The Day to Day

by Dustin Shimoji

                I sit in my car, watching the ember on my cigarette make slow work of the tobacco inside. I hear the paper crack and pop as I sit in relative silence. The only thing that disturbs the sound of burning, cancerous material is the gentle hum of my car. I take a deep drag as I look at the house I’m parked in front of, the ember sparks and lights up my face revealing my eyes fixated on the entrance. Another bullshit day, in this bullshit life, surrounded by bullshit on all sides. I take another drag and sink into my seat as I let the day wash over me. Tomorrow was Thursday, one more day closer to Friday which would be cause for celebration if I had any money to go out and celebrate. Hooray, I made it through the work week, now I get to sit at home and wallow in my house until the next work week starts. I plead with the fates presiding over my life every day to give me some sort of help, to let this mess of a life finally get sorted out. No one answers.

                My eyes trace the house I’m parked in front of, from the plain orange exterior walls, to the plain black roof top. From the patchy uneven grass, to the cracks in the sidewalk. The two door garage that can’t even fit one car in it because we are two steps away from becoming hoarders. The front door that peels away weather stripping bit by bit every time you open it. The windows that may or may not be leaking air conditioning out so we end up providing cold to the entire neighborhood. The front of the house leads my mind to thinking about the back of the house. The holes in the ground where our dog liked to bury whatever he could find. The above ground pool that goes unused and neglected. The screened in porch that has small tears all over it. The patio furniture that we can never use because it’s always either too hot or raining. I sigh more smoke out of my lungs as the stacking costs of fixing these things, not to mention taking the small amount of free time I have allotted to me, begins to weigh me down. The cigarette begins to burn my finger-tips as it reaches the filter so I flick it towards the street and get out of the car.

                The effort it takes for me to get out of the car only helps to darken my disposition. I remember when I used to be in shape, I wasn’t an athlete by any means but I took care of myself. I went to the gym, cooked at home, made sure to eat controlled portions, and it was all for nothing. I look down at the sad sack of flesh hanging over the button on my jeans and begin to hate myself for letting it get this far. I need to go back to the gym. I need to stop drinking, or at least switch from beer. I need to stop going out for fast food. I repeat this mantra to myself every time I feel my love handles inching their way over my belt line, but nothing changes. I open the backseat to my car and fish out the 18 pack of Yuengling with one hand and the Steak n’ Shake with the other. I meander towards the door as the thoughts of my day to day continue to weigh down each of my footsteps. I stop and try to fish the keys out of  my front pocket with my fingertips, as I awkwardly move the case of beer up to my armpit. After a few attempts I eventually give up and put down the beer, rolling my eyes in response to key retrieval not even being able to go my way. I grab my keys from my pocket, pick the beer up again, and unlock the door. My eyes dart to an object stuffed between my door knocker. Was that always there? I think to myself. I was staring at the door for a while, I didn’t think there was anything there. Ah, I probably wasn’t paying attention to it. There were so many advertisements placed on our door every day that it wasn’t uncommon for me to disregard them entirely. The trash has collected more of these damn things than empty beer cans from me. I take the paper out of the knocker with my mouth and close the door with my foot. In moments I’m greeted by our pitbull coming to see what smells so good, and my husband.

                The best part of my day is coming home to see my family at the end of it, it makes all the bullshit smell just a little less foul. Even if he doesn’t feel that way. He seems tired though, still wearing his long sleeve black shirt and slacks from his waiter job. I couldn’t tell if he was depressed as well, and it had been a long time since I tried to figure out what went wrong to make him feel this way.

“Hey,” he sighs and the noise cuts through me like an annoying buzz. I want to make him feel better but I know if I try it will just lead to an argument. I stuff down my bad day and smile.

“Heya mame!’ I say with a jovial tone, mumbling around the card in my mouth, to try and lighten his mood. It doesn’t work. He takes the food from me and looks puzzled.

“What’s in your mouth?” he asks as I use my now free hand to take the door hanger out of it. 

“Oh, another of those stupid advertisements.”

“It doesn’t look like an ad.” I flip it over in my hand and see that it actually doesn’t look like an ad. It looks like a playing card. I roll my eyes, oh, they think they’re SO clever. I am reminded of a time that I thought I found fifty dollars on the ground only to be given a message about god or some such shit. I turn it over in my hand, irritated at this company’s audacity to try and be more appealing by making their ad look like a three of clubs. He takes the beer from me and I feel bad that he is taking so much, so I shove the ad in my back pocket then try to help. I take out the food from the sack and lay it down on our coffee table, separating our items. He places the beer in the fridge and cracks two open. 

“So, how was your day?” I ask with that same jovial tone in my voice, now unencumbered by having a card mumble my words.

“It was ok.” He says with the same monotone as he sits down and we open the wrappers of our food.

“Well, that’s good.” I elate, hopeful that I’m just reading into his mood. “Glad work didn’t bring you down too much.”

“Work sucked, it was just ok that it sucked, nothing out of the ordinary.”

“Ahh,” I muse, a little disheartened.

“How was your day?”

“It was good.” I lie, as to not add to his already bad mood. “Just another normal day trying to get people on our gas program.”

We sit in relative silence through the rest of our meal and I turn on the T.V. to a random show that we need to catch up on. We spend the rest of our night getting drunk as the television wipes our minds of our respective days, and the ashtray piles with both of our cigarette butts.

                 I wake up in a stupor to the sound of the most annoying stock ringtone I could find on my phone. It lets me know that I have fifteen minutes to get my shit together and get out of bed. I don’t fall back to sleep like normal; instead, I lay in bed and think of things to try distracting myself from my current situation. I go to my happy place. A place where I don’t have to wake up today and go to work. A place where I can sit at home with Richard and our pitbull. A place where I can give them everything they’ve ever wanted and we would want for nothing. The alarm goes off for a second time. There it is, my time in the happy place is gone and I have to face this dismal reality once again. I get out of bed and immediately slide into the pants I was wearing yesterday. I pick up another shirt from my closet and drag myself to my sink. I look at my face in the mirror and run my hand across the stubble on my chin. I can probably let this grow for another day. I disregard my razor and pick up my toothbrush instead. I run it through my mouth and look at the bags under my eyes. God, I wish I could get some more sleep. I spit and look at my cellphone for the time. What the fuck? I set my alarm to go off for 8:30 and 8:45, why is it 7:30? I shrug and weigh the option of getting back in my bed for another hour of sleep. The debate in my head is short as I flop down next to Richard, fully clothed, and immediately fall back to sleep.

            

                An hour rolls by too quickly and I wake up feeling more tired than when I went to sleep. I knew this would happen, extra sleep always just ends up making me more tired. I shoot up from bed, and go directly into the kitchen to make myself coffee, and a quick microwave breakfast before heading into the hell hole I call work. I roll my eyes at the monotony of my day as I remember the past two years of doing the exact same thing, every morning. The pot of coffee stops spitting it’s delicious contents, and the microwave dings. I add an unhealthy amount of cream and sugar to the black liquid and shovel in the piping hot food. I take one last exaggerated sigh as I take a cigarette out of a fresh pack, put a lid on my coffee, and exit the front door.  My car hums to life, as if to say, I can’t wait to get you to that job you hate. I strike a lighter to my first cigarette of the day.

                Traffic. The end all be all shitty start to an assuredly shitty day. I sit and go through my third cigarette of the day, letting the music from my phone blare over the speakers of my car. I groan, I shake, I flip the bird to whatever god made me have to sit through dumb people going five miles an hour to look at some dick head who got caught in a fender bender. Jesus fucking Christ, I’m going to be late. I’m going to be late, and on a day that I left for work early. Why the fuck do people feel like they have to gawk at every single accident that they come across? What is so pressing about that accident that you need to slow your ass down in order to get a really good look at it? ITS NONE OF YOUR DAMN BUISNESS PEOPLE! I wish these people would mind their own business and fucking move faster! The traffic begins to speed up, what’s more, the traffic starts to flow past the speed limit. Jesus Christ finally some fucking sense among the schmucks. I get to work with 15 minutes to spare.

                The day drags and I burn through more cigarettes, more coffee. I have my smoking down to a science so I can go grab a quick cigarette and be back before anyone notices that I’m gone. I need it with the type of shit I have to go through. Trying to convince assholes that our gas is better than the gas they already use to power their home. They may be getting the best deal in the world right now, but I have to try and tell them that the deal they’ve been getting is ludicrous when stacked up against our deal on gas. I come back from fifth smoke break of the day and sit at my good chair. I got to get the good chair today because I beat the other assholes into work…for once. I slide my headset back on and call the 61^st number on my leads sheet of the day.

Ring

Ring

Ring

Ring

“Hello?” a male voice greets me confused as to what number showed up on his caller ID. The man sounded older, but not elderly. Like a middle aged man, with a family.

“Hello, Mr. Conrad?”

“Yes this is he.”

“Hi, my name is Francis with Global Natural United. How are you today?”

“Not interested. Bye.”

The dial tone goes dead and I start to dial the next number un-phased by the blatant rudeness of the abrupt hang up.

Ring

Ring

“Hello!” a voice screams as things clatter in the background. Another man, sounds like he’s at work. Oy.

“Hi. Mr. Jacobs?”

“Yeah! What?!”

“Hello. This is Francis with Global Natural United. How are you today?”

“Who?” I hear loud noise in the background and the noise on the other line goes quiet.  

“I said this is Francis with Global Natural United. How are you today?”

“Global Natural United. Who the hell is that?”

“Oh, well we are a gas company who prides themselves on being the lowest rate of any gas company 

by far. We are now offering competitive rates in almost every state including Florida! Now I would love to get your information so we can get you over to our sales department and start your saving today!”

“Jesus you fucking people! You know I am at work right now!? Could you stop fucking calling me!? Don’t you assholes have anything better to do than blow up the phone of a man who actually works for his money!?”

“I do apologize for interrupting your day, but I was trying to offer you a chance to save on a bill! Don’t you want to have little more money in your pocket at the end of your month?”

“You know what I want asshole? I want you dickheads to stop blowing up my phone. I swear every time I answer this thing it’s someone trying to offer me something I have no need for. Take me off your damn list alrady-“

There it is. The magic phrase to end all marketing calls.

“Ok. Sir-“

“I’m sitting here in a thousand goddamn degrees trying to cook food for a restaurant filled with people and you assholes-“

“Ok sir, I’m going to take you-“

“Every time I get a moment to myself there you are to ruin my day. If you people ever-“

Jesus Christ I wish this asshole would just listen to what I have to say and shut the fuck up.

The dial tone goes silent as if he was interrupted by somebody, I take my chance.

“Ok sir I’m going to make sure you are taken off our list and I am sorry for wasting your time. I hope you have a pleasant day.” My finger hovers over the end call button as I am interrupted again.

“Wait. Wait. Maybe I was a bit too crass there.”

Oh, you think?

“There’s no need for you to put me on any list, go ahead and pitch me whatever.”

What the fuck? This has never happened to me in all of my time working at this shitty company.

“Ok sir. Well we are gas company that offers the best rates in town and I would love to get your information so I can send you over to our sales department and get you saving some money on gas.”

“Sure, that sounds awesome. Send me over to them. Thanks for the savings.”

“No sir, thank you for allowing me to help.”

I press the transfer button and a few moments late a mark is placed next to my name on a big white board. “Francis: IIII” Four, damn. That was just one away from my quota. I look at the other names on the board ahead of me. “Gabe: IIIIII, Ruth: IIIIIIIIII, Antoine: IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII, Eliza: IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII” How the fuck do they do it? I go through the rest of my calls and get a confused old man on the phone that brings me to my quota. I breathe a sigh of relief that meeting my sales for the week allows me. I read the clock at 6:00 and pack up my stuff to leave. I look over my shoulder as the day crew leaves, and the night owls stay. I take one last look at the board and breathe a heavy sigh as I stick another cigarette in my mouth from the dwindling pack.

                I pull in front of my house and sit in the drive way as I do every day. I light a cigarette and sink into the seat of my car. The thoughts of today wash over me like a flood, and I stare at the door to my house again. I feel something in my back pocket that I didn’t notice throughout the entire day. I lean forward and fish it out. It was a blank piece of cardboard in the shape of the playing card. The recollection hits me and I sneer at the card. Oh fuck. What happened to the ink on this card. Did it wipe off in my pants? Cheap piece of shit. I throw it to the floor of my car and continue to smoke my cigarette, letting the shit day of my shit life wash over me like a wave.