Time Off

A finch squeezes a sunflower seed with its beak. The black shell cracks open and a dark, scaly tongue pushes the kernel. The shell splits and falls away. The bird’s eyes are glassy black and gazing off into the trees. It seems to be chewing absentmindedly. Its movements are jittery. It punches its head into the feeder’s hole and spherical tan seeds spill to the ground below like a welder's sparks. It extracts another sunflower seed and deftly sets about splitting it, too. The claws are thin and knobby, yet they suffice for balancing. Its head cocks robotically. Spooked, it darts away in a smear of yellow. A blue jay swoops in and lands weightily on the perch. The jay pecks frenziedly and wastes a great deal of feed. I squint up at the sky through the stationary tree branches overhead. It is cloudless.

We’ve been lounging on the porch since three. My best guess says it's as early as four or as late as five. My drink is sweating but I am not. An amorphously shaped puddle accumulates around it on the crackled glass tabletop. I heard from a fellow guest the high should be 73° today.

“Something on your mind?” She’s looking up from her magazine, which is now tilted in her lap. The lighting is such that I can see one eye tinted behind a sunglasses lens and the other is opaquely hidden.

Yes. Where did that finch go? “No. Nothing.”

She angles the borrowed magazine back to a reading position. Her legs are crossed at the ankle atop a wicker ottoman with a maroon cushion. The tops of her bare feet glow in the early autumn light as if lit from within. Her toenails glisten red with chipped edges. Little white nets of dried skin frost the side of her big toe.

The blue jay has taken flight, too. The feeder sways gently from its departure.

Faintly on the air is the sound of children. One of them is either excited or upset. Genders can’t be established from the pitch, so they must be little. A family lives up the street judging from the toys strewn about the front lawn. They don’t fret about theft. These people are openly vulnerable. Who would do such a thing? We remarked on the oddity as we passed the house I'm imagining on an earlier stroll. She said she wished we could do such a thing back. I said we'd have to procure a tricycle first. Perhaps that one would do. We shared a brief laugh.

I rub the outside of my ear by the canal opening. The surface feels oily. I can afford to take another bath tonight. I will submerge into the captured warmth and melt. I will leave my nose exposed, pinch my ears shut, and hear the stethoscopic sounds of respiration. The pads of my fingers will become wrinkled like they would during long gone bath times. To finish, I will feel the eerie heft of my body return as the water recedes down the drain. The air is always has a foreign chill to it after exiting the tub.

Watchless, I pat my pocket in search of my phone. There’s nothing to retrieve. I remember my phone is dead on the walnut chifforobe in our room. How am I to know when to get moving? Hunger or boredom will have to lead the charge. So be it. We have no reservations. We are going to try the seafood place tonight. She will order a shrimp dish. We will dress up and walk holding hands. It’s not too far.

This town is not so much sleepy as it is antique. Design is neither showy nor neglected. Ornamentation does not announce itself loud colors but patiently awaits its audience. Lights do not flash at night; the iron street lamps shine steadily. Billboards do not obstruct; sandwich boards splay below eye level. The architecture whispers. The constitutive buildings of the square are mostly made of now-weathered brick. They present assertively. They will stand tomorrow, monumental and undiminished. They are like a grandfather to a toddler to passersby, tall but not imposing. Corbels coil like fiddleheads underneath ledges trimmed with repeating patterns. Each storefront abuts the next with its own tone and texture, unity out of diversity. Skinny plate glass windows reveal high ceilings edged with molding and lined with tin. Doors are topped with frosted transoms. The palate of the surrounding houses contains unabashed pastels. Wood shingles armor the roofs. The sidewalks are rumpled by the girth of sweet gum and sugar maple roots. The lawns are supple and edged to perpendicular perfection. Weeds are not allowed.

Everything gives the impression of wholesomeness here. People are more courteous. The church bells keep time. The drug store serves ice cream by the scoop. Take your seat on a chromed bar stool. It’s a tourist attraction, but I don’t mind. Locals patronize it, too. I imagine semi-annual parades down Main Street with lazily flapping American flags. How can you be nostalgic for an era you never knew?

The children have departed or found muted activities. We are alone once more. I shift my weight. This is nice, not doing anything. I feel empty but am fully here. It is so quiet now I can hear the ginger ale fizzing as I pour more over the ice. The translucent cluster rises and bobs near the surface. The carbonation makes an ephemeral fountain above the rim. I haven’t had ginger ale in ages. It was complimentary. The innkeepers know what they’re doing.

The thought of this, our vacation, ending makes me complexly sad. A fluttering heart and a dingy lifeless inner hue are where the sentiment starts. It stops in paralysis. Checkout time is a looming storm over the lake. There is no stopping it. I long for times like these and can never maintain them as I wish. Even memories will be forgotten. We have one more full day, though. Don’t ruin what's left. Do not think about work. Stop thinking altogether.

The spice tickles my nose, and I try to suppress a cough unsuccessfully.

“Are you okay?”

“Yes.”

The soda gently sloshes in the glass as I set it down with a soft clank. I look at her. She is staring serenely into the magazine. The stillness is photographic. What is on her mind? She never seems as bothered as me, even as I am in these moments. She is simpler.

I wipe my fingers on my pants and leave a damp trail of three fat, merging lines. A turning page is all that interrupts the breezeless afternoon. The ginger’s heat lingers in my mouth.

My book lies split open on the table out of the spreading puddle’s range. I am not halfway to halfway. It is a lost cause. A lone and spartan black ant is wandering futilely nearby the novel. Its antennae twitch in syncopation. There’s nothing of interest for it there, no crumb to cart away. How will it get back down? Maybe a bird will snatch it.

Something small and hard under my shoe scrapes the ground as I readjust. The patio is made of irregular white stone peppered with dirt or maybe mold. Emerald tufts of stubbly moss frame a few pieces. Everything is newer back home but not nicer. Everything here is used but no worse for the wear. Age is not to be feared. Preservation is a virtue. These people are investors who don't seek profit. They are a part of their town. They repair instead of replace. 

I slouch, clasp my hands on my stomach, and close my eyes. I should be reading, but I can’t bring myself to try. I’d rather idle. I planned on finishing two books. That would be something to convey, a clear answer to post-trip inquiries. I know I should be taking full advantage of my temporary freedom. This was what I had been anticipating for months. It’s what we worked for, scrimping four hours off for every eighty worked, and it’s almost over. What have I done? I have not done enough. My inactivity is shameful. Wasting time feels felonious. I am a time killer. I plead guilty. Lock me up.

A part of me is uncomfortable with happiness. This part comes into stark relief before the backdrop of time off. There is no earning happiness, no taming it. It just comes and goes on its own. I would rather strive. You can always strive. Striving is practical, actionable.

Why am I classifying this as a waste? The rules do not apply here. We are beyond all jurisdictions. We are unknown and unknowing. We have immunity. It is permissible to rest.

We are different now, children again. Alarms go unset. We walk without clear destinations. There are no dishes to clean and bath towels are left wadded on the floor. Meals are the only requisite items on the list of things to do. We drift, floating on our backs to nowhere in particular. We are disconnected. There are no headlines to process. E-mails are left unread and accruing in neglected inboxes. I cannot remember being so uninformed and out of touch. We are out of touch, though. So much of our relationships have no tactile element. At home, physical distance has been traded for digital proximity. These people shake hands, hold doors, and slap shoulders. I'd rather be one of them, incorporated.

Like a child, I don’t want to go. I want to stay here and now forever.

I warn myself against listening to the Sirens. This place is unreal. It is not your home. Your home is with her. This trip is make-believe. There is more to accomplish than leisure and loafing. We must toil. The lived truth of here is buried a foot deep in snow. The smiling citizens with their cable-knit sweaters, topsiders, and half-moon reading glasses must fight the long cold season. The freeze and thaw cycle, the road salt, and the tire chains disintegrate this place annually. Transience is inescapable. Remember the grass does not stay greener. My back aches at the thought of hefting a shovel.

“Hey, I’m gonna go get ready for dinner, okay?” She closes her magazine and puts her feet down.

“Yeah okay. I’ll be in in a minute.”

She rises from her seat and smooths the wrinkles in her shirt. As she passes, she strokes my shoulder. I follow her with my eyes. A ballpoint pen poked through her hair keeps her bun together. The spiral of brunette arcs is galactic. As she walks away, I notice her neck. Her vertebrae slightly protrude, making a peapod shape. I feel the back of mine. My fingers rise and fall over the bumps. 

The feeder remains unoccupied and will increasingly be so. What can migrate is or soon will. The leaves are starting to turn. Yellow and orange are seeping into the green. The edges are going dormant despite its lively appearance. The trees will be stripped bare shortly. Emaciated winter with its skeletal limbs is closing fast. His frigid grip will clutch those who remain.

I sigh emphatically. I can and cannot move. Moving is dreadful. Sloth is hypnotic. I hate temporality. 

An oak leaf flutters downward. In its twirling, it is balletic. It falls with dignity but lands without hope.

Get up. It is time to go. 

Solitary: 4

The morning head of steam dissipated into the still office air. Josh slumped into his chair and rolled into position. His back ached in a distant way. He squirmed. He envisioned his spine and a time-lapsed vignette of X-rays tracking its compression over years of sitting. No one ever sat this much. He stared down at his desk, jumping along its speckled laminate surface. A little like cookies-and-cream. Been a long time since I had any ice cream. Faintly audible voices mumbled in either frustration or excitement. Being inside the confines of his workstation was like being on the brink of fainting. The sound-dampening batting behind the cloth of the cubicle walls muffled all sounds beyond his perimeter. 

This isolation reminded Josh of being inside an igloo. From years six to eight, he and his father built crude structures out the snow removed from their driveway. Snow is on the short list of most exciting events in a child’s life. The cancellation of school was no less relieving than last-minute clemency granted to a death-row inmate. After rising from the sweet rest of sleeping in, Josh wanted nothing more than to play in nature’s time-sensitive embellishment. The world became an amusement park and a battlefield when a white blanket descended upon his neighborhood. So much was newly possible: the sledding and the slippery surfaces, the laughing and running and heaving lungs constricted by icy air, the nose red and dripping like a faucet to be absent-mindedly tongued or wiped with a sleeve, the hurried scooping and packing, the close-calls and the cold melting down your shirt, under your gloves’ cuffs, and clinging like ice-cubes around the ankles of socks. At least, those were Josh’s dreams. 

Dad and lad, with age-appropriate shovels, created a mound on the western side of their north-south slab of concrete. After the best the Midwest had to offer in the way of blizzards, the final products would be taller than Josh. They looked lumpy like mashed potatoes, except with undertones more blue than brown. Carefully, young Josh dug a hole in the center of its base. This was his bunker. Once the cavern was sufficient to contain him in a fetal position, he outfitted the fortress. He carved out tiny enclaves to house a secret cache of snowballs in expectation of an attack. This was his arsenal. Once completed, he army-crawled inside and waited for the siege to begin. He felt safe at first. He thought it was like being a part of mom, dark and warm with body heat. Inside, nothing beyond respiration could be heard. He had made it. Mission accomplished. The kids would come and he would be ready. Now he would be protected. Even more, he would be victorious. Who else had an igloo? He waited for his chance. He laid on his stomach and felt the chill seep through his black snow-suit that swished when he walked. It was so quiet. No cars, no air conditioning, no dogs or television made noise. Dad went inside. There was nothing to do. There was nothing to look at. Everything was the color of graphite ahead of him. Looking around his puffy red, blue, and yellow coat, he saw the glow of light by the mouth of the mound. Were they out there now? Why was he in here? Excitement fooled him again. Nothing happened. He had no friends. The neighbors’ children never welcomed him into the fold when he moved onto the block. The snowballs sat in their spots. The silence became antagonistic. He was deaf to the world. He felt consumed. Within fifteen minutes, he grew hopelessly bored and frightened. He started to panic. Josh was lost (in the sense of not knowing where he was going rather than knowing where he was). He retracted from the orifice like an inchworm. Defeated, he went inside and dried off by the floor vent, thawing on the carpet. Mom made hot chocolate with swollen marshmallow icebergs in it that clung to his lips mid-sip. He looked out the front windows with their droplets of condensation at the igloo, a monument to disappointment. After a day in full sun, the forlorn structure would start to sag. Often it would be trampled on by the kids he wanted so badly to play with when they returned from escapades unknown, laughing, with ruddy cheeks and sleds in tow. If left alone, the igloo would stay longer than the rest of the snow. It melted and froze into the consistency of a snow cone. It would be soiled with the little bits of dirt that floated in the wind he learned about in science class. In his ninth winter, he heard of a similar structure collapsing on a child and suffocating him. He imagined the terror of being trapped inside that scary place—unable to see, hear, or move. The danger, coupled with recollections of previous attempts, was enough to prevent him from doing anything with the subsequent mounds Mr. Stevenson confusedly built on his own. Poor dad. 

For all this thought of snow, Josh felt colder. He rubbed the sides of his arms quickly, making his hands tingly. His eyes were open, but he paid no mind to his visual field.

While on the clock, it never looked good (i.e., productive/profitable) to have translucent neon bubbles floating across one’s screen or pipes stochastically elongating and bending atop a black backdrop. Accordingly, Josh disarmed his screen-saver. His monitor’s steadfast display suggested he was never far away from where he should be and never stopped doing as he should be doing for more than ten minutes. It was a simple move to ingratiate himself to the “powers that be” (wherever they were) should they ever pay him a visit. Moreover, it prevented the wandering eyes of passersby from gaining compromising intelligence. The ploy was not without drawbacks, though. First and foremost, the cursor blinked indefatigably. It never stopped. It seemed impatient like a mother tapping her foot. By the end of most days, its throbbing was reminiscent of the tell-tale heart. It made Josh feel guilty. The blinking black line would not let him forget the job he had to do. It was waiting for him, taunting. It could keep this up all day. It was going to outlast him. Presently, Josh saw it pulsate confrontationally. Damned machine. Clocks do the work for you. Cursors, though…they won’t do a thing without your effort. He rubbed his chin, which felt warm and slick in comparison with his cold, dry hand. He wondered how many times in an average day he derided himself for daydreaming. Come on now. Back to work. He swigged his tepid coffee. It did not satisfy. The aftertaste was not unlike burnt toast. At least it’s strong. 

Josh grabbed for the mouse. He ran his circuit around four websites. He checked his personal email (nothing), his profile (nothing), his blog (nothing), and then his preferred news outlet (nothing). He sifted through local scores and half-heartedly read a recap of a recent hockey game. He was not interested in sports, but hometown allegiance was an easy position to act upon when idle. For grins, he perused the “most popular searches” feature of his standby search engine. Apparently an actress announced immanent plans to take a sabbatical from the screen and spend the summer in a recording studio. She enthused, “I just think music is great and I really love movies still, too, of course, they’ve been good to me. But I’ve always wanted to sing ever since I was like a little girl. I think I can now, you know? I want to make something really special, you know, that people will want to go out there and buy and connect with. I’m really excited! I’ve got a bunch of ideas for album covers already.” This is what people are interested in. He withdrew from the mouse, pushed down on his heels, and rolled back a little. A faint sound, either laughter or sobbing, briefly interrupted the silence. Josh looked about himself. Kleenex. Mug. Calendar. Papers. Kinda barren. I really should put something on the partitions. A thumb-tack would go right through that material. A print? Cezanne? Would need to cut off the bottom title. Tacky. Why do they put those titles on there? It detracts aesthetically. Better to not know than to detract from the art. Why are people so concerned with the title or who made it? The art stands alone. Is it just curiosity? People naturally want to know. Misses the point of the artwork, though. It’s not for knowing. Still, credit where credit’s due. The point of art, though—what’s that? 

The musings were arrested by footsteps. His adjustable gooseneck desk lamp quaked in anticipation. Here comes Ralph. Ralph Metcalf, chief supervising engineer and elitist in residence, was neither good nor bad. He was simply large. Everything about him was large—his bovine face, his booming voice, his splayed and bulging wing-tips, his mile-long parabolic ties that never managed to descend beyond the dark concavity his gaping navel created beneath his shrink-wrap-like dress shirts. Given his girth, the ground announced him before he could announce himself. The steel girding of the high-rise flexed with each stride. Upon noticing this phenomenon, Josh had visions of the Cretaceous period. The ever-so-slight jiggling in his fleshy parts could well have been the sensation of concussions produced by some great lumbering reptile. Like a vulnerable-yet-savvy herbivore, the tremors caused him to scamper to safety. A thought of Pavlov’s bell raced across his consciousness, but he let it dart by. Josh drew near his desk, opened the folder again, and began to rattle off more letters. Mr. Metcalf hollered, “Stevenson!” as he passed. His matter-of-fact tone implied the utterance was merely to identify what he saw, rather than to greet or scold it. A force of nature. Although his shoulders drooped and he exhaled after the thuds receded, he did not stop working.