The Day Job – A Writer’s Malady

I step outside and drag a blade of cold air into my lungs.   5:35 AM.   In two hours, I’ll sit at my desk, wait for my laptop to boot up and stare at the pictures, the papers, the brown ring left behind from last week’s coffee. In two hours, I’ll return to the place where, if I choose, I’ll remain until social security forces me to keep working. And I’ll come back again. Dead man working, empty coffin waiting.

Minutes ago, I feigned sound sleep. Couldn’t get comfortable all night long and, through the black, the clock’s bloody numbers seeped past my peripheral, pooled into my direct line of sight, and the time shimmered with chuckles. The morning guffawed at my restlessness and squealed at the stroke of 5:30 AM. Our dog waited in his crate, ready to get going. My body rose, a long sigh lifted my weight from the bed and, between encrusted blinks, we began the ritual.

The wind pumps life into my nerves, previously dulled by insomnia, shocked and frayed now, electrocuted by this damn cold. Mid-September in south New Jersey. Summer refuses to linger; when it goes, its out and you hope for its return. That and the dark reminds me of Bill Withers as the dog tugs, circles, stops and surveys the scenery, then crouches to urinate.

A field, for any other name eludes me, separates two parking lots. Wind sweeps through the low-cut lawn, mowed seventeen hours earlier. Twenty minutes. I unlock the retractable leash and let him run, sniff grass, eat it and putter around the light pole. I try to remain vigilant, on the lookout for rabbits and squirrels and other woodland creatures that’ll stir his ire.

Before long, I look upward and note the transformative fade from black to purple. I should write about it, I think to myself. And I think about the time. The year. The past. Writers before me. And question if I have anything worthwhile to add to the ubiquitous subject of sunrises. In other words, I wonder if I have something new to say. More to the point, I conspire with self-doubt to sabotage my thought process. Long story short, I psyche myself out and begin the traverse to a new topic.

He sits on command and I stroke his black fur, repeat affirmations in his ear, a good dog indeed. The heaviness settles in for the day. In ninety minutes, I’ll sit at my desk, fumble with my Blackberry to check spam mail and overnight messages one hundred-forty characters deep. I’ll sink into a slipstream and drown in jade-colored timelines where fellow followers bemoan anxiety over dreams turned reality. I’ll remember the walk, the field, the purple smeared parallel to the horizon and vaguely recall the conspiracy, as if it occurred years, not hours, ago.

The usual preparations: food in his bowl, coffee maker percolates, my love’s taillights turn the corner toward Philadelphia, I wash, dress, brush, straighten out, brace. One hour. I open the other laptop and shut off the wireless connection. No browsing. No refreshed reports from the blogosphere. We’re talking words and phrases, serious business, and I have sixty minutes to salvage the rest of my day.

Without a character, a theme or voice, I begin to type. Each meaning behind every word meanders without forethought; my sentences stretch beyond the outskirts of brevity, terseness, get-to-the-fucking-pointedness. Little action, less backstory. The narrative swells, its belly pregnant with equal parts density and emptiness and I, voyeur, keep my eyes on its navel.

Two cigarettes down, ten minutes to go. He sleeps by my feet and whimpers to himself amid the unknowable: a canine’s nightmare. The morning’s silence, less still now that the sun is here, rings in my ears like a far-away chime, a singular note hummed as though a television were left on mute. Sound within no-sound. The unbearable tumidity of sonic vacancy leaves my stream of consciousness in shambles. I mutter an expletive. Fuck. I have an 8 AM meeting with my staff and I cannot arrive late. And if I could, no good would arise from it. And even though I should, since I dare call myself “writer,” I am, at least, on the path to said profession and therefore beholden to a day-job.

Third cigarette lit and I start my car. And sit. A free minute before I have to hit the road. I bring up Bill Withers on the iPod and play “Ain’t No Sunshine.” I switch to “Use Me” because its funkier, it knocks from my speakers and, as I shift into Drive, it seems more fitting.