9-5

TW: Self harm

Ron cranes his neck to stare blankly at the cuckoo clock hanging just above eye level. It is 4 :12AM and the toilet seat is beginning to leave an impression on his bum. Six minutes have past yet time seems to stand still. Nothing matters. Not one damn thing. The crease marks are the least of Rons’ worries. Wiping, he stands, forgets to flush and so the hot, dry and somewhat toxic air continues to permeate the premises. Shaved facial hair from weeks past and toothpaste crust the sides of the sink and a towel full of mildew slumps on the floor.  

Old episodes of Jersey Shore play on MTV providing the only glow of light as Ron makes his way heavy footed to the futon couch. He grabs a fresh nug, breaks down the beautiful bud, rolls three joints and packs a bowl for the time being. He takes a hit and walks aimlessly to the kitchen. Here he stands amid dirty dishes piled up leaving the cabinets empty minus the ant traps Kate had set two months ago. There are traces of her everywhere.  

He can’t recall what he came here for but he knows he is hungry. Opening the refrigerator, a cardboard pizza box with one slice left is revealed. He pulls a half-gallon of milk out and takes a swig before spraying it out into the sink- expired 6/5/18. Today is Tuesday, June 12th; three weeks since Kate walked out on him, throwing her hands up exclaiming “That’s it! You win you miserable Fuck.” Four years together swirl down the drain.

Her sister came that evening and the two of them stuffed her belongings into the rundown Hilton family Chevy. Arnie began to whine and so Ron stooped down and gave him a long hug. She was taking the dog. “I really gave us a chance Ron.” she said in a low voice, as if she were afraid to admit it was over herself. Ron didn’t speak. She stepped closer to give him a half hug but he stepped away, with hands sunken deep into his pockets and head hanging low. Her sister, waiting in the driver's seat, beeped and Kate whirled on her heel to climb in the truck. As they rolled away from the curb Ron lit up. This was really happening. It really was over. She moved out. He messed up. Suddenly, Ron alivened with grief, anger, and bewilderment, kicked the bumper but missed.  

10 AM sweat already beads around Ron’s frizzed blond curled brow. He hadn’t combed his hair in some time and despite showering, the molding towels are doing nothing for his hygiene. His manager has stopped dropping hints about self-care at group meetings and now singles him out for the stench. Last week she sent him home to shower. He smoked a joint and watched Breaking Bad instead. When he returned she wrote him up and now she is on her last leg. 

He sits in the hot seat of her office being reprimanded but doesn't hear a word she says as her skeletal and menopausal figure looms over him. Instead his eyes wander lightly to her chest. Gross what is wrong with me? Ron thinks. Catching this slip she snaps her fingers in his face. “You are 3 weeks behind on account reports and I have clients calling left and right asking why their websites are glitching!” Ron huffs. This was supposed to be his ‘Dream Job’- ‘how naive of me’ he thinks. “It is taking every ounce of me not to fire you.” He jerks his eyes up to meet hers. “Now I have your attention. Look, when we hired you-” She continues on about his impressive Harvard degree not living up to its reputation. She sends him back to his desk with a stack of paperwork and a tight deadline to meet. His ass is on the line. 5 pm his coworkers begin to make a break for it. Ron gives them all a half smile and small wave as he joins the pack and heads for the door.  

After eating a full medium pizza 9PM rolls around. Ron strips nude. He looks one last time in the mirror. He begins at his ears. He never really liked them. When he wrestled in high school he developed cauliflower ears. Now they look like rolled up bulbous growths coming off his head, not the dainty ears his mother used to rub when he fell asleep at night as a child. He moves to his beard. He hasn’t shaved since Kate left. He used to be proud of how full his hair could grow in. When groomed, he shaped up well.  

Three inked ribbons actualize at the ball of his left shoulder and drape themselves delicately down his triceps and across his back commemorating his first and only tour to Afghanistan in 2012, where he worked as the Army’s top hostage negotiator. Within the ribbons are the names of the fallen brothers in his unit, Sg. Hark - Seth - Jermemy - Collin - Alyx - Henry - Jody. He is a lone survivor. But he doesn’t talk about it. Not now, not ever.  

His chest is broad and has gone soft. He hasn’t worked out in a year now and his muscle mass is decreasing. His limp - thank you Army- is worsening as his legs stiffen with age and underuse. Then his eyes drop and his head follows suit. He looks down at his package. They had some good times but the fun is over bucko.  

His eyes make their way to the tub. He steps in and lowers himself into the cool water. He rests his head back trying to remain calm. This is it Ron. Don’t be scared. You have rehearsed this a thousand times and the outcome is always the same. You are sure of this. You fail at everything so if there's one thing you want to do right let it be this. Kate has made it clear you two are over. Your job is a dead end and your boss is a bitch. This is the best and only option.

Taking a deep breath Ron grabs his swiss army knife and his knuckles clenched white around the handle. Pressing the blade to his wrist the blood begins to pool to its surface. The blade slices each wrist like butter. Blood begins to run down his forearms and dye the water red. Ron shuts his eyes tight, anxious to get it over with and fade away to a deep sleep but his voice betrays him. He lets out a guttural grown of panic. His eyes shoot open as if he just processed what he really has done. He begins to panic. Oh shit. This is wrong. This is..oh my God. Oh my God. What have I done? He looks at his wrists. His body begins to shake uncontrollably. And his hands begin to tingle as the rest of him become numb and limp. He touches his wounds in disbelief.

Then a voice comes to him. One he hadn’t heard in a while. It was his own. It was quiet and weak but it was undeniably there. Get up. It beckoned. Get help. If you don’t then you do fail. THIS is failing. And he did. Releasing another groan Ron manages to pull himself up. Even though his legs shook he never felt stronger. He stumbles out of the tub and falls against the wall. The coocoo clock crashes to the floor and he leans against the wall for a moment to steady himself. Then he takes a step. Then another. Another yet again. He stumbles to the doorway. His eyesight is beginning to blur. A trail of blood stains the walls as he panics, moving without a clear destination. He finds himself, most likely out of habit, back in the living room.

My phone. My phone! Where is it! A voice rushes inside him. Be calm. Another soothes. Jeans- is all the first could manage. It was dying. 

He finds himself beginning to hunch over as he falters back to the bathroom. He drops to the floor gasping for air. Before he can process it, the phone flops into his lap. The lights are dimming. Black spots blur his vision. 

“911what is your emergency?”

“I’m-I’m bleeding out.” was all he could manage before he collapses to the floor.

Rain spatters the window by Ron’s bed. He hasn’t been outdoors for two days now-hospital rules. The social worker came by yesterday to see how she could help. She notified Ron’s family of his whereabouts, called to stop his mail, and made sure his landlord would extend his rent deadline. When she called his boss she reported back and assured that his details were not released-just that he needed to take an indefinite amount of PTO. 

Cindy is her name and she has handled Ron’s case with care and expertise, taking the time to speak with those who are affected by Ron’s misgivings without disclosing too much. It has become clear she does this sort of thing often. It hadn’t occurred to Ron before now how much his absence would interfere with others, even remotely or loosely connected to him. You idiot. How selfish are you? He thinks in response to this realization. He knows for a fact that was the same reaction his father had had in hearing the news of his hospitalization.  

Later in the day, Caroline, his younger sister, stops in during visitor hours. Upon seeing his bandaged wrists she swallows a cringe. He and Caroline are the closest of the siblings in both age and relationship. Their eldest sister, Mary, is busy with a bustling family of her own. And John, Caroline’s twin, is finishing up his doctorate program in Vermont. Caroline brought updates about their mothers health. She has been diagnosed recently with early onset Althimers and so she and her husband are spending as much time as they have left, coherently, traveling the world. Presently, They are in Croatia.

‘How’s dad?’ Ron hears himself ask but doesn’t feel connected to that voice. It was a seemingly harmless question but Caroline knows its weight. Ron and their father have never seen eye to eye. When Ron abandoned the career path his Harvard law degree would have provided 9 years ago, to serve his country, his father, a first generation Polish immigrant, almost had a cow. “There is enough hate in this world. Nothing is going to change with more hate, more guns, more war.” A valid point it may be but, it seems to exclude the distest he has carried for his son ever since Ron’s first deployment. Since then, his father has considered Ron already a dead man, ridden of a moral compass and a tarnish to the Jarvis family name. All by the ripe age of twenty-five. Caroline could have told Ron the truth and confirmed what he already knew. Dad is disappointed and disgusted by Ron’s apparent selfishness. Instead she replies casually, “He’s Dad.” 

They sit quietly for a moment longer before Caroline breaks the silence. “Ron, people can make you the happiest person in the world. They can also make you wretched. So don’t plan on relying on anyone to get you through this. Do yourself that favor. Accept support where it is offered but it is only you who can make anything change. You have to want it. Give yourself permission to be happy again. I miss you.`` And with that she stood to leave. Pausing at the door she turned halfway around and knocks the door frame once, as if to solidify to coming point. “What you did was not selfish.” She states matter of fact, as if she read his mind. “And you are not wrong for how you feel.”   

Anger ensues once she is gone. Like a prowling lion, it pounces. Ron throws the only thing he can, an extra pair of socks. The result is not satisfying. This place makes me regret not going through with it. A piercing thought that often accompanies the loneliness a hospitalization can bring. 

The following day Ron returns to work and it moves slowly, as it always seems to by 2 pm. Attempting to shuffle the card, he keeps on his desk, angers him. His wrists are sore. Expense reports sit idling on the screen before him but his mind is lost elsewhere. These miserable people. Day in and day out they come to this office like mindless robots. Peggy, the office administrator, taps on his shoulder, startling him, then gives him the message that their boss requests his presence immediately. Now what.  

Ron stops before he enters the open office door, giving a gentle knock to alert Cathleen. Without looking up from her computer, she motions for him to come in. “Close the door, please.” She types a few more words then moves the mouse. *Click* From the looks of it she seems satisfied to have submitted something given the persed smile she reveals before turning her attention to Ron.

“I have given you months to turn your performance around.” Cathleen begins, getting straight to the point. “I know this last month you had an emergency and through the grapevine I learned Kate left you.” Rons mouth turns dry. He tries to swallow but it turns into a muffled clearing of his throat. He hasn’t even sat down yet and she is already going to fire him. “Clearly your current position bores you.” She continues. C’mon just do it already. Looking down, she places her hands flat on her desk, fingers spread. Then she looks up sharp. “Well sit down already.” Ron realizes he must look like an idiot standing there staring at her, mouth agape. He sits.

“After much consideration,” Jesus, enough with the formalities. “I have decided to promote you to Department Manager. Manny will be leaving us in a week which gives him some time to train you. What do you say?” 

What do I say? What?! I am terrible at my job and you want to promote me? Typical America for you. You do a lousy job and get rewarded. These people are psycho. Then a smile creeps onto Ron’s face. Oh if only they knew what was coming, they’ll learn. I’ll make sure of that.  

“Yes, I accept.” And with that, Ron turns, leaving with a bit more pride in his step.

The remainder of the day flew. Full of ideas Ron takes notes on his coworkers. Ablaze with fresh purpose he begins to plot his attack. He already knows the majority of the office takes their lunch in the breakroom. But a few take theirs outdoors when the weather was nice to catch a few drags. So, he would have to wait for a rainy day. A rainy, miserable day; how appropriate. Then he creates a list of each employee. Cathleen, Peggy, Manny, Phil, the guy who wears the same tie everyday, then there is the woman who eats soup everyday…These imbeciles! So ridden in habit they just accept their crappy little lives.   

When Ron finally arrives home that evening, his first order of business is to do some inventory. He heads straight for his bedroom and shifts the mattress revealing his stash. He selects his favorite. Heavy and solid in his hands, he feels purposed again.  Promoted. Hah! This is all such a joke. 

Monday morning, Manny is in high spirits. Sucks to be you, buddy. Ron sympathizes and cackles internally as he walks past each coworker. Freshly showered and shaved, he carries a gym bag, heavy, loaded and, for his sake, it was indeed raining. At noon, everyone would make their way to the breakroom and that’s when he would strike.

Ron swirls his plot around in his mind, fantasizing about Soup Lady’s face as he sprays the break room with bullets. Tie guy will probably try to hide under a table, little wimp. Just as Ron reached his desk, the power goes out. With screens black and lights cut, Cathleen comes out from her office. Ron, like everyone else, looks around; dazed and confused.  

Cathleen raises a finger as if counting the seconds saying “Hold on, the back-up generator will kick in any moment.” She leaves her finger up but nothing happens. No back up. Then she furrows her brow. Ron can’t tell if she is more annoyed about the lack of response or from making a fool of herself. He stifles a smirk.

Then a woman screams. What in the world? It is coming from the staircase. A group of employees run to check it out. Ron feels uneasy. What is going on? He too follows the pack, gym bag still in hand. As he nears the staircase he hears it. Shot by shot each of his fellow employees are trapped and crippled in the stairs. He drops instinctively and pulled out his revolver. He extends it out in front of himself. He hasn't shot a gun in years but when he had, he never missed.  

‘Stop shooting!’ he roars at the top of the staircase before making any sort of appearance. “I’m armed!’ Slowly he nears the opening. The shooter doesn’t react, hesitating. Ron keeps moving. Finally he was able to see clearly down the steps. Relieved, everyone who was baited appears to just be injured. What is this guys deal?....what was MY deal? What kind of sicko am I? This isn’t me...This can’t be happening. Thoughts race. Suddenly, Ron was afraid he was hallucinating and this was some sort of sick joke. He begins to expect the shooter at the bottom of the stairs to be himself.  

 Half-relieved and fully terrified, it was Manny.