The Routines of a Downcast Man

Of course the bus would miss his fucking stop, of course. He sits in his rage for a long moment before accepting his fate and committing to a two-and-a-half-mile walk. He’s so pissed he doesn’t even bother to put his headphones on. Instead, the man devotes himself to silence. Perhaps this deference for life is the genesis of his depression.

Hordes of people push past him, some bumping his shoulder and others stopping to admire the diminishing sunset. Rays of light encroach the ground they all walk on, shrouding the crowd in a haze of oranges and purples. A version of the man long passed would’ve seen this as a sign, a proclamation from God that everything was okay. Now, all he can do is squint his eyes to avoid the glaring sun.

He recounts his shitty day as he walks, happy to feed the anger brewing inside of himself. Behind him lies the wastewater treatment plant where he works as an operator. He dedicated a groundbreaking, record-setting, earth-shattering twelve hours today. Twelve hours of pouring ammonia, taking samples of moldy water, and disinfecting tanks. Stamped into his boots as insulting proof sits varying shades of sewage, sludge, and grease.

The man decides then and there, on the sidewalk, that he’s quitting tomorrow. Fuck it, he’s not even showing up. The hell if they need him. He needs a plane ticket, that’s what he needs. But nothing comes free. His labor, his sweat, his blood; they treat that shit like it’s free. Boiling over, balling his fists up, he is set in his decision.

The man then begins to sob. It’s nighttime now, and nighttime provides an adequate mask for heartsick eyes. It does not, however, conceal the anguished wails that escape his frail figure. Bystanders are a bit concerned, but he doesn’t have much of a capacity to care.

The man can’t even properly discern what it is he’s crying about. The only thing sitting within him is a deep, heavy-set feeling of anguish.

When these moments arise, the man becomes incredibly committed to the act of repression. It’s almost like a sport. All he can focus on now is the walk ahead of him. Of course, this wouldn’t be so bad if each step didn’t cost him a portion of his soul, but what's a guy to do?

Finally, after perhaps a century of sorrow, he arrives at his apartment. A tiny apartment, at that, complete with oomycete encased within the thin walls. That, and a film of cigarette ash coating the exterior. The table in the corner hosts a fishbowl and a pile of books that the downcast man will never read.

He sits, feeling as though another step is enough to shatter him whole. There, he begins to sink rather uncomfortably into both a sagging couch and a revolving mind. The television drones before him, a shitty 90s sitcom filling the tiny room with spurious laughter. Three bottles of Yuengling later (despite his depression, he remains above cans), his eyes finally begin to fall, pulled down by the weight of a world.

Moments before sleep reaches him, the man observes the minnow in the corner. Mustering up what morsels of discretion he’s got left, he rises, grabbing sloppily at a bottle of flakes. Due to his all-consuming sorrow, or perhaps a simple lack of motor control, he’s rather generous with portion sizes.

His brow furrows in anger. The damn thing doesn’t even seem grateful, swimming up lazily as if his owner’s offer means nothing. The man pounds the table, sending ripples throughout the water. The fish responds with indifference, causing his fist to bear down once more.

He stands, a mix of remorse and fear tying his stomach in knots. Staring into the creature’s cylindrical prison, he can’t help but compare its relative size to that of his own home. Finished with its meal, the fish swims in circles.

The man progresses from the living room to the kitchen, a long three-step process. Rather than reach for another bottle, the man opens his cabinet to retrieve a shaker (he’s an enduring man, surely he deserves at least a bit of frill). He carries his old fashioned to the wasteland that is his couch, condensation gathering between his fingers.

Awake now, the television’s no longer enough to quiet his fluttering mind. Sitting in the day’s filth, the man feels that oh-so-familiar anguish climbing up through his throat once more. This time, it feels as though it's attempting to choke him. He makes a feeble attempt to subdue his thoughts, nearly finishing his drink in the process. Still, though, he’s hyperaware of the tap, tap, tapping of his foot, and quickening of his breath.

He looks over to the closet. Inside, the man knows, lies a shoebox hidden beneath piles of coats. This box holds a nine-millimeter pistol that he bought under the premise of self-defense after first moving to the city. Of course, that reasoning’s lost to him by now. He stares at the splintered door, a deep longing for silence settling in his bones.

•

Sun peaks through the blinds, yet another declaration from God that life carries on. From the bedroom rings a nasty alarm, convulsing with tones of fury. As much as he’d wish to ignore it, the man simply can’t fall back into his dreams. Sleep, the reprieve he so desperately craves, is no longer his.

He stands, surveying the pile of glass that now litters the floor. Omitting a deep sigh, he moves to the bedroom, stifling the dreadful noise just moments before his ears begin to bleed. He looks in the mirror, surveying his growing belly and wiping a stain off his cargos. All the while, the minnow sits idly in its bowl, content with silence for yet another day.

The man waves a goodbye before stepping outside. Hopefully, the bus is on time today.