After hitting snooze three times, I blinked away my sleep and stared at my 1970s asbestos-riddled popcorn ceiling, fingers interlaced across my large, soft belly. I stayed like that, procrastinating the decision to go to the gym just long enough for it to no longer be an option. This was the fifty-third day in a row that I missed going and the fifty-fourth since I had promised myself I'd finally get my health under control.
I rolled to my side, hoisted myself to a seated position, and sighed. I glanced at my phone. It had vibrated a few times as I'd lain there. Texts from Mom, probably wishing me a happy New Year. I needed to respond, but it had been weeks now. Tomorrow would only be one more day—my typical method of avoidance. You never have to do anything if you just wait until tomorrow. I grunted to my feet, kicked aside a few old pizza boxes, and lumbered to the kitchen.
"Breakfast" was instant oatmeal (a pathetic attempt to trick myself into believing I was doing something for my health—there were apples in it, after all), a family-sized bag of Cheetos, half a cup of cold coffee, and a nearly-full liter of Mountain Dew. I consumed the food in silence, staring at the faded sixty-year-old faux-wood-paneled wall.
I took a long, painful shit that had me imagining the paramedics shaking their heads and gagging as they struggled to move my feces-covered body from the toilet to the stretcher. Maybe they'd just leave me there and condemn me and the house as lost causes, setting us both aflame. At least then, I wouldn't go out alone.
I wiped, stood, flushed three times, then stared at the shower. I shook my head and walked back to my room, scraping the fuzz from my teeth with a fingernail. My job was devoid of human interaction, so what did it matter if I stank like a week-old quesadilla?
I put on a red-and-white vertical striped short-sleeve button-up with yellowed pits. The worn cloth barely held together as I pulled the buttons tight. I picked up a gray, frayed tie from the floor and tied it lopsided and too short. I sat down on my bed to pull on wrinkled slacks. I left the button undone and put on my belt, the prong going through a hole I'd had to make myself a few months back.
I sat back on my bed, staring at my socked feet for a long time. The nail of my right big toe had ripped through the cloth. Yellow and long, it stood out against the used-to-be-white sock, a reminder of my spiraling existence. A tear fell from my cheek, a small gray circle on my sock.
My phone buzzed, pulling me from my mental flagellation. 7:50 PM, time for work.
The drive was silent and desolate. The long, eerily straight road cutting through Central Texas, empty of other drivers. I crested a small hill, and a 12-foot-tall chain-link fence topped with razor wire spanning as far as I could see came into view. Lights dotted the fence every few hundred feet, shrinking into the distance in both directions. Beyond the fence was more emptiness, only broken by a few small buildings where road met fence.
A few minutes late, I slowed my long-rusted 2001 Ford Fusion at the security checkpoint. The 36-year-old car lurched forward as the gears shifted down. I dreaded the imminent day when the car finally died, and I'd need to buy a new one. For over a year now, the transmission choked and banged, but the damn thing just kept stuttering along.
I handed my ID to one of the two stoic guards, who took, scanned, and handed it back, the gate sliding aside to let me through.
I continued to one of the few small buildings. A heavy sectional door rolled up automatically. Driving in dozens of circles, I descended to the underground parking lot. I parked in one of the many available spots, pulled myself from my car, and walked to the elevator. I scanned my ID and rode the buttonless elevator down hundreds of feet. The door opened, and I stepped into a small checkpoint room.
Jeff looked up from behind thick security glass and smiled. "Hey, Henry. Prompt as always."
I tried to smile as I walked up and slid my ID through the pass-through tray, but just as he met my eyes, my smile faltered, and I looked down. He had been so encouraging when I'd told him I wanted to get in better shape. He'd asked about it every time I arrived for work, but after two weeks of having nothing but excuses, he stopped asking. I glanced at his bulging arm as he swiped my card.
He slid my ID back along with a small plastic basket. "Here you go, man." He leaned forward. "How are you?"
I took the basket and gave a mirthless smile. "Fine." I deposited my phone and keys in the basket and slid it back.
"Fine's alright. Better than bad!" His enthusiastic smile should have been contagious. It should have set me at ease. He was being so nice, but all it did was inflame my feelings of inadequacy.
"Yeah, I guess." I gripped my card and hurried toward the door leading deeper into the compound. It slid aside after a brief moment as if Jeff had hesitated to open it.
"See you tomorrow," He called just before the door shut.
I sighed, shaking myself as I continued down a wide, sterile hallway. One uncomfortable interaction down, one to go. I used to love the daily friendly interaction with Jeff. He was one of the only sources of human interaction I had, and, while it filled me with anxiety, I felt a little more human each time. Now, though, every interaction was exhausting. It was the second-worst part of my day.
A man and a woman walked toward me, animatedly talking over a folder of papers. I slowed, praying they'd turn into some room so we wouldn't have to pass each other.
"…entanglement is beyond what we ever expected," the man was saying to the woman. "The connection alone"—he waved his hands animatedly—"not to mention the vast energy withdrawal from multiple parallel—"
The pair entered a room, the conversation cutting off with the click of the door shutting. I sighed in relief.
I really didn't belong here. I wasn't dumb, but I had never been able to stick with anything long enough to excel at it. I either procrastinated too long or gave up too early. I'd graduated four years earlier with a degree in Data Analytics with mid-range grades from a mid-range university. My mother had known a government official, and only through her, did I get this job.
I walked down the long hallway until I reached the door to my workspace. I stood outside for a minute, taking deep breaths and desperately trying not to break out in a sweat—the less ammunition, the better. I opened the door and stepped inside.
The room was small and mostly empty. Wires came into the room from the wall on the right, connecting to a large server. An optical cable stapled to the wall ran from the server to a computer across from the room's entrance. The 42-inch monitor silhouetted Elaine's dark curly hair. Cynthia sat next to her; whatever conversation they were having ceased when I opened the door.
They turned to look at me, Elaine's face already distorted in disgust. Both wore simple slacks and button-up tops, the facility's required attire. Cynthia's blond hair slipped over her shoulder as she looked from Elaine to me and back to Elaine, a glint of something unreadable flashing in her eyes. Elaine stared at me, her thick eyebrows furrowed in contempt. She stood. She was tall and thin, angular. Her sharp face reminded me of a knife. The first time I'd seen her, I thought she was cute in a scary sort of way, but any attraction was torn from me long ago and replaced by fear.
"You smell like shit," Elaine said as she grabbed her chair and rolled it to the edge of the room. Cynthia did the same. I looked at my shoes.
"Like literally. You smell like you're covered in actual shit. Move!"
I walked to the corner farthest from her and as far from the door as possible.
"More."
I leaned into the wall.
"Turn away."
I hesitated, looking up and glancing from Cynthia to Elaine.
"Now!"
Cynthia giggled awkwardly as I turned to face the corner.
"Hold your breath," Elaine said. I inhaled sharply before I realized Elaine wasn't talking to me.
Cynthia laughed again before both of them loudly breathed in and out. They made a show of taking one more large gulp of air and then holding it. Their heels clacked against the floor as they rushed from the room and into the hallway.
Their exaggerated sighs of relief turned to laughter as they walked down the hall.
I shut the door behind them, grabbed a folding chair leaning against the wall, and moved to sit in front of the computer. Two years earlier, when I first started working at The Center of Advanced Computational Applications (yes, CACA), I'd been excited to meet new people and start a job I thought might turn into something meaningful. I'd quickly learned that I wasn't working with anyone and my job was nothing more than monitoring server temperatures on the night shift.
I took a long breath and shook out my limbs. The day's trials were over. Now I could sit, relax, and actually do something I enjoyed.
"Are you there?"
The server to my right beeped twice. I smiled my first genuine smile of the day.