Today is another day of work. Today, tomorrow, last week, it doesn’t matter which day because every day is always the same. I walk into the pitch black room and fumble for a light behind a stack of files. The blast of cold air stings my face and the light now on, reflects off the white metal file cabinets, hurting my eyes. I walk to the worn desk that had been faded by many years of use. I place my lunch in the drawer that smells of old wood and stain; by noon the drawer will smell of my spaghetti lunch. I grab a large stack of thin, somewhat translucent, yellow receipts and the faded file sorter. I sit down at an old swivel chair that no longer swivels and begin the monotonous task of alphabetizing the stack of papers. My fingers often slide right over the papers making it hard to grasp them enough to separate. I often have to lick my fingers in order to separate the thin sheets, filling my mouth with the slight taste of paper.
In hopes of drowning out the boredom I turn on the radio. A familiar beat of the eighties fills the room. I now file to the beat, listening to the sound the paper makes as it rubs across the page behind it creating an additional melody. I work now in rhythm, almost escaping the tight room of five large isles filled with files, a windowless prison.
“Morning.”
My filing is interrupted as my co-worker Gary enters. He walks looking as if he is hunched over, yet he is stiff as a board, slightly bent at the waist. I watch him as he runs a hand over his buzz cut while at the same time placing his lunch in the same drawer as mine. I guess now the drawer will smell of spaghetti and tuna. I observe that once again he is in nice tan pants and a button up shirt that looks like all the other ones he owns.
“Morning” I reply, as I look again at the work in front of me. Gary and I are decades apart in age, so we work quietly next to one another, without much to say, of course only making the day linger on all the more. I try to ignore his lack of social skills as I once again return to my work.
As soon as I finish with my stack I am dismayed to find a new stack, freshly copied waiting for me at the door. The pages are still warm and fill the room with the smell of paper and warm ink. My fingers slide over the still warm pages, making it difficult to separate. This stack I decide can wait to be alphabetized.
I begin to walk up and down the aisles placing the papers in the coinciding folder. I think how this job could not get any duller when I hear loud crash two aisles over. Gary is probably kicking the chair out of the way that I had left in the aisle. I guess I should apologize for forgetting to do that before I went home yesterday. I decide not to though; after all he has done the same thing to me. I ignore his outburst and continue pacing the aisle, pulling out files, inserting a single sheet of paper, and re-inserting the file into its proper alphabetical place.
I finally finish my stack, a small accomplishment to have it done. I look around and notice Gary has not alphabetized anything else. I grow irritated at his increasingly slow pace and decide I should go ask him if there is anything I can do besides alphabetize. Maybe I can offer to put things in their files and he can alphabetize.
“Gary” I call out now that I have a plan of action. I wait a few seconds before I say his name louder.
“Gary” I repeat as I begin looking down the rows for him. He better not still be mad about that chair, after all he has done the same thing to…
As I turn the corner my mind goes blank as I see Gary sprawled on the floor lying in a puddle of his own blood. My first instinct is to scream, but I try to think of how a person should react. I realize I should see if he is breathing. I try to act on this thought but my feet are numb and heavy, unwilling to step forward. I close my eyes to try and get the image out of my head. I take a breath and step forward. I open my eyes now and it seems as if my body has decided to take over for me. My body seems to work of its own accord as I kneel down next to him and take his pulse.
He has a pulse but it is weak. I survey the area around him and just now notice the ceiling tile lying scattered around his immobile body. This wouldn’t seem like much except for the blood that pooled around his head. His clean shirt and pants were spattered with the dark red color of his own life that I realize is slowly seeping out of him. Such a thought panics me as I begin to look for the cut in order to stop the bleeding. I place my hand on his head feeling the warm stickiness of his blood that now covers my hand. It all seems surreal as I watch my now scarlet red hand move his hair and feel for a cut. My fingers move over his head so smoothly it almost felt as If I were touching the warm papers freshly copied. I have to close my eyes as the sight makes me sick. I feel as my fingers move. All I see is the blackness of my eyelids, but I finally feel a gash. Somewhat relieved I have found it I quickly place my hand over the area and apply pressure.
Trying to calm myself I survey the scene again and notice that he has bled enough that his shirt is now absorbing the blood. It seems to be flowing everywhere; I can’t help but think that it is as multitudinous as the files in the room, surrounding me.
I know I need help and begin to scream. I only pray someone can hear me over the thundering air conditioner. I wait for help and watch his pale face hoping for any movement. I imagine I see the flutter of an eyelash but I realize my eyes are once again closed and I can’t see anything. Or at least I shouldn’t see anything, but even my eyelids seem to show me blood. I scream for help again as panic grips me again.
I must have passed out because I awoke in an empty office covered in dry blood. I had paramedics around me and an oxygen mask over my mouth. I was instructed to breathe deeply, which I did. I was told I was alright.
I knew I wasn’t when I looked down at my blood stained hands. How could I be alright if I had Gary’s life on my hands?
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