The remainder of Jerry’s day went much like any other. He totaled three hours and fifteen minutes of productive number crunching, fifteen minutes of pointless daydreaming, roughly twenty-nine minutes of shit-shooting with Danny (largely concerned with lowness of the new secretary’s blouse and the Rangers’ chances in the playoffs), and a minute refilling his coffee. At five o’clock he left the office exhausted and generally dispirited. It had not been a terrible day itself, rather the mundaneness of his day-to-day routine for a whole year without break had worn him down. There was no comfort in numbers. No comfort in interpreting the vast quantities of data representing the wellness of thousands of subjects. He couldn’t even be too sure of the effectiveness of his job. Where was the general improvement in the average person’s life since the inception of triple H? He saw nothing to give him hope. He tried to push it out of his mind, but negativity is so persistent. It slips into one’s mind any moment the defenses are down. The only way to keep its attacks at bay is to actively remain focused on the better things. Jerry tried this tactic, but quickly wearied, and the negativity assumed control.
He exited the building and walked the short distance to the 5th Avenue station, where he took the train only a few stops to Times Square, where he sat waiting, waiting longer, and waiting still for the next train to take him home. If there was ever anything to cap off a shitty day, Jerry believed, it was being stuck in the station waiting on the last train to complete the journey home. These stations were a miracle of science; they were completely incapable of maintaining a comfortable, livable temperature. In the summer time they boiled the temporary inhabitants. In the winter they preserved the commuters in a near cryogenic frost. In spring and in fall it was a toss-up, but regardless, one was never comfortable. On this particular rainy, spring day, it was unbearably humid, and the clothing which served to protect him from the elements outside, now merely served to encase him in a thin layer of sweat inside the too-warm subway station.
The holographic television screens, which had been installed in the stations in recent years in order to further saturate the daily commuter with even more advertisements, pointless news and mindless attempts at humor, added to Jerry’s exhaustion. A teaser for the local news: tonight, are we on the verge of an epidemic? More on the drug that could keep your family safe; an ad for a sitcom: tomorrow night on Doctors Without Borders, Cheryl finds out that Roger has been cheating on her with the cleaning lady, and she starts fucking the groundskeeper out of revenge—hilarity ensues when the Chief of Medicine tries to fire all four of them for engaging in an orgy in an operating room in the middle of surgery (not suitable for children under the age of six); a feminine hygiene product: now introducing scented pads with TomPads’ patented Phero-Cast™ system—make your man go crazy, while you go crazy!
Finally, his ear detected something more pleasant further down the platform and he instinctively followed it as a hungry man would follow the scent of an operating kitchen. He came upon the soft spot of the advertisement saturation. In this kind nook, the deafening nonsense was at its quietest. It was a sweet escape, but not for silence. There was something far sweeter. A man, not much younger than our own protagonist, perhaps just out of college, was performing something mildly exotic, beautiful and improvised on his cello. Jerry stood entranced by the soothing timbre and melody, reminding him of beauty.
He closed his eyes and let the somnambulant tones drift through his head, entering through the ears and caressing the nerve tissue down his spinal column and easing each inch of his body as they crept slowly through. For just a moment he neglected his anxiety and inner tension. He forgot about the errors in his last quarterly report and his boss creeping behind him and breathing down his neck. The caked salt of sweat on his arms could not interrupt his sleep-walking dream of living sound comforting him the way no woman ever had been able to. But daydreams too have their limitations, and he thought of his wife, whom he missed, and now he wished again to be home as soon as possible. On cue, the 1 train came to take him away from this fleeting bliss. He smiled at the young cellist, tipped him a dollar and boarded the train. Just then ending the piece, the busker returned the smile and gave a grateful thumbs-up.
The train reached the end of the line. Jerry disembarked and headed to his apartment in the West Bronx. The spring air was still humid, though the rain had subsided. The walk from here was not as convenient as the walk from the station to work, but he often enjoyed the therapeutic quality of a leisurely walk after a day of work. It allowed him to decompress in between the claustrophobia inducing stress of the subway and the stress of family at home. After casually strolling the several blocks en route to his apartment, enjoying the scenery of urban life all around him, he reached his steps and entered the building. He was immediately greeted by an increasingly familiar voice, “Good evening and welcome home, Mr Blauer, would you like to hear your news this evening?” It was the building’s new doorman. Or I suppose doorbot is a better term. Or maybe door-sentient-programming….Nonetheless the rental company had splurged and purchased a Quantum Tech customizable security system, complete with tenant personalization and fingerprinting technology. It was a fine substitute for a doorman, and in the long-run it was cheaper than the labor. Its particularly tempting feature was its analysis of all of the tenant’s interests and activities, which it used to produced marvelously apt small talk—mostly discussing the news of the day, in which the tenant would show the most interest, depending on his statistics.
“Not today. I’ve had enough news for tonight.” He replied as he scanned his finger and entered the second door. “Good night, Andy.” All of Quantum Tech’s security systems were named Andy.
“And good night to you too, sir. Until the morning.”
Cheers,
The Flying Dutchman.
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