Meaning

Rojan Codac put his hand onto the window and admired the city lights below him. It left a sparkling outline of precipitation on the cool glass. The view was deathly high. The blue moon light reflected his face back to him. He admired it for a second. Wrinkles carved deep into his brow, each one telling a different story of woe and anxiety. His pale, almost sickly skin reflected how he had slaved away, never stopping to admire the sunlight. The gray of his hair showed how he had relentlessly met every deadline, until all the color was drained from his head.  Is that what people saw? A pale, tired man, overcompensating his insecurities with baggy business suits and meaningless plaques. That wasn’t true. It couldn’t be true. He opened up the sliding glass door and stepped onto the balcony. 

The cool breeze ruffled his hair, and the gel that so strictly held each strand in its assigned place slipped for just a second. The breeze reached his scalp and Rojan shivered at the feeling. The sounds of the city filled his ears. The honking horns, the yelling, the traffic. It felt like empty space. Sounds meant to mask the overall meaninglessness of it all. Meaningless people, going around, completing meaningless tasks, and overall living meaningless lives. He didn’t want to be one of them. 

Rojan stepped back from the ledge. The floorboards squeaked as his leather loafers dragged across the floor and to the artisan crafted cabinet that held his expensive liquors. He pulled out Four Roses. A good brand, cheap, before bourbon hit idiocy to all the millennials. Now, only affordable for the upper middle class. Rojan grabbed a pair of tongs and loaded ice cubes into his glass. Real, square ice cubes that were meant for gentlemen that could afford square cubes. Not loafers using Frigidaire freezers, that cut perfect anatomical banana shaped cubes.  He unscrewed the lid and poured the golden liquid into the glass. He smiled at the crackling sound.

The burning liquid trickled down his throat. The heat spread from the thick tangle of his vocal chords to his flat, malnourished chest. Rojan crushed it. It wasn’t enough. He grabbed the bottle and glass and made his way to his desk. A burnt oak desk cast in a blue hue epoxy. He had them trickle golden veins that were melted down from his dead mother's jewelry, a talking piece, nonetheless.  He slumped down into the rolling leather chair and poured another.

Papers lay stacked in organized little piles that invaded the corners of his desk. They all gave him a deadline to be conquered and a goal that needed to be accomplished. Stuff that made his life matter. He sipped. He reached into his pocket and grasped at his phone. The facial recognition technology unlocked. He swiped until he found his contacts. His fingers poked at the many names in front of him and he found the one he was looking for. He pressed on the glowing screen and brought the phone to his ear. The phone rang once, and then twice, and then a third. Rojan thought it was going to make it to the dial tone. Then he picked up. 

“Hey Dad,” Rojan spoke into the phone.

“Hey,” the gruff voice replied back.

A short pause rang the air with nothingness.

“So uhh,” Rojan spoke, “What have you been up to?”

“Same old same old.” He said, “And you?”

“I’ve just been working.”

“Good boy.”

Rojan finished his glass of Four Roses.

“I just won a new award.” Rojan whispered, “The Business Excellence of America award.”

“Did you win anything else?”

The question hung in the air for a second. Rojan filled another glass of four Roses. His ice cubes were melting. 

“No.” 

“Your mother would be proud.” He said flatly, “I need to get going. Call me if you need me.”

“Okay, I’ll talk to you sometime so-”

The line cut. Rojan downed his glass. He would get more than one award next time. He would have them all. He scrolled through his phone again. Looking for a different name this time. He took another sip. 

The line rang. She answered. 

“Rojan,” the woman on the other side answered, “What do you need?”

“She’s gonna spend the summer at my house, right?”

“That’s the plan,” she grunted, “That’s always been the plan.”

He chugged the rest of his glass down. The ice cubes melted down to almost nothing. He poured yet another.

“I just got a pool,” he said, “just for her. It’s beautiful. Got it built by a master craftsman. Best in town. Cost me a fortune.”

“That’s nice.” she said, “but is there a reason you called?”

“Yeah, tell her she can bring a friend.” He mumbled. 

“Okay. Is that all?”

A silence hung in the air. He swigged the rest of his drink. 

“No.” 

Another silence.

His words slurred, “I’m the winner, and you're the loser.” 

He glanced at his phone. She had hung up. 

Rojan stared into his empty glass and watched the rest of his ice cubes melt away. Why hadn’t he gotten more than one award? He massaged his temples. It didn’t matter. The real question was: how could he ensure that he won more next year? The pile of papers stacked near him grew in size. The deadlines closed in, suffocating his time completely. He reached for the Bourbon and raised his glass to fill it. The ice cubes were gone. A real gentleman drinks bourbon with ice cubes. 

He threw his glass across the room. Sparkling shards flew up, dancing in the moonlight before his eyes. Rojan grabbed the Bourbon and sucked the golden liquid greedily. He stumbled his way across the room and to the balcony. The lights of the city illuminated his tomato face. He spit at it. Of all the places in the Universe to land, he ended up here. How come he wasn’t a tiger, or a panda, or a sloth? They didn't have to worry about deadlines. They didn’t have to make a difference.

Rojan Codak stumbled his way up the balcony rail and stood before the world. He took a deep breath. The breeze whipped his tailored business suit around him. City lights sparkled below, calling out to be touched with a sympathetic hand. The honking horns sang of his victory. Everything seemed perfect. He jumped. 

The air whistled loudly in his ear. His tie seemed to stroke his face, wiping the sweat and tears from his eyes. His death would mean something. It had too. He was not meaningless. He would die celebrated!

SPLAT