I am like a worm that crawls through the dust,
lives in the dust and feeds on the dust,
until the traveler's foot crushes and bury him
(Philip K. Dick, "Through a Glass Darkly")
Z. was almost finished with his cigarette when the bus arrived. Without a second thought, he tossed the burning one into the trash can. It didn't even cross his mind that it was reckless, that what was inside might catch fire, that... Such talk held little interest for him at the moment. Srututu, which he didn't have time to deal with right now. He was in a hurry. Damn it. Eight-twenty. Being late for work was already a fact. Unless the bus could make the trip in ten minutes, but that would require a much different machine, one not unlike this vehicle. It usually took him about half an hour, so he shouldn't count on a miracle. Oh well, thought Z. Nothing bad would happen. He'd always been punctual before. Today, it just worked out that way. Never mind. Others do it all the time, and it never caused a fuss. There's always an excuse, and there's nothing to complain about. Maybe it's better to stop poisoning yourself unnecessarily? Z. couldn't care less. But he didn't. He cared. He absolutely hated explaining things. And now he had to prepare for it, trying to come up with something. Such lying had never been his strong suit. The worst was when that stupid boss's best friend happened to show up. A complete inspector and a wire. He hated her. She loved knowing everything and everyone. What? Who? Where? When? How? She certainly filled out that form meticulously every day. Under the guise of innocent chit-chat, she spied wherever she could, wherever she could. Know as much as possible and know how to use that information. That was her motto. People were afraid of her because she had caused more than one person trouble. And after all, she was only (or maybe even) a secretary. Z. tried to limit all contact with her to the bare minimum, with varying degrees of success. He hadn't (yet) had any negatives with the boss, but a few times he'd almost said too much in front of that woman. Thinking about all this, Z. hadn't noticed that the bus had been parked for a while. When he did, he was very surprised. The bus's parking spot didn't even remotely resemble a bus stop or anywhere else where buses usually stopped. No red light, no traffic jam. He looked around. He thought the other passengers would also feel some anxiety, that they would be nervous about it. Where... Everyone sat quietly. As if nothing had happened. A terribly fat woman sitting across from him was engrossed in an article in some rag magazine about Michael Jackson's affair with a Katarzyna Figura clone. To his right, a couple of teenagers were passionately kissing, fidgeting and jostling each other terribly. Somewhere, someone was talking. The characteristic comma "fuck" was discernible in their gibberish, hardly a sign of nervousness. A long-haired guy was listening to some rock on his Walkman, and in the distance an old lady was reading a book. Peace. Bliss.He felt like he was watching a modern-day version of "The Fall of Icarus." Something strange was happening, and these people didn't care at all. He didn't budge. He got up from his seat and walked toward the driver's cabin. There was no one inside. He turned around and asked:
"Where's the driver?"
Silence. No one even looked in his direction. He repeated louder:
"Where's the driver?!
" "He's gone!" screeched the golden-toothed grandmother. "A young gentleman, and already blind?
" "But why?! Why?! Where... The bus has to...
" "You don't have to do anything, golden one, you don't have to do anything. Why are you so inquisitive? It's his business. He's gone, and that's it.
" "What?! To the kiosk..." he trailed off. "...but...
" "Yeah! Dude!" the man sitting next to the old woman chimed in. "Looking for trouble? Don't whine!"
The guy didn't look friendly. His red, sunburnt, swollen face suggested hard work over a glass. Despite everything, Z. didn't give up:
"...but the bus has to go on... I'm already late..."
he fumed. "And this one again! It has to, it has to, it has to... Go to mommy!" Hee, hee, hee – the old woman's laughter, revealing her rather sparse and mostly gold teeth, was like an asthma attack. "You should have left home earlier, little one!"
Smiles spread across the faces of the passengers watching the situation. They were quite amused by the situation. Z. didn't want to say anything more. He didn't know what to do next. Absurd. A dream. Then he noticed a young boy walking towards him. He was holding a can of beer in his hand.
"Are you coming or not?"
He was stunned.
"If not, then step aside!"
The boy pushed past him. He opened the door to the driver's cab and stepped inside. The bus moved off. It's hard to describe what Z. was feeling. He couldn't comprehend what was happening around him. He wondered whether to get off at the next stop. He glanced at his watch. It was already after nine. Slightly resigned, he returned to his seat. He was over an hour late. Entering the company building, he pondered the explanation. The situation was so absurd and bizarre that he didn't quite know what to say. No one would believe him. The bus had simply broken down. The standard. That excuse was probably the best. Nervously, he took the elevator up. Such a start to the day didn't exactly inspire optimism for the rest of it. Z. wasn't wrong in his feelings. In the room where he usually worked—his studio—a surprise awaited him. A woman sat behind his desk. A pretty woman. A beautiful piece of art, indeed. But so what? He didn't know her. He didn't recall anyone mentioning the new employee, or that someone was now working with him. An assistant? Z., however, had no trouble recognizing the documents lying on the desk, on which the woman was currently writing. These were his projects. His life's work, his hope for a bright future. The fruit of several months of sacrifice, dozens of sleepless nights, and liters of coffee. And now some woman was scribbling on them with a red pen. He closed the door with a bang. She looked at him:
"Good morning, sir! What's your problem? Can I help you with something? Are you looking for someone?"
She was incredibly nice and polite. Even charming. But Z. took this as rudeness and insolence:
"Nothing and no one!!!" he thundered. "What are you doing here? What are you doing?! Who gave you access to these projects?!"
"I don't understand you," she said calmly and smiled. "There must be some mistake. Maybe you've got the wrong floor?!
"Don't be so insolent!! I don't want anyone messing around like that in my workplace!"
She looked at him, horrified. She really didn't seem to understand what he meant.
"You're being rude! I think I'll have to call security if you don't leave immediately...
" "I'll leave! I'll leave! But I'll be right back. Then you'll be singing a different tune, you bitch!
" "Don't threaten me, you bastard!" she snapped back. He
slammed the door. His steps were heading towards his boss's office. Shaken, he didn't knock. He entered. Leaning over the secretary typing something on the computer was X., the man he wanted to talk to. Before the other could react to his sudden appearance in the room, Z. blurted out,
"What the hell is going on here?! "
Where?! What do you mean, what?!?" When asked, he couldn't hide his surprise.
"There's some stupid brat sitting in my room, destroying my designs." The circumstances completely justified his verbal insubordination.
"She's not some stupid brat, but a very talented girl with promising futures as an excellent architect. These aren't your designs, but the companies, and she took over the work on them. Oh... and this isn't your room, it's hers. Do you understand?!
Shock.
"Yaaa... how is that even possible?!!" He was having trouble speaking.
"I think I explained everything clearly and lucidly?!
"Am I to understand that I no longer work here?" He didn't believe what he was saying or hearing.
"You understand correctly. You've always been intelligent." Anything else?
- But what right?! Why?!
X. glanced at the clock hanging on the wall.
- It's ten. What time does work start?
- And just like that... right away...
- Uhm... This is a serious company. You come to work here. This isn't your aunt's party you can be late for. Goodbye.
It was a clear suggestion that he should leave. He knew he probably wouldn't get anywhere. He was depressed. Once outside, he lit a cigarette. He inhaled deeply. Noise. Chaos. He couldn't concentrate. He knew that what was happening, or rather, what had happened so far, wasn't a dream. It was reality. A sick, fucking reality. What to do now? He was suffering from a complete lack of brilliant ideas and concepts. Yet his profile clearly stated: creative, distinguished by highly developed abstract thinking, possessed the ability to cope with crisis situations. And yet, no. Now it all went to hell. The con artist who created this profile hadn't anticipated such extreme circumstances. He'd messed it up. Bus, work. A little or a lot? What else?! He needed to get going. He stubbed out his cigarette and lit another. He decided to go home for now and process it all there. Maybe call Y., his girlfriend? Uh... No. Not yet. He had plenty of time to think along the way. He hadn't considered taking public transportation. Walking. There had to be some sense in all of this. Even the slightest. He couldn't function otherwise. It had to be based on foundations. But what kind? A world without sense? Decline? A world without sense is a meaningless statement. Absurd thoughts raced through his head. He was having terrible trouble sorting out this mess. He was suddenly interrupted by three teenagers who had accosted him on the street.
"What, you jerk?" asked the toothless one, with a shaved head and red tracksuits—"NIKE."
He didn't answer. The other two looked. Their "uniforms" were different colors: green and blue. He tried to avoid them.
"Fuck! I'm talking to you, you wimp!" the same one said again.
Z. continued to push forward. Then one of them grabbed his arm from behind, the other swept his legs from under him. Z. fell facedown on the ground. He tasted blood in his mouth. They pinned him down. He broadcast in one voice:
"You're not talking to us, you fucker? Are you running away?! Do you have any money?!
This time they didn't wait for an answer. They quickly searched him. They took what they found. Before leaving, they "farewelled" him with a series of kicks to the ribs. After a moment, Z. stood up. Two men were walking past him. They looked reasonable.
"Gentlemen! I've been attacked! There they are!" He staggered, pointing at the barely visible figures.
"Aha... Did they steal something?
" Z. began rummaging through his pockets.
"Money, documents...
" "Do you have anything left?!
"I think so..." He pulled a few crumpled banknotes from his side pocket.
"Then give it to me!
" Z. didn't move.
"I thought...
" "Don't think! Give it to me!"
The man attacked him. He punched him in the stomach. He tore the money from his hand. Z., already weak, fell, stunned.
"Thanks, loser!" Z., the thief, said to the fallen, writhing man, who was writhing in pain. He walked away with his companion. He was dizzy. He didn't know how long he'd been lying on the sidewalk. None of the passersby took any notice of him. When the shock began to wear off, he stood up. With difficulty. He felt sick. He felt like he was about to throw up. The taste of dried blood. Trouble keeping his balance. Muscles ached. He felt terrible. He was crying. Tears welled up in his eyes. He trudged home. He looked like the worst thug after a drunken brawl. Thoughts. Thousands of thoughts. Noise. Screaming, screaming. Single words, discernible from the chaos. Formlessness. Transience. Everything and nothing. Everything except one thought, which represented a specific idea. He'd had enough. Suicide. The deep depression he was in was the perfect setting for it. He didn't hesitate. He didn't think twice about how he would do it. In the bathroom, he pulled a box of razor blades from the cabinet. And a pack of those wonderful pills that, as the doctor used to say, "The world will become a better place..." If he took ten instead of one, it would become downright PARADISE! He turned on the tap and began running water into the bathtub...
A bell. One. Two. Three. The clatter of keys. Z. was still conscious enough to realize it was Y. He was lying in a bathtub filled with water mixed with blood. A pale body in red soup. He made the connection and nothing more. He had no strength left. Footsteps. The bathroom door opened. The outline of a figure. Indistinct. It must be Y. It was darkening.
"Are you dying?! Ha, ha, ha..." Her voice was cheerful. "Are you sure you're dying?! You're not kidding me?! Ha, ha, ha...
" The body closed its eyes. It could no longer see, because it saw nothing. Y. was crying. She was crying with laughter.
"Life is beautiful!" Ha, ha... I'll take your computer, okay?! And the stereo. Oh! You have so many CDs... Ha, ha, ha...
Only torn, jagged fragments reached the body. Fading:
- Haaaa... Haaaa.... Chhhhhhaaaaaa... Hah... ..................................
She didn't ask what would happen to the apartment.
Brak komentarzy:
Prześlij komentarz