He only had 10 minutes. “FUCK!” he exclaimed as he looked at his watch. Out loud, but not too loud. People peered over their cubicle walls and then slowly sank back down again into their mindless activities. No one would have known who said what, not that profanity wasn’t common in this office. Deon didn’t care about the worker bees any more. This would be his last day at work, his last day of blogging, his last day of putting up with all the shitty shit he put up with from work, from idiot commuters, from his family.
There was a day when he did. A loving husband, devoted to his wife, over the years grew colder and let the distance and the silence increase. A punctual and productive worker who once worked for the joy of employment grew more exhausted by the stupidity by days and weeks and years, until he just didn’t give a shit any more. The last commuter had cut Deon off in traffic today, and then flipped Deon the flying commuter salute as if it were Deon’s fault the other driver almost hit his car.
Finally it was 5PM. Deon could picture the scene in his mind, the chaos after he left the note on his cubicle desk and drove away from it all. In the last 10 minutes he finished the required tasks so nothing old and incomplete would be left for whomever came in to fill the cubicle tomorrow.
At work they would file his note into a Human Resources Filing Pit, and then just hire a new cog to fill his place in the asinine machine that accomplished nothing except grinding hopeful dreams into dust. At home his wife would probably just find another man to do her dishes and vacuum her floor and wash the laundry and reject when it came to passionate advances. She already had been talking about this “wonderful man” from her job, and then abruptly stop talking at certain points, so Deon believed there was more to that story already. Before the marriage it was great, or he had been naive. Or maybe a little of both. Maybe he just hadn’t been assertive enough about what he wanted from the relationship, and she took full advantage, with demands of her own. Deon could barely get a word in edgewise at home, and they were about some house project she thought he should do, the mail or the bills or what she wanted him to get from the store on his way home from work.
He signed out of his computer for the day, and on the elevator, he pictured the revolver in the glove compartment of his car. Let another commuter dare to fuck with me. Bring it on.
It was 8 AM, and Deon was at his cubicle again. He laughed at himself and yesterday’s little fantasy. He hadn’t resigned, divorced, quit writing, or left. He didn’t even own a handgun. And the calendar read April 2, 2015.