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A Hangover In My Office Chair
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TITLE (EDIT)
A Hangover In My Office Chair |
DESCRIPTION
Not sure if this is a purely interior monologue. Or it could be the narrator writing in his journal. I'm not sure what you call it, so I'll leave that up to the readers.
[1,322 words] |
AUTHOR
Darcy K Metz |
ABOUT
THE AUTHOR
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[December 2006] |
AUTHOR'S E-MAIL ADDRESS
dk_metz@hotmail.com |
AUTHOR'S OTHER TITLES (13)
A Jennifer Love-Affair (Short Stories) A completely false story of a treeplanter from Vancouver who meets and falls in love with the actress Jennifer Love Hewitt. The story is told by a grandfather to his grandsons much later in the twenty... [3,869 words] [Fan Fiction]
A Quarrel In The Forest (Short Stories) An argument between a cedar tree and a stone resolves itself after much time. [161 words]
I Was Treeplanting One Day (Short Stories) This may not resemble the mind of any real treeplanters out there, so take no offense if you are one. I have been one, and this is just a snapshot of what I may have been thinking on any given day out... [1,957 words] [Mind]
Some Mirrors Never Lie (Short Stories) - [2,406 words]
The Big Bang (Short Stories) A short short about a man who meets himself. [196 words]
The Cold, Bitter Taste Of Gin (Short Stories) A man in his mid thirties is watching the sunset one summer evening at his lakeside cabin. As he sits, taking everything in, his senses trigger memories from his past which he realizes still haunt him... [3,123 words] [Mind]
The Fate Machine (Short Stories) This is a story about a desperate man who finds a way to take control of his own fate. Or does he? This is an unfinished story that I am having trouble with and would appreciate any ideas or comments ... [1,157 words] [Science Fiction]
The Smelter Worker (Novels) A strange guy who nobody knows about joind their crew at an aluminum smelter in a small town called Kitimat, in th northcoast of British Columbia. Who is this guy and where does he come from? [4,214 words]
The Trouble With Carla (Short Stories) This story follows a previous one, "The Winds of Change." This story is more of a horror and may not be for those who dislike blood and gore. [4,905 words] [Horror]
The Winds Of Change (Short Stories) This is the first short story I wrote based on characters in a novel I tried writing when I was twelve. This story is set in an alternate universe. The story introduces some key characters that I use ... [7,246 words] [Fantasy]
What Are You Thinking About? (Short Stories) Has your girlfriend ever asked you that question before? The usual response from a man is "nothing." Of course this can lead to trouble. [1,028 words] [Relationships]
What Dogs Really Think.... (Short Stories) This is simply a beginning of what I believe Dogs think of humans. [412 words] [Animal]
...And Everything Goes Black (Short Stories) A nightmarish story about a young man, two taxi drivers, and one unforgettable woman. The story is meant to leave the reader wondering what exactly is going on here? [2,517 words] [Mystical]
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A Hangover In My Office Chair
Darcy K Metz
This time I awoke some early hour of the morning. Not so early as it was winter, but the daylight was peering from the perimeter of the widow shade. I was in my office, or spare room, or internet porn viewing room; many a name this room has, yet clearly one function predominates. The room is a collection of bookshelves crammed with books of all genres, many unread or unfinished. Papers, magazines, compact disc cases, reams of compact discs burned and unburned, pirated and original appear to grow from crevices in the book shelves. Seem to sprout like vegetation once cared for, but left to its own devices. Complete and utter disorder. Entropy. Or could disorder ever be complete? - Is that an oxymoron? I could check the dictionary on top of my computer printer covered with “Learn to Speak Spanish” CD’s (I am a monolinguist) and the latest issue of Mother Jones magazine. But my head hurts and I don’t wish to look. I’d likely open the dictionary to the page with ‘moron’ in it and some how a pic of me would fall out, some long ago impromptu bookmark.
I had fallen asleep, no sorry that is a complete lie. I passed out in my bargain valued office, chair purchased some years past from Zellers, but hey look, it tilts back. There I am tilted back in my non-luxurious chair, feet up on the fake wooden desktop. If I was in full protective clothing, I’d look like a funaceman at work at Alcan. The awful decor of the lamp with the triangular base, slotted to hold CD’s has fallen over at some point in the night. The grouping of CD’s and CD cases scattered, broken, all bout the floor like the god awful lamp had been eviscerated, it’s entrails dating back to 2002. I got my first CD burner sometime that year. What CD’s comprise my ‘collection’ are all mixed up, not a one has the proper disc inside, rarely listened to anymore. Not the actual music, for that is stored in my pre-civil war computer hard drive (only 30GB, how tiny). My spare room, my hung-over rigor mortised corpse, surrounded by modern technology; some developed by Gates, other technology developed by Guttenberg.
Last night, a Friday night, began uneventful. It was the last day of an industrial first aid course I was in and we had our written exam that afternoon. Written exam please, all I wrote down was my name. The rest of the time I shaded in the appropriate boxes corresponding to multiple choice answers. I scored ninety-four percent without studying. This is a two week long, seventy hour course, but medical genius I am not. I have to take this course every two years to keep my first aid ticket. This was my sixth time through the course, my first being back in 1996 when I really had to work my ass off to just pass. I was never a good student. Not incapable, just lazy or maybe it was something more, I’ve always felt like their was a something missing in me. Something like a drive or passion for something, anything. My interests are as varied as the clutter in this room that cannot be called an office. Clutter. Disorder. Randomness. Unorganized. A meager ember of insight has shown itself, but it is miles away. This room of disarray is nearly a reflection of me.
I was invited over to my best friend’s place for dinner that evening. He made a killer batch of fried breaded halibut and a great shrimp rice dish. My contribution was the beer. Myself and Chris and his very pregnant girlfriend and their roommate retired to the basement living room to socialize. Well to socialize a drink a plenty. That was the extent of our Friday evening plans, drink till we were out of beer and call it a night. Fortunately for me I live only two streets away in a home I rent from my same friend Chris. He in fact has belongings of his still in this very room. The Vietnam War style flag “Kill’em all let God sort’em out” is not mine and was surely purchased from a guy in a van who parks in your local Dairy Queen parking lot once every spring. My flag would just have my face with a confused or unsure expression, the slogan reading “This is me, somebody sort me out.” An aging can of pepper spray intended for bears sits on a shelf below baseball trophies for which I had no part in procuring. The only team sports I’ve ever played were courtesy of X-Box and the likes. Oh and three unopened cans of an American beer called Keystone, each bearing a different design, purchased at Hyder, Alaska from past softball tournaments. Each can certainly a memento from an interesting weekend. Each beer can alone could probably launch Chris and his family to an entire evening of reminiscing.
That evening after my first aid exam, a female friend of mine called to say she had something to give me for doing so well on the test. I assured her no gift was necessary for my actual effort was paltry. So she arrives with two pint bottles of a UK beer called Hobgoblin. I wish I had saved the label for it had a drawing of a creature that looked like a troll in a court jester’s outfit painted in a medieval style. The beer was good too. This same friend and I were sitting together one evening just talking and she explained to me her dream, what she would like to do someday. She then asks me what is my dream, and nothing came to mind. I told her that I don’t think I really have one. A few years before this in a similar setting, a woman I was dating asked me the same question and I responded that I don’t have a dream. She was surprised, “Everyone has to have a dream.” Well maybe I don’t. Maybe I’m not supposed to. I always felt dreams belong in the realm of sleep. Or they were dreams because dreams are supposed to be something like a fairy tale, unattainable. I thought the difference was to have goals. Unattainable or unrealistic goals - now that sounds like having a dream. But then what do I know, I’m hungover in my office chair with a stiff back and the clothes I had on last night.
The walk from Chris’ to my place might take 5 minutes. I have no recollection of leaving his place and didn't know until the next day that she drove me home until after I had talked with her. I open my dry sticky eyes, contact lenses well adhered to my corneas, I turn my neck which creaks like a wooden door in a horror film. My eyes first come into focus of a picture frame on the one bookshelf which once encased a photograph of myself and a recent ex-girlfriend. This same frame now displays a photograph of Spain’s greatest filmmaker, Pedro Almodovar peering through the eyepiece of a film camera in Barcelona. This was surely taken during the filming of Carne Tremula (Live Flesh), Gaudi’s unmistakable Sagrada Familia towering in the background.
Describing or even inventorying the contents of a room can only tell you so much about the person who dwells there. A stranger or even a friend or family member may gain new insights based on their perceptions of the person. We are all different to different people. One person’s perception of me will differ from that of someone else’s based on individual observation and experience. This meandering of thoughts, unrelated images and descriptions offers me no new insight into myself. I have learned nothing from this. To quote the character Patrick Bateman at the end of the film American Psycho, “this confession is over.”
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COPYRIGHT NOTICE
© 2006 Darcy K Metz |
STORYMANIA PUBLICATION DATE
December 2006 |
NUMBER OF TIMES TITLE VIEWED
1871
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