He walked that day. He left. Everyone thought he would. Most didn't see him doing it that very moment, but they had seen it coming. It hadn't been a month this time.
He walked out the doors and into the cold of the parking lot. He walked up through the stairs that connected the levels of the parking lot, like stairs themselves, ever higher, every father away. The night loomed before him, the desolate road stretched before him just across the ditch. The silence comforted him. There was a touch of fear, there, too, but he used all the will he had to swallow it.
Not for one moment did he pause. He never stopped walking. He turned right at the road and began to walk down it. He wouldn't stop, he reasoned, until he reached the convienence store. He had four hours to kill.
Every time he had a second thought over what he had done, he spoke aloud, "I've already forgiven myself." What was done was done. He did it and had to deal with it.
When had he fallen into the habit of using the job as the measurment of his worth? This job, it simply hadn't been for him. Leaving it behind didn't matter. So he might not have enough for anything in the bank, at least not anything for very long. So he'd be 25 in six days and jobless. So he had car insurance to pay for, a house to pay for, gas to pay for, cigarettes and food to pay for. He'd make it. He'd find a way. He was still alive after two and a half decades, wasn't he? And what strange, mentally and emotionally-stranious things he had been through in that period, and he was still alive. He'd survived himself so far.
Looking at himself hours later, he would agree with a quote he had once grabbed from somewhere. Emo Philips:
"I read somewhere that 77 per cent of all the mentally ill live in poverty. Actually, I'm more intrigued by the 23 per cent who are apparently doing quite well for themselves."
The thought came to him: I can be one of the 23.
Just keep walking.
Half an hour later, he made his way to the only place open in a seeming ghost town at two AM. There was a kind blond girl stocking things as he came in with his bookbag and mixed together the hot chocolate and vanilla cappacinno, as he did every time he came into this chain of convienence stores. He went up to the counter, she asked him if he'd like anything else. Lottery tickets. No, he said to her, thank you anyway. She took a look at his bookbag and asked if he was camping.
"No," he said shamefully. "I just walked out of my job. It was right after my first break, only two hours in. I car pool, and my friend doesn't get off till six AM, so I've got some time to kill."
That didn't really explain the book bag straight forwardly. He kept it to keep his things in, though; money for breaktimes and a book for lunch. Things to write with if he got bored.
"Would you like an application for here?" She asked with a kind smile. He kindly shook his head. Thank you, he told her, but he lived an hour away. There were about a dozen of these place between here and where he lived, he thought, he wasn't going to commute this far unless something paid the $.8.85 an hour job he'd just took off from.
"I dunno," he said, seconds from breaking a vow to himself. Then he said it: "Maybe I shouldn't have quit."
He chanced a look up at her. She just returned the same warm, kind, authentic smile. "Well, you did what you had to do."
Just keep walking.
Her smile was contagious. Thank the warmth of this world for that, as rare as such warmth might be.
"Have a good night." She said.
Keep walking.
"You as well," he said, and marched back out into the cold of the night.
He walked out the doors and into the cold of the parking lot. He walked up through the stairs that connected the levels of the parking lot, like stairs themselves, ever higher, every father away. The night loomed before him, the desolate road stretched before him just across the ditch. The silence comforted him. There was a touch of fear, there, too, but he used all the will he had to swallow it.
Not for one moment did he pause. He never stopped walking. He turned right at the road and began to walk down it. He wouldn't stop, he reasoned, until he reached the convienence store. He had four hours to kill.
Every time he had a second thought over what he had done, he spoke aloud, "I've already forgiven myself." What was done was done. He did it and had to deal with it.
When had he fallen into the habit of using the job as the measurment of his worth? This job, it simply hadn't been for him. Leaving it behind didn't matter. So he might not have enough for anything in the bank, at least not anything for very long. So he'd be 25 in six days and jobless. So he had car insurance to pay for, a house to pay for, gas to pay for, cigarettes and food to pay for. He'd make it. He'd find a way. He was still alive after two and a half decades, wasn't he? And what strange, mentally and emotionally-stranious things he had been through in that period, and he was still alive. He'd survived himself so far.
Looking at himself hours later, he would agree with a quote he had once grabbed from somewhere. Emo Philips:
"I read somewhere that 77 per cent of all the mentally ill live in poverty. Actually, I'm more intrigued by the 23 per cent who are apparently doing quite well for themselves."
The thought came to him: I can be one of the 23.
Just keep walking.
Half an hour later, he made his way to the only place open in a seeming ghost town at two AM. There was a kind blond girl stocking things as he came in with his bookbag and mixed together the hot chocolate and vanilla cappacinno, as he did every time he came into this chain of convienence stores. He went up to the counter, she asked him if he'd like anything else. Lottery tickets. No, he said to her, thank you anyway. She took a look at his bookbag and asked if he was camping.
"No," he said shamefully. "I just walked out of my job. It was right after my first break, only two hours in. I car pool, and my friend doesn't get off till six AM, so I've got some time to kill."
That didn't really explain the book bag straight forwardly. He kept it to keep his things in, though; money for breaktimes and a book for lunch. Things to write with if he got bored.
"Would you like an application for here?" She asked with a kind smile. He kindly shook his head. Thank you, he told her, but he lived an hour away. There were about a dozen of these place between here and where he lived, he thought, he wasn't going to commute this far unless something paid the $.8.85 an hour job he'd just took off from.
"I dunno," he said, seconds from breaking a vow to himself. Then he said it: "Maybe I shouldn't have quit."
He chanced a look up at her. She just returned the same warm, kind, authentic smile. "Well, you did what you had to do."
Just keep walking.
Her smile was contagious. Thank the warmth of this world for that, as rare as such warmth might be.
"Have a good night." She said.
Keep walking.
"You as well," he said, and marched back out into the cold of the night.
