Scott Kellert

Normalcy

            The howling of the 8:35 train to Daly City screams in my ears as it has every morning for the last ten years.  I stand on the black tiles that denote where the doors are going to be.  I board the train.  As I enter, the train seems to fill with the familiar faces I will never actually meet.  I take a seat and begin to read the newspaper.

            I am Norman.  I am a boring man.  I have been the sales representative for a paper company in San Francisco for the last ten years, and over that time I haven’t received a single promotion, bonus, or significant raise.  It is not that I am bad at my job.  I just have never felt a drive to excel.  This had never really bothered me much until recently.  I had been completely content with doing the same dull paperwork everyday, as long as I could go home to my beautiful wife.  Unfortunately, just last month my wife left me for some mysterious other man and my routine was ruined.  Lately I have been seeking anything to fill the void that had been created by the only good thing that had ever really happened to me.  The only thing I could think of was to start trying at work.  One of the regional managers had recently retired and I thought that with my long history at the company I might actually have a shot at getting the job if I started putting in some extra effort.  So, as of late, the only thing I do is work, day and night.

            I arrive at work at 9:00 sharp, sit down at my desk, and delve into my work.  Drake has been one of my only friends and basically the only person I have talked to these past few weeks.  Our desks are next to each other and have been for the last three years.  If I am boring, Drake is anything but.  He is tall, dark, and handsome.  He always seems to have something crazy going on in his life, and I am sure he will be out of this place soon to move on to bigger and better things.

            “How was your weekend, Norm?”  Drake inquired as he put down his phone.

“You know, the usual.  Slept. Worked.  Killed time ‘til Monday.”

“Norm, you know that’s no way to spend a weekend.  This Saturday, we’ll do something together.  We’ll go crazy.  See what happens.”

I let out a small “O.K.” and settle into my work.  Ever since I dedicated myself to improving my work for this promotion my desk has gotten more and more cluttered.  I look for a stapler desperately for a few minutes.  Finally, I give it up as a lost cause and resort to stabbing a hole in the papers and connecting them with a binder ring.

The week drags on.  Lately it always feels like I am heaving myself through the days.  But then, I don’t really look forward to the weekend either.  It is just a time when I do my work at home and realize how lonely my life is without my wife.  As a result I tend to stick around work as long as possible to keep myself around other people, and the weeks drag on. 

This week I am spending even more time at work because recently I have stopped cleaning after myself in my apartment.  Once I realized that no one ever visits, I let things run wild.  There are dishes everywhere, stains on everything, and I am pretty sure I am the proud new owner of an ant colony.

It is Friday.  Everyone around here seems excited for their weekend plans, and I feel upbeat for the first time since the divorce because I actually have plans as well.  However, tonight I plan on working until around eight, microwaving a Hungryman dinner in the office kitchen, then going to sleep as soon as I get home.  This realization brings me back to the familiar feeling of boredom and depression.

When five o’clock rolls around most people begin to leave.  Drake says that we should meet at Barclay’s around eight on Saturday, and exits the room.  By 5:30 there are just a few people left in the office, these are the times that I can really focus.  However, my focus is abruptly broken when my boss, Mr. Cox, a man who hasn’t spoken to me directly since my interview ten years ago, called me.

“Hey, Norm, can I talk to you in my office in five,” he stated nonchalantly.

“O…k,” but before I had even responded he was back in his office.  This could be it.  This could be the promotion.  I adjust my tie.  I make sure my hair is straight.  I count all three hundred of the seconds that Mr. Cox told me to wait before entering his office.  On three hundred, I try to get up calmly but I can’t keep myself from shaking.  I knock on the door that holds my fate.

“Come in.”

As I enter, I realize that this office has changed quite a bit since the last time I saw it.  Directly in front of me was Mr. Cox’s desk.  It has some papers scattered on top of it, and Mr. Cox is sitting behind it.  To the right is a plain white wall that has a poster listing the rules and regulations of the office.  As I slide into the chair I look over to the left side of the room.  It is a chaotic collection of what is supposed to be art.  They are strange combinations of colors that apparently represent some abstract objects, but I don’t recognize them.  My gaze is drawn deeper and deeper into the painting.  I am so confused by the shapes but I can’t seem to escape from them.  Mr. Cox catches me staring at them.  “My wife loves that crap.  She buys them all the time, so I have to put them up.  So, Norm, you have been with us quite some time.  And you have done some fine work this month.”  My heart is racing like a horse at the Kentucky Derby.  I’ve got this promotion.  My life will turn around.  “Over the last ten years you’re salary has gotten bigger and bigger because of your long standing here but you haven’t really contributed any more over the years.”

“Excuse me?”

“Norm, we’re very sorry but we don’t have the budget to have this many employees right now.  We are going to have to let you go.”  He picks up some papers from the left side of the desk.  “You’re going to have to sign these…”

“Excuse me.”

“Listen, these things happen.  I’m sure you will have no trouble getting back on your feet.”

These things only happen to me.  How am I supposed to get back on my feet?  This job is the only thing I have left in my life.  I don’t have any feet to get back on.  “Can we talk about this?  Is there a way we can rework the budget?”

“No Norm.  I am sorry this must happen.  Please just sign the papers.”

“But haven’t you noticed the extra work I have been doing lately?  Does that mean anything to you?”

“It was great, but it was too little too late.  Please, Norm, don’t make this more difficult than it has to be.”

One of the abstract pictures on the wall catches my eye.  I stare into it, trying to find meaning.  But its complexities don’t make any sense.  The painting is mocking me.  It thinks it is superior to me, just like Mr. Cox.  The whole wall seems to be laughing at me, and I feel the anger I have been holding back begin to slip through its cage.  “Oh, I am so sorry that I have made the past five minutes so difficult.  I have wasted a whole five minutes of your precious life.  Can’t you see you are ruining my life?  You were supposed to give me the promotion Cox.  Was that too difficult for you?”

“Norm, ple…”

I seem to be shouting now and it feels good.  “I’ll tell you what you can do with those papers.  You can shove ‘em right up your ass.  Who the hell even got the manager job anyway?  Did you just give it to yourself to make things less difficult?  To make things fit better in to the fucking budget?”

“No Norm.  We gave the job to someone who showed they were capable of holding that position and that was Drake.  Now why don’t you just go home and we will mail the papers to you.”

Drake?  The anger that is so highly focused on Mr. Cox vanishes.  It is quickly redirected toward my used-to-be-best-friend Drake.  I need to get out of this place.  I dart out of Mr. Cox’s office.  I focus only on what is directly in front of me, ignoring people trying to comfort me around the building.  I get home in what seems to be a matter of minutes, but I know it is much longer.  I throw my apartment door open.  The first thing I see is a dirty bowl.  I throw it into the wall.  As it shatters into tiny pieces, I feel a sense of satisfaction.  There is a lamp to my left I throw it into the window over my balcony.  Both break violently. What else? 

I wake up.  I check my clock, but it appears to be a victim of last night.  As I start to walk around, I realize I have broken almost everything in the entire apartment.  Everything is in perfect anarchy.  I step on a knife on the floor, but I hardly even notice the pain.  I just pick it up and slide it into my pocket.  Time seems to be passing, but I don’t really care.  I know I should start to clean stuff up, but I can’t force myself to do anything.  Then my trance-like state is broken when a corny jingle starts playing.  It is coming from the corner of the room.  I go to pick it up and discover it is the somewhat broken remains of my cell phone, apparently it still works.  On the screen, there is some sort of crazy swirling of color and the word “alarm.”  I open the phone; it says “drinks with Drake.”  I have completely forgotten about our plans.  I don’t even bother changing.  I just hop into my incredibly old Camry and head towards the bar.

I arrive about fifteen minutes past eight.  I am late for something for the first time in my life.  It feels great.  I look around, but I don’t see Drake.  I try to call him, but apparently that part of my phone no longer functions.  I watch the clock.  With each minute I change my mind about what I want to do to Drake.  It fluctuates between congratulation and assault.  After about thirty minutes of this teeter tottering of the mind, I decide that something might be wrong.  Perhaps I should head over to his house, and check up on him.  I get back in my car and start heading over to Drake’s house.  I have only been there once.  He had invited me over to watch the super bowl a couple of years ago.  He didn’t know I knew nothing about the sport.  I ended up slicing O’dourves the whole time.

I pulled into the driveway.  The lights were on.  That’s a good sign.  There is a car I recognize in the drive way, but I can’t remember where.  It doesn’t matter, something might be wrong inside.  I went up to the door and knocked.  No response.  I try again.  No response.  I am now very concerned.  I try the door and it is unlocked.  I walk towards the stairs.  As I go up I shout “Drake?”  I hear some muffled whispers.  What is going on in here?  I suddenly remember I have the knife in my pocket from my apartment.  I pull it out; it still has my blood on it.  To the left is a door with light spilling from underneath.  That is where the whispers are coming from.  As I open the door I say again “Drake?”  The door swings open.  The sudden burst of light blinds me for a moment.  When I regain sight, I see Drake.  He is naked and holding some sheets.  I scan the rest of the room, and my heart explodes.  There is my wife.  She is also naked.  She is desperately trying to shove her pants back on.

“Norm, it’s not what it looks like,” Drake tries to explain frantically.

I am unable to reply.  I am shocked by what I am seeing.  I remember I am holding a knife.  This is probably why they both look so terrified.

“Norm, please, just, don’t do anything you will regret,” Drake says, trying to reason with me.  It is painfully clear what I have to do.  If I want to get back on my feet, I can’t have two people who are dragging me down around.

“I don’t think I will be regretting anything.  It’s you two that should have some regrets about now,” I say as I begin towards Drake.  My wife runs at me.

“Please, Norm.  Stop!”  She screams.  She attempts to knock me down.  Before she can, I lay the back of my hand across her face effortlessly. She collapses to the ground.  If breaking dirty dishes was satisfaction, that was pure pleasure.

“Norm, come on buddy.  You don’t have to do this.  You’ll get back on your feet…”  That did it.  I took the knife and I plunged it directly into his heart.  I could feel the beating through the blade.  Blood began pouring from Drake’s chest.  The more that spilled the better I felt.  I saw the life drift out from his eyes.  His dead body began to fall, and as it did I withdrew the knife.  I was in ecstasy.

“Norm…Drake.  Norm, please…” she moaned.  She was stirring to consciousness.  I am filled with a combination of adrenaline and endorphins.  I can barely even control what I am doing.  I kick her, so that she is lying on her back.  She tries to fight back but she is too weak.  I drop to my knees at her left side.  She throws her arms up but there is nothing she can do, nothing I can do.  Like an Aztec sacrifice, I drop the knife in to her heart.  Then all the happiness rushes out of me.

*          *          *

            The train has reached Daly City.  Norm without thinking walks off his train across the platform.  People try and stay as far away from him as possible.  He smells bad, his clothes are covered in something red, and he is swearing under his breath.  The train, going the other direction, approaches.  A speaker announces in a computerized voice “Pittsburgh/Bay Point.”

            Norm begins to speak to no one “The howling of the 8:35 train to Daly City screams in my ears as it has every morning for the last ten years.  I stand on the black tiles that denote where the doors are going to be.  I board the train.  As I enter, the train seems to fill with the familiar faces I will never actually meet.  I take a seat and begin to read the newspaper.”