The Game

The first couple of days were a cinch. After one or two explanations of my responsibilities, I was free to continue my duties. Duties that I took care of swiftly, leaving nothing except the slow tick of the clock. With nothing else to keep my body moving, my mind was left to wander, a trait I’ve had ever since I was a kid. It journeys to places far away. Places in which the strange and the wonderful reside. As the setting grows, people begin to sprout like flowers. Characters with diverse backgrounds and elaborate backstories populate the world, creating fun and tragic adventures which accumulate into magnificent finales. I type as though I’m cursed with unfathomable knowledge, the only saving grace being a keyboard and a Word document. I set the stage, place the heroes, and aim their blades toward the villain.

Then the phone rang.

I answer. I assist. I hang up. I checked the clock,

and only thirty minutes had passed. My screen radiates the dashboard I had opened at the start of my shift. I check to see how many pages I’ve written. Only ten. Small but respectable. I stumble as I recall the next scene. The phone had utterly derailed my train of thought. Yet, do I hate the phone for removing me from my cursed focus?

No.

After all, I expected it to ring. I came to this job seeking a new life. My old one used to throw me in a pin of angry tigers armed with expired coupons. My only instructions were to smile as they clawed my face into emotionally debilitated ribbons. Thanks to my new desk, the tigers were replaced with ordinary people armed with reasonable problems and a more forgiving nature.

Meanwhile, the phone brought voices who asked easily answerable questions or updates on their daily expenses. In cases where I’m clueless, I can ask those above me for assistance. In the old life, my cries often fell on deft ears, resulting in me fending for myself. Now, management answered my cries with smiling faces and valuable instructions. Combine that with generous pay, and I was giving a recipe for a stable and comfortable life. I might’ve been a cog in the machine. However, I was well-maintained and mended whenever I cracked. If they put this much effort into me, I could put my all into them. If it meant putting those worlds on hold, then so be it. I had plenty of downtime, so gaming the system would be a cinch. However, I knew better than to take the opportunity for granted.

First and foremost, this was a job, and it should always come first. Downtime or not, if the phone rings, I answer. Besides, I would hardly consider it intrusive. Not like myself when I was a kid.

Growing up, I would nonsensically ramble to my poor mother about the wild adventures my characters would go on week after week, each time growing more random and non-Euclidean by the day. She listened to every word and did her best to piece together the narrative.

“You should write that down.” She said. “That would make for a wonderful book!”

I brushed this idea to the side. The stories were creations from my head; why would I write them down if they were to never leave? Besides, books were boring. If I wanted to showcase my ideas, it would be on the big screen, with flashing lights and stunning colors! How hard could it be? By the time I grew up, I would know more about the industry and how to bring my ramblings to life!

The phone rang.

By the time I was a young adult, I had learned too much about the industry. Learning the horrifying practices that plague Hollywood culture was enough to realize I could never truly make it in those hills without succumbing to corporate sleaze. Without playing their game, I would become a hopeless writer with no success or revenue to his name, doomed to have every script result in either a failed pitch or a colossal bomb. How would I look my mother in the eye, starving half to death, and tell her I did what she asked? I wanted to make my mother proud while keeping me happy and financially safe. I would need to play a different game to make it. Instead of writing scripts, I could write books. Books were always considered better than the movies. I could earn respect by writing literature that I could then use to transfer to the industry if desired. Not to mention, they were far easier to produce than films.

I could get a job and write simultaneously, fulfilling both my financial responsibilities and passions! If I fail, I’ll always have a net to catch me. If I succeed, I could jump ship and sail away to the Isle of book deals, interviews, and film adaptations! It would be a brilliant scheme disguised as a compromise! It might take a little while, but with enough downtime between tasks and a few weekends, I’ll become the master of both!

Writing my ideas now would be foolish. I was self-aware enough to understand that I was still a kid with little to no knowledge of translating my vision. However, I left that for my future self to manage. I wanted to spend my youth hanging out with friends and enjoying life before becoming a cog. By then, I would have plenty of knowledge and time to articulate my imagination.

The phone rang…again.

The days grow longer. The hours grow busier. The more I learn and progress, the more work I’m responsible for handling. Downtime becomes few and far between. Any desire to write I can muster quickly withers into dust at the chime of the phone.

I now only want to go home… Even then, I return for a few hours before I fall into blackness and awake to the sound of the phone’s ring. The moments after work are too busy spent recovering to be useful in expanding my world.

“Leave those hours to rest. The weekends are where I’ll do my best.” I rhyme to myself.

The weekend arrives. With nothing to do or plan, I sit at my home screen and keys. I open the document and prepare to succumb to the trance.

Nothing

Somewhere along the line, I became stuck. Unable to think and act clearly. Distractions surround me in my house, room, and on the computer itself. I go to the library to change the scenery, but not even that can free me of my creative prison. I spent so long creating at work that I now think of creating as work.

“Leave the weekends to rest. This way, I can be paid for my passions.” I say, not bothering to think up a rhyme.

Work begins. I wait until the phone goes quiet, the screen turns blank, and my hands become free. The perfect moment. Despite the odds, I feel the trance taking over my mind. I can finally prove to myself that my worlds are worth visiting. I will make myself and my mother proud. As few and far between as they may be, they’ll add up to something grand in the long run. With new hope I open the document and type a few words.

The phone rang…

The moment is now gone, with no guarantee of returning. I watch as the blinking light begs for my attention, the high-pitched ring stabbing my ears with each chime. I feel the light fading within me. It’s been a few months, but nothing remains written. I get up, leave, and sit in the bathroom. I’m alone but not in silence. My mind races with the woes of the past.

I should’ve listened to my mother. I should’ve written what I could. New ideas are crushed by the workload and I have no springboard to launch off. As childish and silly as they may have been, they were still mine…

I should’ve ignored my young adult self. I should’ve honed my skills while I still had time. My knowledge outranks my experience. Nothing I write is good enough, and everything is compared to those who are successful.

I sit on the toilet with my head in my hands. Potential ideas are tossed in my head but are gunned down by the dozen. I’ve become self-aware enough to notice the pain it’s causing me, but I lack the ability to mend it. My function as a cog has begun to falter. As the cracks are internal, management has no way to fix them. If I keep slowing, they will be forced to replace me. My safety net would be lost, and I would be forced to walk a path of shame and disappointment. Perhaps I could return to my old life where I can be feasted upon on the outside and in. My head begins to pound with terror and calamity. I grit my teeth and squint my eyes with indecisive rage. What has my life become? Was my old life better? Have I ruined my chances at happiness? I can feel the tears running down my hands. I can only breathe sharp snippets. I place one hand over my mouth to hide the noise, just in case the tile walls are thinner than they appear.

I just wanted to win. Yet every step I take results in a loss. Dreams that I held in my back pocket had become mushed and broken from months of sitting. My ears had become deaf to potential solutions. Was this always a losing game, or was I never good enough to play?

I feel the walls close in around me. I close my eyes and hide my head in my lap. However, it can’t stop the smell of stale air freshener from attacking my lungs. How much longer could I hold out? Did I even want to try? My heart beats faster than the woes in my mind, yet I remain numb and lifeless.

Then my phone rings.

The noise stills the world. I emerge from the darkness and take a look. A message from my mother.

“Got to finally finish your story, I love it! Can’t wait til its finished!” She said.

Silence enveloped the bathroom. The walls appeared further away than they started. I stared at the phone longer than I cared to admit. I could feel my breath returning to normal and my pulse soothing. I had forgotten that I sent them the story months ago as a sneak peak.

Did they really enjoy it, or did they like it because I wrote it? I wasn’t sure of the answer, but I do know that they took the time to respond. They didn’t have to say anything. Enough time had passed; they could easily claim to have forgotten it or say that other matters had gotten in the way. But they didn’t. If they like it, could others?

When it came to the game, I was playing poorly. The success I desperately craved was way beyond my grasp. It was possible that I may fully reach it. However, as long as there was someone cheering me on, the least I could was to keep playing.