Post by Ahryantah on May 2, 2005 0:22:44 GMT -5
It's an old piece, but this place hasn't seen any activity in awhile.
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It’s raining, and I want it to stop. I’ve been sitting here for the last ten minutes, underneath this awning, waiting for the rain to stop. It won’t last long. It can’t. Summer thunderstorms are short, aren’t they? I’d run through the rain. I don’t mind getting wet. Unfortunately, the unprotected papers I hold in my hand do mind getting wet. I can’t have crinkly papers with water stains and smeared ink, can I?
It’s been fifteen minutes now, and still the rain comes. I walked under the awning while the sky was still only threatening rain. By the time I got to the other side, the rain had begun in earnest. So I stayed under the awning. Can’t get the papers wet. They’re much too important. Can’t let the whims of the weather ruin them. Not these papers, these thin white rectangles that have the power to ruin my life.
A mere twenty feet. That was how long the awning was. Twenty feet was all it took for the weather to change. Twenty feet, or approximately six meters, whichever suits you best. Twenty feet can change a lot, kind of like twenty words. The papers clutched in my hand are already wrinkled. Oh, well. The words are still readable, that handful of words determining my destiny. Words probably typed by some secretary working nine to five who was more worried about what she could make for dinner that her kids would eat without complaint than she was about who those words she was typing were meant for. It’s a little pathetic.
It has now been twenty minutes, and to spite me, the rain is coming down harder. My papers are uncovered. They don’t even have an envelope. I was working late at my own nine-to-five when a coworker let me know that there was a man to see me. No, she didn’t know who he was. No, she wasn’t going to ask him for me, it’s not like I’m hiding from anyone, am I?
So I went to him. He handed me those papers without a word. He only spoke after I had read them myself. Of course he’s sorry. Apologies are cheap and easy when you can do nothing of substance. I was more angry that he knew at all. Isn’t reading someone else’s mail a federal offense? Of course, this wasn’t exactly the United States Postal Service, and the guy wasn’t exactly some random stranger off the street, but still. And to give it to me without an envelope, to give me the raw pages with nothing acting as a buffer between myself and those terrible papers. To give me them in front of my coworkers, to publicly state his rehearsed apology so that I could not even pretend that the papers were good, that all was right with the world. Everyone knew it was bad news.
When I left work, some sun was still shining, but the thunderclouds loomed near. I walked quickly in the hopes of getting home before the rain fell. I didn’t make it. Twenty-five minutes. I was due home an hour ago . . . but no one will miss me, so I suppose it doesn’t matter. I walked under this same awning this morning, on my way to work. What a different person I am now.
The man had given his apologies and left. I stood there, still holding the papers at reading distance from my eyes. As was appropriate, my boss told my to go home. Of course I went. I had already worked in that dump half an hour longer than I should have that day. I hated myself then. If I had left on time, the man with the papers may have missed me until tomorrow. If I had left on time, I would have beat the rain. I would be a much happier person right now, smug and comfortable in my ignorance.
Timing is everything.
The rain is not stopping. Will I be here all night? The temperature has dropped drastically. Will they find me in the morning, frozen to death, dead from exposure? Will I meet my end not from dead words on a page, but from nature’s fancy? I think I prefer it that way.
Of course, it will not happen. It’s not that cold; it’s summer. And I have no desire to wait here all night. I look at the torrential rain, then at my papers. Such few words, such huge impact. We are all slaves to words. We created them, but they now hold the power. It is an absolute power.
Looking once more at the unceasing rain, I decide to declare my independence and continue walking home.
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It’s raining, and I want it to stop. I’ve been sitting here for the last ten minutes, underneath this awning, waiting for the rain to stop. It won’t last long. It can’t. Summer thunderstorms are short, aren’t they? I’d run through the rain. I don’t mind getting wet. Unfortunately, the unprotected papers I hold in my hand do mind getting wet. I can’t have crinkly papers with water stains and smeared ink, can I?
It’s been fifteen minutes now, and still the rain comes. I walked under the awning while the sky was still only threatening rain. By the time I got to the other side, the rain had begun in earnest. So I stayed under the awning. Can’t get the papers wet. They’re much too important. Can’t let the whims of the weather ruin them. Not these papers, these thin white rectangles that have the power to ruin my life.
A mere twenty feet. That was how long the awning was. Twenty feet was all it took for the weather to change. Twenty feet, or approximately six meters, whichever suits you best. Twenty feet can change a lot, kind of like twenty words. The papers clutched in my hand are already wrinkled. Oh, well. The words are still readable, that handful of words determining my destiny. Words probably typed by some secretary working nine to five who was more worried about what she could make for dinner that her kids would eat without complaint than she was about who those words she was typing were meant for. It’s a little pathetic.
It has now been twenty minutes, and to spite me, the rain is coming down harder. My papers are uncovered. They don’t even have an envelope. I was working late at my own nine-to-five when a coworker let me know that there was a man to see me. No, she didn’t know who he was. No, she wasn’t going to ask him for me, it’s not like I’m hiding from anyone, am I?
So I went to him. He handed me those papers without a word. He only spoke after I had read them myself. Of course he’s sorry. Apologies are cheap and easy when you can do nothing of substance. I was more angry that he knew at all. Isn’t reading someone else’s mail a federal offense? Of course, this wasn’t exactly the United States Postal Service, and the guy wasn’t exactly some random stranger off the street, but still. And to give it to me without an envelope, to give me the raw pages with nothing acting as a buffer between myself and those terrible papers. To give me them in front of my coworkers, to publicly state his rehearsed apology so that I could not even pretend that the papers were good, that all was right with the world. Everyone knew it was bad news.
When I left work, some sun was still shining, but the thunderclouds loomed near. I walked quickly in the hopes of getting home before the rain fell. I didn’t make it. Twenty-five minutes. I was due home an hour ago . . . but no one will miss me, so I suppose it doesn’t matter. I walked under this same awning this morning, on my way to work. What a different person I am now.
The man had given his apologies and left. I stood there, still holding the papers at reading distance from my eyes. As was appropriate, my boss told my to go home. Of course I went. I had already worked in that dump half an hour longer than I should have that day. I hated myself then. If I had left on time, the man with the papers may have missed me until tomorrow. If I had left on time, I would have beat the rain. I would be a much happier person right now, smug and comfortable in my ignorance.
Timing is everything.
The rain is not stopping. Will I be here all night? The temperature has dropped drastically. Will they find me in the morning, frozen to death, dead from exposure? Will I meet my end not from dead words on a page, but from nature’s fancy? I think I prefer it that way.
Of course, it will not happen. It’s not that cold; it’s summer. And I have no desire to wait here all night. I look at the torrential rain, then at my papers. Such few words, such huge impact. We are all slaves to words. We created them, but they now hold the power. It is an absolute power.
Looking once more at the unceasing rain, I decide to declare my independence and continue walking home.
