Severe Social Anxiety : A Dysfunctional Love Story II
It was Monday and Monday was Paul's least favorite day of the week. He had used up all of his sick time already, so there was no avoiding it. The anxiety was causing his stomach to perform more twists and bends than a stripper desperate to make the rent this month. Paul was laying on his couch and staring at the doorknob of his apartment. It was about twelve feet away but it might as well have been twelve thousand feet.
"Get up." he made the attempt to will himself. "Just get up, turn the door knob, go to fucking work."
He tried to remind himself of the little things, like that if he didn't go to work he would continue to not have electricity. He did kind of want to have that back, although there was a certain charm to reading by candlelight and being alone. Paul began to ponder that if he lost this job then he would be at 12 job losses. That would make an even dozen. Averaging at least 4 jobs in any given year. He started to think about how annoying his taxes would be to compile. He started wondering if it was worth that kind of aggravation. Which aggravation was worse, getting off the couch or filing paperwork? What would happen if he just didn't bother? Would the secret service bash down his door, guns blazing to give him a $130 return? Doubtful. Perhaps if he owed them money, then the secret service have the motivation. Paul imagined himself in a neon orange jumpsuit, wrists and ankles shackled. The secret service man in a crisp black and white suit forcing Paul to perform false fellatio on his shiny government issue pistol.
Paul wished there was a way to unthink that, but there wasn't. He got up with a quickness. No time for another shower. He got some more water for Cody and patted the rodent gently on the top of the head. Cody lapped the water and licked Paul's fingers a bit, looking as happy as a rat can look. Paul smiled in spite of himself, at least Cody liked him. Cody probably never had horrific thoughts flash before his little rodent brain. Spoiled thing.
Maybe Cody did. Who knew? Maybe in the back of Cody's brain somewhere, that snake was still sitting around. Maybe the snake changed it's mind and decided suddenly that Cody was pretty tasty. Paul decided that he would rather be eaten by a snake than face his own irrational thoughts. However, he didn't have that option.
Paul drove his small navy blue sedan off to work. He pulled his security badge out of his glove box and attached it while driving - presumably with his knees. He glanced in the mirror quickly and saw himself staring back. Same crappy mall cop uniform he had worn for six months, same grayish-blue-green eyes, same crooked teeth and sandy blond hair. Same deathly pallor that comes from never leaving your home.
There were going to be people at his work. He knew it. The same people who he had seen for six months. People, with all of their voices making noises at him. All of their eyes looking at him or not looking at him. Oh god, people. Paul hated people. Thank the lord that there were only a few who came to Tremont Industries between the hours of 5pm and 8am.
"All business is the people business." the sign greeted him. Paul felt that somehow, the sign was targeting him specifically. As the shadow cast by the sun licked the side of his sedan he couldn't help pondering what the statement truly meant and why it caused him such intense aggravation on a daily basis.
The booth outside of Tremont Industries was the size of a bathroom stall, and not one of those luxuriously spacious handicapped stalls but the kind that mere non-handicapped people were expected to use. Bernard Clump worked there from 8am until 5pm when Paul showed up.
Bernard Clump looked like an old fat guy named Bernard Clump. Needless to describe him further. Bernard insisted on checking Paul's badge, even though he knew very well who Paul was. Paul endured it and found a place to park in the lot, then walked back over to the booth.
Bernard slapped his meaty palm onto Paul's shoulder. "Bout time you showed up, buddy."
Paul hated being touched. He had already told this to Bernard. Paul had even taken a deep breath and tried to put it in the most polite way that he could, clearly stating "I would appreciate it if you respected my personal space." Yet there was Bernard's sweaty hand on Paul's shoulder. Paul shrugged him off.
About time that you showed up? Paul glanced at the clock. Five o and one. Was Bernard giving him shit about the sixty seconds it took to cross the parking lot? Really? What was that buddy crap too? Paul was not Bernard's buddy. He didn't like anything about Bernard. He especially didn't like the fact that the guy left litter in the booth. Today the litter was a crumpled up wrapper from something called a Nuttin Buttin Bar.
Paul wondered to himself what Asian sweatshop manufactured Nuttin Buttin Bars. He pictured a six year old moon eyed kid carrying a crate half as big as he was. The kid was smiling up at the sweatshop owner and saying "Here you go Mr. American Man, I hope you all die fat ass diabeties death. Now can I please see my sister? I haven't seen her since you sent her on that truck to the special house for the girl children."
Paul wished he could unthink that one too, but it was too late. Paul threw the Nuttin Buttin wrapper into the small wastebasket that Bernard never bothered to use. He settled into the cheap little chair in the front lot guard shack.
"Hey!" Bernard annouced. "Heads up, there is a new worker coming on tonight. Call the main desk when she gets in."
The term "heads up" is normally reserved for volleyball games and gunfire rather than new coworkers. Paul nodded in acknowledgment anyway and watched Bernard go away.
The guard booth had an open door at both sides, so when the wind swept through, it could be a relief on a hot day or a misery on a cold day.
It was a cold day.
Paul pulled out his paperback, it was a dog eared version of Mary Shelly's Frankenstein. Paul felt a bit of empathy for the living dead man sewn together piece by piece. It made his own stitches and suffering seem so insignificant in comparison.
A car was rolling up. Paul snapped back into work mode and placed his paperback open but face down on the small counter in front of him. Then Paul noticed the counter was sticky. He began his silent prayer that Bernard had only spilled some coffee and did a poor job cleaning it up. Not enough time to fix that before the car was at the post.
"Get up." he made the attempt to will himself. "Just get up, turn the door knob, go to fucking work."
He tried to remind himself of the little things, like that if he didn't go to work he would continue to not have electricity. He did kind of want to have that back, although there was a certain charm to reading by candlelight and being alone. Paul began to ponder that if he lost this job then he would be at 12 job losses. That would make an even dozen. Averaging at least 4 jobs in any given year. He started to think about how annoying his taxes would be to compile. He started wondering if it was worth that kind of aggravation. Which aggravation was worse, getting off the couch or filing paperwork? What would happen if he just didn't bother? Would the secret service bash down his door, guns blazing to give him a $130 return? Doubtful. Perhaps if he owed them money, then the secret service have the motivation. Paul imagined himself in a neon orange jumpsuit, wrists and ankles shackled. The secret service man in a crisp black and white suit forcing Paul to perform false fellatio on his shiny government issue pistol.
Paul wished there was a way to unthink that, but there wasn't. He got up with a quickness. No time for another shower. He got some more water for Cody and patted the rodent gently on the top of the head. Cody lapped the water and licked Paul's fingers a bit, looking as happy as a rat can look. Paul smiled in spite of himself, at least Cody liked him. Cody probably never had horrific thoughts flash before his little rodent brain. Spoiled thing.
Maybe Cody did. Who knew? Maybe in the back of Cody's brain somewhere, that snake was still sitting around. Maybe the snake changed it's mind and decided suddenly that Cody was pretty tasty. Paul decided that he would rather be eaten by a snake than face his own irrational thoughts. However, he didn't have that option.
Paul drove his small navy blue sedan off to work. He pulled his security badge out of his glove box and attached it while driving - presumably with his knees. He glanced in the mirror quickly and saw himself staring back. Same crappy mall cop uniform he had worn for six months, same grayish-blue-green eyes, same crooked teeth and sandy blond hair. Same deathly pallor that comes from never leaving your home.
There were going to be people at his work. He knew it. The same people who he had seen for six months. People, with all of their voices making noises at him. All of their eyes looking at him or not looking at him. Oh god, people. Paul hated people. Thank the lord that there were only a few who came to Tremont Industries between the hours of 5pm and 8am.
"All business is the people business." the sign greeted him. Paul felt that somehow, the sign was targeting him specifically. As the shadow cast by the sun licked the side of his sedan he couldn't help pondering what the statement truly meant and why it caused him such intense aggravation on a daily basis.
The booth outside of Tremont Industries was the size of a bathroom stall, and not one of those luxuriously spacious handicapped stalls but the kind that mere non-handicapped people were expected to use. Bernard Clump worked there from 8am until 5pm when Paul showed up.
Bernard Clump looked like an old fat guy named Bernard Clump. Needless to describe him further. Bernard insisted on checking Paul's badge, even though he knew very well who Paul was. Paul endured it and found a place to park in the lot, then walked back over to the booth.
Bernard slapped his meaty palm onto Paul's shoulder. "Bout time you showed up, buddy."
Paul hated being touched. He had already told this to Bernard. Paul had even taken a deep breath and tried to put it in the most polite way that he could, clearly stating "I would appreciate it if you respected my personal space." Yet there was Bernard's sweaty hand on Paul's shoulder. Paul shrugged him off.
About time that you showed up? Paul glanced at the clock. Five o and one. Was Bernard giving him shit about the sixty seconds it took to cross the parking lot? Really? What was that buddy crap too? Paul was not Bernard's buddy. He didn't like anything about Bernard. He especially didn't like the fact that the guy left litter in the booth. Today the litter was a crumpled up wrapper from something called a Nuttin Buttin Bar.
Paul wondered to himself what Asian sweatshop manufactured Nuttin Buttin Bars. He pictured a six year old moon eyed kid carrying a crate half as big as he was. The kid was smiling up at the sweatshop owner and saying "Here you go Mr. American Man, I hope you all die fat ass diabeties death. Now can I please see my sister? I haven't seen her since you sent her on that truck to the special house for the girl children."
Paul wished he could unthink that one too, but it was too late. Paul threw the Nuttin Buttin wrapper into the small wastebasket that Bernard never bothered to use. He settled into the cheap little chair in the front lot guard shack.
"Hey!" Bernard annouced. "Heads up, there is a new worker coming on tonight. Call the main desk when she gets in."
The term "heads up" is normally reserved for volleyball games and gunfire rather than new coworkers. Paul nodded in acknowledgment anyway and watched Bernard go away.
The guard booth had an open door at both sides, so when the wind swept through, it could be a relief on a hot day or a misery on a cold day.
It was a cold day.
Paul pulled out his paperback, it was a dog eared version of Mary Shelly's Frankenstein. Paul felt a bit of empathy for the living dead man sewn together piece by piece. It made his own stitches and suffering seem so insignificant in comparison.
A car was rolling up. Paul snapped back into work mode and placed his paperback open but face down on the small counter in front of him. Then Paul noticed the counter was sticky. He began his silent prayer that Bernard had only spilled some coffee and did a poor job cleaning it up. Not enough time to fix that before the car was at the post.