6:00 AM
You fervently explain to the men in the white lab coats why the hypodermic needle is the wrong color. One of them pulls out a bouquet of flowers and pummels you on the head with it. The flowers turn into a hammer, and your head becomes an anvil. You blow on the hammer, but that doesn't seem to stop that annoying gung-gung sound.
6:07 AM
You wake up on the floor and find yourself clinging to the bed post with a pulverizing headache. The alarm clock has dwindled to a buzzing whine in protest of the overtime it had to put in. You want to turn it off, but the button is too far away, and you would have to get up. You pull the cord out of the electrical outlet instead. Then you remember you still haven't pressed the snooze button, so you drag yourself up off the floor, stagger to the dresser, press your teddy bear's nose, and collapse on the floor again.
6:16 AM
You get tired of waiting for the alarm to ring. Besides, those men in the white lab coats don't seem to want to come back. You drag yourself back up and squint your eyes, bracing against the light. Then you realize that there is no light outside, except maybe about three stars. You stumble over your nice blue shirt on the way to the closet. You find something to cover your legs with, something in the front, and think that your nice blue shirt would go well with it. Now where did that shirt go?
6:30 AM
So you don't find the blue shirt. But you find out that you have a red scarf with a moth hole in the upper left-hand corner, a black patent leather belt, two fishing poles, and a box of Cracker Jack in your closet. Oh, well, now you know, and knowing is half the battle. You throw on a hunter green polyester shirt, the one your Aunt Marjory sent you that still has the Wal-Mart tag on it. Not even wanting to think about searching for something to cut it off with, you tear off the tag, but the little plastic ring thing is still attached to the back of the collar. You decide that nobody looks at the back of your collar. Actually, nobody looks at the back of anyone's collar. Actually, nobody looks at you.
6:45 AM
You trip over the nice blue shirt again. You get mad at yourself for leaving such a mess and hang it up in your closet. The humidity decides to perform anti-gravity tricks with your hair. Miraculously, your new can of hair spray, which you remember with pride that you remembered to buy yesterday, is within reach. You can't find the "no CFCs" logo, so you just water down your hair. Even your toothpaste is nearby, but the tube is nearly out. But a tube of toothpaste never technically runs out. Kind of like your sanity, you think. You figure you should economize, so you push your thumb into the tube and squeeze out that last little bit. Your now purple thumb grips the toothbrush as you imagine the plaque on your teeth disappearing on contact with minty water.
7:00 AM
You realize that your headache is gone. In fact, it has been gone for quite some time now, but you don't know when it started to go away. Not only that, you're hungry. You think you might
be late, so you check the time on your clock. Hmm, that's funny. There is no time on your clock. Just in case, though, you think you had better start for work now. After all, it's a one-hour commute, and work starts at 9:00. You grab your box of Cracker Jack and head out the door.
7:15 AM
You zoom down the freeway in your manual transmission Honda Civic. The box of Cracker Jack slumps in the passenger seat. Your mom, wearing a mauve shower cap and a matching terry cloth bathrobe, appears in your head. You hear your mom's gritty drawl, "Did you forget to lock the door again? Oh, I'll bet you did, I'll bet my paycheck on it, which isn't much anyway, and in my old age of 56, WHY AM I STILL WORKING ANYWAY? HUH?" You protest out loud, "But Mom, I did lock the door." Nevertheless, you take the next exit and turn around.
7:30 AM
You hurry out of the car to your door. Yup, it's locked. But then you suddenly remember that you're hungry. That box of Cracker Jack you found in the closet would be nice for breakfast. And some Tylenol for your pulverizing headache. Since you left your apartment key in the car, you run back to the driveway to retrieve them. You find your keys next to the box. You rush to unlock your door, but you can't find anything you want, and time is spiraling away. You lock your door, get back in your car, and zip away.
7:45 AM
You turn on the radio to a random station playing a driving country song. You don't really like the song; it's too early in the morning for anything that bouncy, so you start scanning: "I'll work for you to scrape every last cent you deserve from those greedy insurance compani‹ever you are I believe that my heart will go o‹no one think of the children, will no one have faith in the power of‹four cheeseburgers for $2.99 limited time off‹O Sole Mio! O‹this 30-day diet FREE of charge for 22 day‹ô, je t'aime, Robert, nous allons être toujours ensemb‹just can't wait to be king‹the thirteenth caller to win a fabulous trip to sunny Acapulco‹all live in a yellow submarine, a‹an eighteen-wheeler collided with two compact cars on Interstate . . . ." Finally, you hear the last chords of your favorite song, and you breathe a sigh of relief. You don't know what any of the stations are, at least you found a good one this time. The DJ starts talking: "That was a request from an M. B. to a C. S. Now we're going to break 55 minutes of continuous music for a word from our sponsors." You turn the radio off.
8:00 AM
Every lane is moving at amoeboid velocity, except the HOV lane. You decide that the box of Cracker Jack doesn't look enough like a passenger, so you stay in the right lane. The box of Cracker Jack! You open it up and inhale a few handfuls. The box is still half full, so you scramble around for the surprise toy‹one of those tiny IQ puzzles with the interlocking steel rings that are supposed to come apart somehow but never do. It comes in a plastic bag with a few corny jokes. What time is it when your pet elephant sits on your fence? Time to get a new pet. Knock, knock. Who's there. Carpet. You put the jokes back in the plastic bag. You fiddle with the rings until the guy in the Mercedes behind you leans on the horn. You drop the box, stuff the rings in your right pocket, and move another two-and-a-half feet forward.
8:15 AM
Your means for amusement virtually exhausted, you open your glove compartment. You find your glasses in the compartment and put them on. A blurry turquoise packet in the back snaps into a Tylenol PM sample. You recall that you have a pulverizing head-ache, so you take the two gelcaps. A few seconds later, you perceive that your head doesn't hurt at all. You marvel at how advanced technology has increased the effective speed of pain relievers. Light dry grey tumbles from the sky, and you pretend that grey is actually a disguise for a profound azure. Wait, that would be a bad thing because that means all the smog, to which you are adding critical molecules, is besieging all the frantically battling forces of blue. You exit the freeway and stop at the park-and-ride, compliments of your local bus transit.
8:30 AM
You board the bus to where you work only twenty minutes away. You sit in the aisle seat behind the bus driver, away from the emergency exit, even though you're not disabled and you're over fifteen. Realistically, of course, emergencies are rare, but you know they would have to happen to you. The twentyish girl sitting next to you has a thick book with black and blue text open over her plaid skirt. There's a graph of a curvy thing with a line going through it in the middle of the page on the left. She gazes up at you in desperation and asks if you know what a derivative is. You tell her you honestly have no idea, but you're curious, so you ask why. She says, "Well, you were wearing glasses, and you looked smart." You wonder if you should be flattered. The bus driver stops whistling the "Stars and Stripes Forever" and begins explaining what a derivative is. You decide you probably shouldn't be flattered. Most of it's over your head and doesn't interest you much. Besides, you feel like a fog is swirling in your head, so you drift off to sleep.
8:55 AM
The girl is tugging on your sleeve. "I have to get off here; I've got a math class at the university." You get up to let her out into the aisle, then notice that you've never seen this stop before. You follow her and thank the bus driver on your way down the steps, but the bus driver doesn't respond. His stare strays over your head at the girl's dark curls bobbing loosely like large springs around her shoulders. The map at the stop shows that where you work was one stop ago. You watch the bus pull away and walk down the street in the opposite direction.
9:05 AM
You press the "up" button in front of the company elevator and wait. The number "7" is lit. You watch the orange light move to "6," then "5," all the way to "2." Cracker Jack is that color. You ate an awful lot of Cracker Jack, but you didn't read the nutrition label. It wouldn't help you anyway: you don't know how many servings you had or how much 16% of your monounsaturated fat RDA is. As the Cracker Jack-colored light moves to "1," you turn around the corner to the stairwell on your left.
9:10 AM
The fourteenth floor secretary, Shirley, checks you in. "You're late," she scolds, "but I won't tell." You start to explain about the clock in your room, but then you think better of it. You walk past the row of cubicles, peppered with comic strips and photographs. One occupant plastered a gargantuan poster of Brad Pitt on one wall. Another pins his ticket stubs to ballets next to his monitor. He calls it "transcending his cultural boundaries." You don't mind ballets, except that the sight of young girls supporting all of their albeit-slight weight on one toe looks painful. The cubicle next to yours has a sign beside the opening: "SAVE TIME. DON'T ASK." Your cubicle has one photograph of your five-year-old nephew Colin. A memo lies innocently on your desk. A meeting with no explicit purpose at 9:30 AM.
9:30 AM
You meet in the lounge with eight other employees, including the secretary across from you, and your immediate supervisor around a black elliptical table. With an air of complacency, your supervisor twists back and forth in his upholstered chair. After awhile, he stands up and begins in a benign tone, "A mild difficulty with arriving and beginning work punctually has been noted. Of course, a few lapses under extenuating circumstances can be reasonably forgiven, but the chronic apathy about being on time is certainly inexcusable. We all know the old saying, ŒTo be early is to be on time. To be on time is to be late. To be late is to be replaced.¹ Now I'm not threatening any of you, I'm simply trying to demonstrate how widespread this problem has become. I ask you to be honest. If you were late this morning, please stand up." Your supervisor grins expectantly and makes eye contact with everyone around the table. You seem to recall that Shirley told you that you were late although you weren't sure what time it was. You stand up. No one appears anxious to join you, especially Shirley. Her face is visibly attempting to control a quivering attack. You wonder if she was late, too. Your supervisor turns his grin towards you. "Thank you for your honesty. As for your compatriots, you have one more chance to confess your error, for if I find that you are lying, you will regret it." After a discomfited silence, the supervisor turns to Shirley. "Shirley, may I see your records, please?" She hands them over and hurls a glare at you while your supervisor glances over the papers. "Hmm . . . no tardies seem to be recorded for this morning. In future, Shirley, I will expect your performance to be more accurate. Meeting adjourned." He shakes everyone's hands beginning on the left and gives you a broad smile before leaving the room. As Shirley stalks by, she hisses, "I, out of the goodness of my heart, tried to do you a favor, and you moron almost got me fired! Thanks for nothing!" You apologize and begin to explain, but you abruptly realize that there is nothing to explain. She sulks out of the room.
10:00 AM
During your first coffee break, you get in line for the vending machine. It's a short line because most people on this floor drink coffee. A clique of females just switched from Diet Coke to Pepsi One. The lady with the Brad Pitt poster drinks herbal tea with chamomile. She's griping because she ran out of Chinese green tea. The ballet enthusiast refuses to drink anything but "pure mountain spring water." Well, you guess Ozarka is close enough. You're the only person on the floor, probably in the building, who drinks orange-flavored Sunkist. You carefully wash out the can and flatten it before dumping it into the recycling bin.
10:30 AM
The guy in the cubicle next to yours rushes into your cubicle in a hairspray-defying frenzy. He whispers urgently, "What's this I hear about a meeting this morning?" You look blankly at him. What meeting? Oh, yeah, a meeting this morning sounds vaguely familiar, but you can't remember what it was about. You find out that your coworker just arrived. He was up until four AM last night reading a self-improvement book about career advancement and overslept this morning. You can't remember anyone there but Shirley and your supervisor. You almost refer him to Shirley, but that idea gives you bad vibes, so you suggest that he ask the supervisor. He gives you a look as if you had suggested that he go bungy-jumping with kite string. He decides that since you can't remember anything about the meeting, it probably wasn't very important. He exits your cubicle with considerably more tranquility than he entered.
11:00 AM
You pass by the lounge and peek inside aimlessly. A woman in a glossy blonde topknot, silk suit, and stiletto heels is applying mascara. You embark in the direction of your cubicle when you hear a shout from the lounge. "Eh, vou, vou forgot to cut ov zee plastique on vour collar." Involuntarily you reach behind your neck and feel a plastic ring thingy. You stick your head in the lounge and say thanks.
11:30 AM
You're checking in your desk drawer for something to cut off that plastic ring thingy with when a bing sound comes from your computer speakers. "You've got mail!" a perky voice informs you. You check your e-mail. Hmm, that's an e-mail address you don't recognize. You click on the address and find out you've been subscribed to an inspirational mailing list by yet another address you don't recognize. Today's inspirational quotation: "Integrity is telling myself the truth. And honesty is telling the truth to other people."‹Spencer Johnson. You are pretty sure that you know the definitions of those words, but you guess this is just a confirmation. Wow, you think, this mailing list really is inspirational. It tells you that you're right. But then you think the supervisor might not like it if you're getting nonprofessional mail, so you unsubscribe and delete the message.
12:00 PM
You go to the fast food restaurant next door for lunch. As the cashier hands you your order, she reminds you that if you donate one dollar to the charity they're supporting, you'll be eligible to win a special prize. You're always a sucker for special prizes‹hence the fascination for Cracker Jack‹so you stick one dollar of your change into the ticket dispenser. You drop half your ticket in the clear plastic box with a padlock on it, and you put the other half in your left pocket.
12:30 PM
You finish your lunch. As you get up to leave, you notice a sign advertising the charity supporting a cure for migraines. You reach into your pocket in quest of a donation. Meanwhile, the cashier announces the hourly raffle drawing for the special prize. "Number 65!" she calls out. Then she says it louder, her eyes grazing the restaurant. All you can find in your pocket is a ticket with the number "65" on it. A man behind you waves his arms and points to you. "He's got it!" You turn around, flabbergasted. How did he know you got migraines? Just then, the manager of the restaurant comes out of the kitchen with a sheepish air. "I'm sorry, we're all out of gift certificates to Bungy-Jumping Central. We'll just have to refund your dollar." The cashier shoves a dollar bill in your hand and smiles. "Thanks for playing." You smile back, slip the dollar bill in your left pocket, and exit the restaurant.
1:00 PM
In front of the company building, a gaunt, gnarled man with a tuft of wiry black hair is carrying a bucket full of long-stemmed red roses. Upon perceiving your approach, he runs to you and takes your hand in both of his. He implores you in a foreign accent, in the interest of good karma, will you please buy a flower so that he can support his wife, his four children, his dear parents, his brother and sister-in-law, their seven children, and his third cousin once removed? You buy a flower and disentangle yourself from his overwhelming declarations of lifedebts and genuflections. All that excited, broken English makes your head reel.
1:30 PM
You get a phone call from your local public library. The lady very politely reminds you that the book you checked out was due yesterday. You don't have any book with you, and you seriously doubt that you could find it in your car or your house, so you ask her what the title of the book is. It turns out to be Accelerating up the Corporate Ladder: Career Advancement in Plain English. You thank the librarian for the reminder.
2:00 PM
At the beginning of your second coffee break, a coworker enters your cubicle. Eyeing the rose beside your keyboard somewhat covetously, the employee casually queries, "Did you enjoy the song I dedicated to you this morning?" Still shaken by the effects of the peddler's discourse, you don't know what to do, but you know your coworker wants the rose. Stalling for time to think how you should answer, you hand the flower to your coworker, who beams at you and struts out of your cubicle.
2:30 PM
The guy in the cubicle next door comes in obviously extremely pleased with himself. He took the first step to career advancement that he learned in the book he read last night. Pride radiating from his face, he describes his start in being more responsible by checking in the book to the library during lunch, before the due date. Now he's maintaining his progress by returning your library card before you ask for it. He saunters back to his cubicle before you can thank him.
3:00 PM
You're playing your seventeenth losing game of Solitaire. You're burrowing through the deck for the ace of hearts that you're missing when you see your supervisor ambling towards your cluster of cubicles. You scramble madly to minimize the window. Oblivious to the suspicious clacking pandemonium you are making, your supervisor flashes his typing-paper-white teeth at you. "What do you think of that electronic mailing list I signed you up for?" he asks you. You apologize, but you're not aware of any e-mail you've gotten that day. Your inbox is empty. He watches you check your mail. You both scratch your heads when "0 messages received" appears on the screen. Your supervisor turns away while mumbling, "All this technology is driving me insane." You find the ace of hearts.
3:30 PM
The janitor picks up the recycling bin for the floor and dumps the contents into the garbage bag attached to his cart. A flattened orange Sunkist can escapes the bag and falls to the floor underneath Shirley's desk. The janitor absentmindedly turns his cart around to the elevator and descends to the thirteenth floor. You get up to put the absconding can back in the recycling bin. Shirley reaches under her desk with her right pump, sliding the can towards her. She buries the can in the trash can, teeming with the stained Styrofoam cups of Expresso drinkers.
4:00 PM
You're watching the cards bounce on your screen when the phone rings. The ground floor secretary's voice floats through the receiver, "You have a visitor. Shall I send him up?" You get excited, wondering who it is. A few minutes later, Colin materializes in the opening of your cubicle. His Power Rangers backpack bounces lightly on his right shoulder. A note from your sister Betty is pinned to his Lion King T-shirt. She has an appointment at the hair salon and wants you to baby-sit Colin and bring him home after work. He wants to help you, so you tell him to sit in the other chair and think very hard about 5:00.
4:30 PM
Your cubicle neighbor is taking the second step to career advancement: learning a foreign language. He's decided to take up French because he's interested in that sophisticated representative from your company's headquarters in Francophone Switzerland. He's currently learning how to say "I love you." "Gee tame," he repeats. After a few minutes, you call through the padded soundproof wall, "Zhuh temm." He calls back, "Mercy bowcup."
5:00 PM
You wake Colin up in the chair and congratulate him on his good job of thinking about 5:00. He squints hazily at you, but he looks pleased. You tell him it's time to go home. He follows you down the elevator, out the door, and onto the bus. The girl with the thick volume and the plaid skirt is chatting with the bus driver. She squeals as Colin walks up the steps onto the bus. She admires his shirt and calls his backpack "cute." Colin tries not to scrunch up his face in disgust. The bus driver scowls at Colin, then at you.
5:30 PM
Every lane is moving at amoeboid velocity, even the HOV lane. Colin is bored and upset because he's missing the Power Rangers show on TV. You reach into your right pocket out of nervousness and pull out the interlocking rings. You give them to Colin and explain what they're supposed to do. "Oh, I get it!" he exclaims. He squishes the rings between his small hands, and they break apart. You thank him and hold out your palms for the rings, but Colin squishes them back together and shakes his head sagely. "You have to do it by yourself," he says solemnly as he presses the puzzle into your right palm. But now he's bored again, and you're desperate. So you ask him what a derivative is. He doesn't know, but now he's curious, so he asks you. You tell him you don't know. He pouts out his window.
6:00 PM
Remembering the nice librarian's reminder, you park your car next to the public library. Colin wanders around the squat building as you stand in line for the circulation desk. The librarian thanks you for turning in your book so promptly and asks you for the fine payment. You look confused because you didn't turn in a book, but that's just as well; maybe they're admitting they made a mistake. You smile because not very many people do that these days. At least that's what your supervisor told you. You ask the librarian how much the fine is, and she says one dollar. You put the dollar bill that is miraculously in your left pocket on the desk. You think of that sign: "SAVE TIME. DON'T ASK."
6:30 PM
After looking around the children's section five times for Colin, you find him in the adult non-fiction section. He's surrounded by a pile of sleek, shiny books. You pick one up and glance at the title: Your Guide to Beta Carotene and Other Vitamin A Derivatives. "I dropped them," Colin apologizes. You ask him what he was looking for. He takes the book you're holding and opens it up to page 138. There's a picture he likes of multicolored balls connected together. He points to the cover with a bunch of carrots. "I was looking for what a derivative is," he explains. "Maybe it's got something to do with Veggie Tales." You check the books out for him.
7:00 PM
You help Colin carry his load to the doorstep of his two-story house. Betty opens the door, and intimidating chords of Rachmaninoff's third piano concerto assault you. Colin drops his backpack and two books to hug his mother. He buries his face in her apron. The piano ceases, and moments later your fifteen-year-old niece Carolyn greets you. She leads you into the high-ceiling foyer, well-lit by a serenely hanging chandelier. Carolyn also hugs Colin and merrily talks with him about vitamins as she stacks the books and carries them back to his room. Betty's husband David invites you to join the family for dinner because they're making Chinese stir-fry together. The food sounds okay, but for some reason the whole atmosphere of the house depresses you. You excuse yourself. A round-robin of good-byes and come agains follow you.
7:30 PM
You get your mail from your mailbox. There's only one letter, from the bank saying that you've bounced a check. The check was for $50 made out to your mother two weeks ago. You put the letter, the check, and the envelope under a pair of scissors and turn your marginal attention to
the daily newspaper. You turn to the Metropolitan section first. The front page features an article about a nine-year-old Japanese girl named Justina whose voice rivals Maria Callas's. She just gave her fortieth concert at Carnegie Hall. She's quoted as saying, "I always knew I could do it, and I want to thank my parents for always telling me that I could." You flip to the comics, and one strip catches your eye. A man is hanging limply from a tall tree by a rope tied around his neck. The caption underneath says, "The closest I'll ever get to a raise from my boss." You hope your cubicle neighbor's French is coming along well.
8:00 PM
You call the Chinese place across the street for chow mein. The delivery boy who brings you your order speaks perfect English. "What's the matter?" he asks you. "You seem kind of down." You start to say that nothing's wrong, but you notice that you do feel unsettled. You say nothing's wrong. You watch him walk back. On the other side of the street, he waves to you. You wave back before going back into the house. You crunch on your noodles and save the fortune cookie for last. The thin slip of paper says "You will soon be crossing the great waters" between two happy faces. You wonder if this is good or bad news. The fortune cookie is chewy and stale. Bad news, you decide. Then you think it doesn't really matter because you can't do anything about it anyway.
9:00 PM
A journalist is interviewing a girl on TV. You recognize the girl in the newspaper. Justina's eyes twinkle, and she laughs freely. She answers all the questions with emphatic gestures as if she had to prove her sincerity. She's talking about her parents again, about how her mother patiently sat through her voice lessons and daily practices and later her rehearsals and concerts, even though the woman couldn't even read music. She talks about how hard her father worked to pay for everything. While the credits for the program scroll down on the left side of the screen, Justina, in a black-sequined gown and standing on a dark stage in ethereal spotlight, pours out in plaintive strains the song "Reflection" from Disney's Mulan. You turn off the TV after she sings, "I would break my family's heart."
10:00 PM
You collapse into the fetal position on the kitchen floor. You fall over; you thrust out your arms to break your fall. You lie there with your arms outstretched for awhile before you realize that tears are writhing fiercely down your face. The cold linoleum tile presses your right cheek. Then you think the floor might corrode from the salt in your tears, so you sink your upper teeth into your lower lip. You wipe the floor with the sleeve of your shirt while trying to breathe quietly.
11:00 PM
The can of hairspray is still sitting where you left it. You recall that it has CFCs in it, so you throw it in the trash can beside the toilet. Wait, don't aerosols require special disposal procedures? Something about wrapping it in a plastic bag. You find a plastic bag under the kitchen table before returning to the bathroom. You take the can out of the trash can and look for the instructions for disposal. You can't find them, but you find the instructions for use, the "do not spray into eyes" warning, and the "no CFCs" logo. You put the can next to the sink.
12:00 AMYour cheek muscles ache. You get the impression that you've been smiling a lot today. You don't know why, though; it hasn't really been a good day. The pillow feels thin as your head sinks into it. You greet the men in the white lab coats, "You know, it's been one of those days."