced I was the football star, destined to go to our community college and win them a title or trophy or some shit. I wasn't really sold on the idea.
My inner monologue had taken too much time and I could feel the look my Dad gave me as I sat, lost in thought. “I'll ruminate on it,” I mused, throwing the big word in there casually to flex my word muscles. It felt good to do that just as much as any other muscles. But either way, I guess being a columnist would be good for when the season cooled down, and for the next week or so, it wouldn't be murder to have two jobs (longer if I get assigned to the in-door pool).
Or at least, I hoped it wouldn't be.
“That's m'boy,” he chortled. Wow. He must be excited for it to happen. I didn't laugh with him and maintained a rather perplexed expression; when he calmed down, he apologized, saying, “Sorry. I just found it a little bit funny.”
I shrugged, not particularly affected by Dad's mirth, and began to down my coffee. I didn't want it to get cold (even though I had only had it for maybe half a minute). He did the same, and we sat in relative silence as the gray light grew brighter (however dim it still was).
As I came to the last gulp of my drink, I stood and strolled back to the kitchen. I sat my cup down on the counter closest to the cupboard that contained the bread before pulling out said wheat product, taking two slices and putting them in the shiny toaster. I downed the last of my drink, putting the empty glass in the sink and filling it with water. I turned around and went back into the fridge, pulling out the milk again, and went searching for cereal that didn't taste awful. It wasn't that hard, since it was in the same place the half-eaten loaf of bread had been.
I took a sparkly-clean bowl from the dishwasher and poured a nice amount of cereal in it (adding just a tiny bit WHOOPS yeah okay a lot of sugar for added sugary taste). I proceed to drown it in milk before putting all the ingredients in their respective places. I wait the five seconds for the toast to predictably pop up and I, also predictably, jump when it does.
I took my collection of food and strutted back to the dining room table like a peacock. Yes, look at me. I am the one with the food and you are not. Love me. Envy me. Eat your heart out (because I know I will be eating all of this delicious-looking breakfast).
I sat back down where my butt had previously made its warmth, my goodies on the table. I lovingly proceeded to dig in. There were three discernible sounds: my crunching of sustenance, the birds chirping their morning songs, and Dad's newspaper as he flipped through the pages. If one listened closely, they could hear my brother's outrageous snoring. I did not deign to listen closely.
Thanks to the ticking clock mounted on the wall, I made sure to keep a check on the time. I could not be late again. I drained my bowl of both warm milk and soggy cereal, my toast log gone, before I returned to the kitchen to deposit my empty bowl into the sink, the ceramic making that clunk sound and the spoon making that annoying clattering sound. I filled it with water as I had the cup earlier, leaving both things for Mom to deal with.
I never understood why she insists on things like that. I guess she needs something to fill her time? I don't know.
With breakfast and coffee taken care of, there was nothing of note to distract me from my one and only plan. In the giant archway between the dining room and the living room, I turned to Dad. “Later, old fart,” I teased while I pulled on the giant sweatshirt I had conveniently left on the couch last night – and I do mean giant, since it was XXL. That's two more X's than I'm used to wearing. Keys in hand, I headed towards and out the front door.
I took a deep breath of the crisp, fresh morning air as I closed the door behind me and walked to my ugly duckling of a truck. Almost every part of it had a different colour, ranging from dented silver to chipped red to scratched blue. The only things I cared about in regards to this unsightly beast were the inside and whether it ran.
The former was impeccable – fuzzy black seat covers and not a speck of dirt or trash to be seen.
The latter, however, was getting worse and worse. I honestly feared that this fucker would give up and die any time now. The right headlight didn't work half the time, there were a plethora of cracks dotting the windshield, the passenger door didn't open from the outside, the driver seat didn't adjust even a centimeters, every now and then a bump would kill the engine, and I was pretty sure that the back left tire was going flat. I'd be surprised if this thing didn't explode by the end of the year. Or the month.
I pushed the grizzled key into the lock, twisting it, and prying the door open. It made the same squeal that a kid might after wounding themselves. I vaguely thought of fixing that one day, but eh – today was not that day. I checked my watch, which I never even took off when I went to bed, and laughed. I was going to be somewhat early. A surprise, really, since I was never early. I sat in my cozy seat, slammed the door shut, put the key in the ignition, twisted, started my dying baby up, let it warm up a bit on the inside, and expertly pulled out of our driveway and onto the road.
As I drove in the gloomy semi-dark down the road, I thought to myself that at least my truck wasn't as loud as it could have been.
