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Wesley the Blue
Member
since 1999-09-02
Posts 426
Forest Lake, MN, USA

0 posted 2001-03-15 08:09 PM


At 25 Slate felt tired. Life had lost its spark oh intrigue and excitement. Living one monotonous day after another. He kept same routine throughout the week. Wake up at six every morning and catch the subway to the gym, work out for an hour, shower at the gym and get dressed and go to the office. He worked for a law firm downtown as a plaintiff’s attorney. He spent the bulk of his day either in the courtroom or working on cases in his cramped office on the twelfth floor of a giant sterile office complex. Every day he had lunch at an outdoor cafe a few blocks from the office. He always brought along his briefcase and was pouring over this document or that one, or scribbling furiously on a yellow legal pad. He was served by the same waitress everyday. He didn’t know her name, he had never bothered to ask, but he took a moment away from his work to smile at her when she delivered his food.

After lunch he would go back to the office or the courtroom and work late into the evening before catching the subway back to his one bedroom apartment. He usually picked up dinner on the way home, Chinese or something similar. Dinner at the apartment was the same as lunch, eaten while going over case information at the kitchen table. He almost never did anything but work. He was a good attorney, well on the way to making partner in the firm even at such a young age. He owned a TV but never watched it, the remote sat on the coffee table covered in dust from lack of use. The walls were hung with pictures and paintings that were never looked at. On the table next to the couch sat a telephone that never rang and nearby an answering machine that was never used. The whole apartment had an air of disuse in it.

Slate often worked long into the night at the kitchen table before going to bed. He never went out, his closet was completely devoid of casual clothes. It was filled with suits in several shades of blue and dress shirts. He owned a small number of workout clothes, but that was the extent of his wardrobe. He didn’t have any friends around town. All of his high school friends and college buddies had gone their separate ways and eventually fallen out of contact. Slate hadn’t had a date since before starting law school, he never had the time for a social life since starting at the firm.

He used to love his job, he felt like he was making a difference in some people’s lives. He would occasionally get a “get rich quick” case that left him feeling a little sick. Lately he was getting more and more cases that left him feeling ill. Maybe he was loosing his tolerance or maybe the world was changing, he didn’t enjoy it nearly as much anymore in any case. He was losing his faith in humanity.

For the most part he didn’t mind his life. He made a good living, lived in a good part of town and did a good job. He was missing something he knew, but he figured that when the time was right, it would present itself to him. Occasionally when working on a particularly nauseating case he would become disgusted and shove all of his papers to one side and put his head down on the kitchen table, feeling very alone and wondering what was going wrong with his life and the world in general.

It was one of those nights, the case he was working on was horrible, possibly the worst he had ever had to work on. The depth of human stupidity and greed never ceased to amaze him. He shoved the papers aside with a disgusted snarl and sat back in his chair. He could see into his living room from where he sat. A relic from his past leaned in the corner next to the window looking out on the street. A black guitar case cached in dust drew his attention. He wondered how long it had been since he had last picked up his guitar and played. He smiled sadly, remembering his college days and friends he had since lost track of. He turned off the light in the kitchen and shuffled down the hall to his bedroom, suddenly extremely tired.

The next day started out the same as the rest. He went to the gym and used the stationary bike for an hour, showered and then went to work. He spent the morning at the office, pouring over legal tomes, looking for case law that would help him win his current case. The image of his guitar leaning in the corner of his living room kept coming back to him. He left the office early for lunch, bringing his briefcase with him, hoping that a change of scenery would help him concentrate on his distasteful task.

He sat at the table of the outside café with his briefcase open and papers in front of him, but he wasn’t looking at them. He wasn’t even thinking about them. He was remembering some adventure he had had with his high school friends. He was startled from his reverie by the waitress.

“Are you ready to order?” Asked the waitress.

“Yeah.” Slate said, shaking the last of his daydream from his head.

“What will it be?” she asked.

“Grilled chicken sandwich and a sprite.”

She wrote on her little pad and turned to go.

“Wait.” He said, sitting up in his char and putting his hand on her arm to stop her from going.

“Change your mind?” she asked.

“Not exactly.” He said

“Well, what is it then?”

“Do you have a minute?”

She looked around. The café was virtually deserted at this time of day.

“I suppose I have a few minutes.”

“Please, will you have a seat?” Slate asked indicating the chair across the table from him.

She sat down on the edge of the chair, a little nervous. He looked into her eyes, deep pools of blue. He saw something in them that he had noticed in his own eyes that morning, a quiet resignation to the fates of the world. He was a little awestruck by her beauty. He had never noticed it before, too absorbed in his work. Her sparkling blue eyes were set in a creamy white face with fine features and framed by reddish blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail. There was something strangely familiar about her, and not just because she served him lunch every day, there was something else.

“Did you ever imagine that this is where you would end up?” He asked throwing out his arms palm upward indicating the little café.

She looked puzzled for an instant, she was used to the businessmen and professionals talking down to her and degrading the line of work she was in, but none of them had done it in this way before. “What’s that supposed to mean?” she asked defensively.

“Its not supposed to mean anything. I’m just asking if, when you were young and nieve, when your hopes and dreams were strong and the path clear, if this is where you saw yourself.”

There was a moment of silence. Both of them sat in quiet reflection. She spoke first.

“No, this isn’t where I dreamed I would end up,” sighing and falling back into the chair, “wasting my days working in a café, no, not at all.”

“Me neither. I mean I wanted to be an attorney, but this,” he picked up a folder from in front of him, “this is a bunch of crap.” He said with disgust and tossed the folder into his open briefcase. “I had hoped for so much more out of life than this, I wanted to make a difference.”

They sat together without talking for a little bit. “Ever think about running? Just picking up and going someplace new to start over?” she asked.

“Not really. Something like that has never been my style, but now I’m not sure I know what my style is, it’s been so long since I needed to have one.”

The café was filling up for the lunch hour rush. “I should get back to work. Its been nice talking to you.” She got up to leave, her slender frame moving gracefully.

“One more thing.” Slate said.

“What is that?”

“Your name, I don’t know it, but I’d like to.”

“Katrina.”

“Katrina, a very pretty name, it fits you well.” He said with a smile. “I’m Slate.”

She returned his smile. “Well, Slate, I should really get back to work.” The place was hopping. She smiled at him again, a slight twinkle in her eyes and went back to work. He sat there for a little while longer, then getting up and closing his briefcase and leaving, forgetting about his lunch.

He went back to his office but couldn’t work. He was preoccupied with Katrina and his thoughts about where he wished he would have ended up. He left the office early and went back to his apartment. Late in the afternoon the skies had gotten dark and over cast and it was storming when Slate arrived at his apartment. He was dripping wet. He hung his coat in the entryway and threw his keys on the little table next to the door. He went into the kitchen and set his briefcase on the table. He was about to open it but he stopped. He stood there thinking. He didn’t open the briefcase, instead he took of his tie and suit coat and put them on the back of the chair at the table. He then went into the living room and walked over to the corner to where his guitar was collecting dust.

On the shelf just to the side of where the guitar was leaning was a stack of old spiral bound notebooks, more relics from his past. He picked one of them up and opened it. There, in his chicken scratch writing was the beginning of a story he has started long ago. He flipped through the pages filled with stories and poetry. He read some that he didn’t remember, others he mouthed without looking at any more than the first few lines. He put the first notebook on the coffee table and picked up another one. This one too was filled with the same stuff. Words and phrases from the past. He put that one on the table as well and picked up another one. This one had words and chords and rhythms in it, it was an original songbook that he had written. Slate put that notebook down on the table, open and went into the kitchen and grabbed a chair.

He took the guitar out of the corner and put it on the couch. He brushed some of the dust off of the case and opened it. Inside was his guitar. The top was a light reddish color, the sides were dark brown and the fingerboard was made out of ebony. He had forgotten what a beautiful instrument it was, a graduation gift from friends long forgotten. He took it out of the case carefully, like it was made out of the frailest glass. He grabbed a pick out of the case before he closed it. He moved over to the chair he had brought out of the kitchen.

He took his time tuning the guitar. He then played the first chord of the song on the page of the notebook in front of him. He played the next chord, it seemed a little foreign to him, but he continued. With each chord a little bit came back to him. Soon he was humming the words along with the chords. The power went out due to the storm outside, but he didn’t need the lights anymore, he knew the chords and the words by heart. The storm raged outside and Slate raged inside, pouring himself into the music and getting lost in memories of his youth.

He played long into the night, long after his fingers were begging him to quit. He went to bed exhausted. He slept like a baby that night. He skipped the gym the next morning, getting ready in his apartment and heading to the office. He spent the morning half-heartedly preparing for court in the afternoon.

When he arrived in the courtroom his client was there waiting for him at the table. Slate didn’t say a word as he sat down. He just opened his briefcase and made it look like he was getting ready. The opposing council came into the courtroom and then a few odd spectators and witnesses that would be called. Soon the judge walked in and things got started. It was the defenses turn to present their side of the case. They called a few witnesses that provided character testimony for the defendant. Then they called the defendant himself. Slate was thoroughly disgusted with the case, he was representing a sleaze ball trying to get rich off of his own stupid act by suing someone else. The opposing council went through the direct examination of the defendant and sat down. The judge asked if Slate had any questions for the witness. He stood up like he was going to ask questions, but instead he walked to the middle of the courtroom and started walking towards the doors in the back. Every one was stunned. The plaintiff sat flabbergasted.

“You can’t get up and leave.” The plaintiff protested.

“Why not?” Slate asked over his shoulder.

“What am I going to do without you? I’m not a lawyer.”

Slate turned and with an air of disgust said, “Try telling the truth for a change and taking responsibility for your own stupidity, you might be surprised how far it gets you.” With that he turned back to the doors and stormed out, leaving his briefcase sitting on the table.

He went back to his apartment. He grabbed his guitar and the notebooks and took a key off of its hook in the closet that hadn’t been used in a long time. He went down to the garage under the apartment complex and walked to the back of the parking area. He stopped behind a car under a canvas cover and put the guitar and the notebooks on the ground and removed the cover from the car. Underneath was one final relic of his past. A dark blue Pontiac GTO convertible with red leather seats. He put down the top of the car and threw his guitar and notebooks in the back seat. He jumped into the drivers seat and put the key in the ignition.

The car started with a throaty growl. Not like new cars make, but one filled with the sounds of power. He backed out of the parking spot, leaving the cover laying on the ground, he wasn’t going to need it again. He left the garage and drove downtown. He enjoyed the feel of the wind in his hair as he drove. He ditched his tie and unbuttoned the top button of his shirt. He stopped on the street at the outdoor café where he usually ate lunch. Katrina was serving an older couple their lunch. When she finished with them she turned to go back inside.

“Katrina!” Slate yelled.

She turned with a look of surprise. “Slate. What are you doing here?”

“Remember what we talked about yesterday?”

“Yes, why?”

“Its now or never, Katrina.”

“Now or never for what?”

“A new start, I’m leaving town, you can join me if you would like.”

She thought for a moment. Did she really want to give it all up to go with this person she had just met yesterday. Then she figured what the hell, she didn’t have anything to lose. She took of her apron with her note pad for taking orders and tossed it on the side walk. She climbed in and they smiled at each other. He put the car in gear and with a hearty grumble they were off, down the road to a new day, a new place and new dreams.


every day is a new day with which we can change the world

© Copyright 2001 Keith W. Mullin - All Rights Reserved
Dawn Eclipse
Senior Member
since 2000-01-31
Posts 637
The Horsehead Nebula
1 posted 2001-03-15 08:39 PM


Nice ideas Keith. It's horrible how our society can act, at it's worst. You made a nice showing of it.

"Forget regret, or life is yours to miss. No other course, no other way... No day but today"
~Broadway Musical RENT~

*Cassandra Roseen*


coyote
Senior Member
since 2001-03-17
Posts 1077

2 posted 2001-03-20 11:21 PM


Strange but true, this is basically how my wife and I met, and began living together many years ago?!
Of course I wasn't a lawyer, and it was in a small town rather than the city. She was a waitress though, and the love was, and still is in many ways, just as spontaneous.
Good writing Keith with good continuity.

"The poet is the priest of the invisible."
Wallace Stevens

Wesley the Blue
Member
since 1999-09-02
Posts 426
Forest Lake, MN, USA
3 posted 2001-03-21 01:19 AM


Cass~ thanks for the reply, I can always count on you for some kind words.

Coyote~ thank you for reading, Im glad you enjoyed it. Ive found that love is spontanious too. Thanks again.

Keith

every day is a new day with which we can change the world

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