It was a morning. Not the early morning of beautiful sunrises peeking at you from above the tops of mountains; not the kind you read about in romance novels. The kind of morning with just that certain gloom to it, what with the creepy, seemingly-blue fog and all, that just puts a damper in your day. Just another morning.
This is how the first day of the rest of my life began. My life had become routine after routine after routine, constantly repeating itself in such a fashion that let's you know then and there that your life is not a T.V. program in some alternate universe: no one wants to watch the utter mundanity you call life, which, by the way, is too short to spend your time moping about, feeling sorry for yourself. That morning, I realized all of this, and with that epiphany, I started my day fresh and my life anew.
Walking outside, I could see that the dew from the night had not yet even begun to go to wherever that place is that morning-dew goes. Trudging through the jungle of grass and minor shrubbery between my house and what I would like to call a car (but would be more accurately described as a rusty, broken-down, formerly-recognizable-as-some-sort-of-automobile-but-now-just-a-huge-chunk-of-metal) I glanced out of the front screen (past the huge shattering from where some of the kids in the neighborhood decided it would be a good idea to throw rocks at) and thought to myself, "It truly is a great day to be alive."
* * *
I used to work at a place called Projects, Inc. Quite inconspicuous. A company called Projects, Inc. could manufacture just about any thing. In this case, we produce twist-ties. Yes... the annoying little bastards you tend to lose after opening an already-stale loaf of bread. We make those. Shoot me now. But that is not the only thing we produce, oh no... we also make toothbrushes, razor-handles, cheap Burger-King toys that your children make you spend a fortune on just to get the right one, just about anything you can think of that requires plastic and a minimal amount of metal. High aspirations, eh?
Well this was to be the end of that. The new, hopefully-improved Me refused to allow himself to aim for such low standards. The new Me realizes that he is the master of his own destiny (even despite the nagging little voice in the back of his head reminding him of the time he spent nearly an hour lying in bed trying to trick himself into opening his eyes, pondering if it was Fate deciding it was time or if it truly was his own free will -- in the end Fate seemed to hold out since the phone rang, and trying to find it with your eyes closed is quite hazardous to your health).
"Hi, Boss. I quit."
"Oh. That's nice, Kid. By the way, I need these delivered to Management. Could you see that they get there, please?"
"But, sir..."
"Thanks, you're a doll." And that with a wink and a stern look that said quite plainly, Get out of my office before I throw you out bodily.
So much for Master of my own destiny. I delivered the paperwork to the correct party and spend the next, oh, perhaps thirty seconds wondering what I should do then. I opted to walk out of the place, and, what are they going to do to me for it? Fire me? So I turned on my heel and walked out the door.
...Or, I would have if Tom, my co-worker, hadn't spilt coffee all over himself (clumsy fool), and, after uttering a rather appropriate explicative, asked me to go get something to clean it off with. Not bothering to express my annoyance at his horrible timing, I walked over to the bathroom to get some paper towels to clean it up with. On the way, the boss saw me again and called me to his office.
"Have you delivered the papers yet, Son?"
Don't call me 'Son', you senile old crackpot. "Yes, I have, sir."
"Very good. What are you doing out wandering the halls then?"
"Well, you see, Tom..."
"That's good, Slick. Could you go fetch my secretary, for me? I think she has wandered off the premises again. Something about quitting... don't worry, Son, she does this about once a week, and hasn't quit yet. In fact, every time this happens she seems to get more enthusiastic about working under me, if you know what I mean." The old cook even had the audacity to give me a knowing wink and a grin that he must have thought passed for reassuring but I just found creepy.
"Yes, sir. I'll go find her, sir."
I hate my life.
* * *
When I finally managed to track down the young broad that the boss had hired several months ago, it was by sheer chance that I recognized her (or found her for that matter -- I was coming out of the rest room for Tom, he still hadn't gotten any help cleaning that mess up) -- her hair was all tangled and blocking her face. I didn't want to know why.
"The old fart wants you."
"Again?"
"Yeah, something about your enthusiasm levels at work."
"Oh," and she must have known what I was talking about because her face was suddenly split in a grin.
"You look sad. Want me to help cheer you up?" winking.
"No, thanks. I've got to get these towels to Tom. Poor guy spilled coffee all over his pants again."
At that point the door to the Lady's room opened and, lo and behold, there was Tom, all red-faced and excited to get back to work shifting paper clips and avoiding warm beverages.
"I, uh, already helped him. Seems he burned his legs pretty badly.
"Well, that's good," I tell them, not really caring. "I was just on my way out, anyways. I quit this job. I'm going on a trip. Going to see the world."
Famous last words.
* * *
I made it to my car. Finally. People are bothersome creatures, you know that? Doesn't matter now though. On the road again... all that jazz.
...
Not really. Not quite as exciting as I thought it would be. No hard rock playing in the background to inspire the protagonist (that would be me) to keep on going; no voice in the back of my mind pointing out that the wind from my smashed window is in my face as I fly down the road at eighty miles per hour in my Dodge(r) Viper(tm) with a hot babe screaming in the passenger's seat for me to go faster. In reality, my stereo was on the fritz; the piece of garbage I was driving only thought it was a viper; and the stack of porno in the passenger's seat didn't have a hot babe in the bunch of them... well, the third one from the top wasn't so bad if you looked at her side-ways with your eyes squinted....
Eyes back on the road before this rusted piece of metal decides to try and become a tin-can, fusing with one of many cars ahead of me. But I made a note to myself to drop by the first car-dealership I find and buy a car that can move faster than 40mph without stuttering to a dead-halt.
Speak of the devil, there's a place that looks promising. Big Al's Autimo-beels. Okay. Wrong place. Thank you for your time.
Just driving in circles at this point -- and wanting a car that wouldn't explode with me in it before I drove onto the freeway -- there were a few dealerships around but none that caught my eye. Except one. Beautiful foliage surrounding the place and the SUV's out front actually shine in the sunlight. Amazing.
I stepped out of the car and this drop-dead gorgeous blonde chick comes up to me, and says with more syrup in her voice than you could squeeze out of half a dozen bottles of Aunt Jemima's. "Is there any thing in particular you are looking for," she paused for dramatic effect it seemed, as she gave me a measuring look and tossed her hair. "Or are you just looking around?" We made some idle chit-chat, looked at a few cars, all of which I declined. After awhile she looked at me curiously and asked me how much money I was looking to pay for a car. When I told her, she walked -- no, more like sauntered -- off and started to help another customer. I let myself out.
Third try's the charm. Shortly after, I saw another promising dealership. Had a decent looking lot, and the guy that ran the joint didn't smell too bad. Another plus was the fact that the sign advertising their shop actually spelled 'automobiles' correctly.
I walked into the store; a guy comes up to me and asks if I want to see a car. I tell him how much I was looking to pay; he says he has the perfect thing. Not a bad-looking car; I take it. "Badda-boom, badda-bing, the deal is done," as he put it, his voice dripping with a Bronxian accent so thick you could lean against it.
The car was a 2001 Miata, not perfect condition but it would hit VG condition on most standards. $13,000, not that many miles on it. A bargain. Guy even dropped a grand of the price since I gave him the old hunk of metal I was driving. Said he could make that much from selling it for scrap. So we're talking $12k total. I'm impressed. Drive it off the lot; he says he'll bill me the paper work. Badda-boom badda-bing.
Get this... the stereo works. Lucky bastard.
I crank it up and it starts spewing loud, semi-angry music at me (Creed, "Beautiful" for anyone that knows the song. It's at that bit where they are repeating [Beautiful] "Stripped me" several times with an awesome guitar rift in the background). Wow. Too loud, even for me, so I turned down the speakers. Took my eyes off the road for a second, trying to figure out which button does what. Big mistake. Some lady (at this point I had only received a glimpse of her) wearing jogging pants. That's all I could see behind the imaginary 'Tomorrow's News' with headlines saying "Sociopath rocking out to homicidal music kills Granny crossing the street." Just what I needed.
I even debated whether I should just keep on driving. To hell with her, I could remove most of the forensics with some ammonia and a re-paint. No one would miss little ol' Granny Yee-haw. But -- no. I couldn't bring myself to do it. Instead I stepped outside of the car, and lucky me that I did. It wasn't an old lady, as I had originally assumed by the simple fact she was out jogging at this time in the morning. In fact the woman was about 5'6, 5'7, with long, caramel-colored hair and the prettiest blue-green eyes you ever saw. $%&!. I wasn't sure if she was dead though, it looked like her chest was moving up and down slightly (and believe you me, I was definitely paying attention -- I had even considered C.P.R.). "Are you okay?" I nearly jumped out of my $%&!ing skin. She was asking me if I was okay as if she had run over me. Oi!
"Yeah, I'm fine. Are you okay?"
