Dreaming From 9-5

Penetratingly emotionless, aggravatingly mind-numbing bings and beeps ring in his ears and sink into his brain, rattling around his skull as a pulsing migraine. His head thrums with every keyboard tap, every fake, enthusiastic, “Hello! This is...” as some poor sap answers the phone, only to be met with anonymous, unsolvable frustrations yelled at them by some faceless stranger, as the air conditioning blasts lukewarm air from too small of a slotted opening in the back of the crowded, lifeless office. 

His work continues to pile up in front of him, an endless sea of scribbles and numbers and demands, staring up at him, waiting to be assaulted by his own crabbed chicken scratch. He sighs, a quiet, pitiful sound and glances up at the round, black rimmed clock. Ticktt, ticktt, ticktt. His own thoughts move as slow as the passing time, passing in front of his eyes, out of sight and mind, ungraspable and meaningless. It’s almost as if grey-tinted glasses are perched pompously upon his nose, blissfully skewing around him in permanent melancholy and misery. Folding his arms gingerly in front of him and allowing all of his weight to fall onto the desk, he leans forwards, dropping his head. His eyelids flutter closed, allowing him to finally succumb to his desperation for escape. 

Pillow-soft grass brushes gently against the sides of his head, tickling his cheeks and jaw, his body sinks, ever so slightly, into the plush soil below. Crisp air, void of bugs or heaviness, swirls calmly. Birds sing a happy tune, the sound dulled by distance, as clouds float idly by, fluffy and light and unbothered. The boy scrunches his nose, stirring awake. The sun shines in greeting, his thin, ebony arms shimmering with youth and reflected light. Chestnut eyes open slowly, squinting through the blinding glow of the sky, the vibrant color of the foliage and greenery. The life around him seems to croon at his awakening. 

“Remmy.” 

The boy perks at his name, standing, almost as if it’d been awhile since he’d actually heard it, and looks up at the towering trees. Though his eyes search thoroughly, he catches sight of nothing but silent vegetation. He spins in a circle. Still nothing.

“Remmy.” the voice calls again.

 It sounds more human this time. Like it holds more feeling behind it. He feels a tug at his heart strings, a beckoning. “Hello?” he calls. There’s no answer. Regardless, he begins to walk forwards, towards where he feels, doesn’t know, but feels is the source of the sound. 

Swiping away vines and the hanging branches that swoop from above, he rushes onward. Only two cries and he’s running, chasing after what he hopes is the origin of his calling. His bare feet thump unapologetically against the warm ground, propelling him closer and closer. 

After awhile of unhindered sprinting, the trees begin to get sparse, no longer clumped together in thick groups like they used to be. His heart pounds in his chase, breathing deep and labored. “Hello?” he repeats into the wooded abyss. All is silent as he waits.

Unceremoniously, a hornbill drops onto his shoulder, long beak only partly ajar. The boy blinks, hesitates. “Hello?” he tries.

“Hello.” the bird replies. He should’ve screamed. This is a bird. But, something about the situation is calming, and with a sense of familiarity, Remmy says, “You called for me?”

The bird nods, or more accurately, bobs in response. “Why’d you follow?”

“I dunno.” Remmy doesn’t. He just did. It’s the same reason he comes when his mother calls. He doesn’t think about it. He follows because he knows he should. Simple. 

“Well,” the bird says plainly, “I don’t think that sounds very fun.”

Remmy shrugs, unsure of what to say, “I know.”

The bird stares at him. It reminds him of the way his father used to look at him when he’d said something particularly nonsensical, something kind of dumb. The bird hops off his shoulder, bouncing a few steps away. The boy bites his lip. Where are you going? Numbly, Remmy does the same, closing the gap between them. He wasn’t following, he assures himself, we’re having a conversation, here. 

The hornbill seems disappointed, thinks Remmy, and it looks back at him, peering into his eyes. “Have fun with that, then.” And the bird flies away, up into the deep sky, one that is now far darker than it was before. Remmy feels humiliation gather up hot in his cheeks. Stupid, stupid, stupid. He doesn’t just follow things, does he? His brothers have always begged to differ, constantly leering at him to get off their butts. His mom had said that’s what little siblings do. But, he’s getting older now, far too old to be considered little, and he’s beginning to think it’s not so average. But surely, he’s just being dramatic, right?

 The sky crackles, and a fat drop of water falls onto his forehead. Remmy doesn’t move. And as if scolding his lack of common sense, the rain begins to pour. It weighs down the grass and drenches his hair, thick sheets of water sitting atop his dense curls, waiting to be absorbed. Where am I supposed to go?

Remmy startles awake, his loud inhale attracting attention in stiff, tired office. He looks down at his worn, thirty-year-old hands, creased with age once again, and clenches his jaw. Tap, tap, tap. The keyboards sing. The colorless popcorn ceiling is motionless, no clouds, no sun, just ivory, the sight makes Remmy feel weirdly hollow, empty. Conforming white walls with black specks seem feel tight, seeming to get closer and closer together with every passing second he spends here. He gazes at the sleek, silver nameplate stamped with his name, Mr. Parken, and folds his hands neatly in front of him, waiting for some kind of action to come to mind. He could do his monotonous papers, or…? 

He glances at the clock again. Tkkt, tkkt, tkkt. Two more hours. 

Remmy Parken pushes his chair out, and walks towards the door. He won’t be returning. Maybe a 9-5 just isn’t for him.