grey chimes
"… Regardless, it should not be an issue. If you have any further questions, do not hesitate to reach out to me in person or via email. I am at the office from 9:30 AM to 5:00 PM. Okay."
If only, the bottom of my desktop screen reads "21:37 PM". That has to be the worst and ugliest arrangement of numbers, just visually awful to look at, what terrible pain it must be to pull out your phone or your wrist watch to see those numbers in that order. The city looks calm from up here, behind this glass wall, beaded with circles of water. Behind it is an empty office floor, an army of printers or copiers, enough stationary to stock a store, cubicles that seem endless with black monitors peeking over them. Water coolers at all 4 walls of the rectangular floor, stale air, shadows created by a single source of light, a table lamp and a craving for nicotine. I snap open my Marlboro Gold pack to see a lonely stick fall almost perpendicularly as if on cue. I lean back on my chair, look up at the ceiling vents. The worst thing we collectively decided to do is to put a ban on smoking indoors. The aesthetic of lighting one in a cold room, the echoing thunder of the flint and steel clashing. Nicotine droplets pour into the room, seeping through the flesh of everyone around. No wonder everyone was happier back then, or at least thought they were happier. In a way lighting a cigarette indoors now is more appealing than before, it is now an act of rebellion, a big fuck you to the "No Smoking" sign. Forbidden fruit tastes the sweetest. Segregating waiting areas into smoking areas and non smoking areas to make it easier for parents to point and go "if you keep up that behavior you’ll end up like them." Usually, I would smoke out on the office balcony, but I will need another pack anyway.
"23 more to go.", I say to myself as I get up and drag my feet to the elevator. 23 more compliance checks before I can go home (to what?). 23 boxes to tick, each box carrying the weight of a lawsuit if missed. I am 28, no husband, no children, and the next time I expect to hear from my parents, will be a phone call from an overworked and underpaid nurse or doctor in my home town. I am the weight of all my un-ticked boxes.
The mouth of the elevator opens, a blinding white maw that sears the eyes. A sterile chime escapes from its throat. I step inside, and the jaws close shut. "G" I press—or is it a "C"? The spur of the "G" has long withered, battered by countless fingers. The descent begins with a countdown: 9 to C, spent breathing refrigerated air, sharp and dry, inside a gleaming aluminum coffin with a constant hum you don’t notice until the third floor. A jolt, then stillness. The digital screen blinks: "G." The chime again, and the mouth unseals, spitting a carcass into the belly of the city. Exiting the building, I drag myself to the other side of the intersection to the convenience store.
Eyes, nose, skin and ears: four of the five senses are bombarded upon the dramatic parting of the sliding doors. The chime alerting an employee to human life in motion, the stinging white LED lights, goosebumps accompanying the smell of floor cleaner, microwaved sandwiches and AC condensation. After my senses are well acquainted with their predicament, I hear my name being called. It's lost between the sounds of waves crashing on the shore, but I can pinpoint the exact location that needs me. chime. I twist and turn in the store, going aisle after aisle, stopping at intervals to reassess my position in reference to the source of the callings until I am certain. I turn the corner and the voice disappears. The corner has "Discounted Items" gazing back at me. I browse for a minute or so. chime. Every single item in this store is carefully placed, the result of years of study of the human (or, by the contemporary label, consumer) psyche, spending habits, and local needs. An aisle, a store, carefully curated for the purpose of maximizing profit for a particular set of goods, from a handful of certain brands that are in league with the chain of stores. chime. Engineered to be bought, to be the first choice, to be thought about without hesitation. To meet the eyes for a mere four seconds. Cigarettes: that's what I was here for. chime.
Puddles of rainwater portal into office and street lights. The chime of the store still faintly audible. I take the last cigarette out from the old pack, light it and discard the pack into the bin. Above me, a faint light shines on the floor with the 23 compliance checks. A drag. Droves of people walk past, snickering, breathless, infatuated and drunk on conversations. One final drag before dousing the cigarette in a puddle. I wonder what my mom is making for dinner.