One Day You Will Know

It was a dark morning still when I woke up in bed, too early. I was in my hometown, at my parents’ house, in my childhood room. I reluctantly went downstairs and sat for a simple breakfast my mom had prepared. My dad moved around, getting ready for work. He would take me to his work; I would check it out. I had said I’d rather not work that job, but my parents insisted, gently. “What do you got to lose, hon?” My mom said.

I put on some business casual clothes: workman’s leather shoes, khaki pants, a non-iron shirt whose crisp collar I could feel on my chin. We got into my dad’s pickup and drove off towards highway. It was autumn, I had a leather jacket on, but it was hard to get lively. Before the highway we pulled up to a coffee shop. Dad already had a coffee at home and he thought buying coffees outside was a stupid waste of money. I found that home coffee doesn’t quite do it for me; it’s too weak, and I don’t really mind paying two bucks for someone to prepare me a big, fresh cup. 

We sat by the window of the shop, looking onto a gray parking lot. The sky was gray too, but much more beautiful than the view below it, and it had splashes of purple and orange. I got busy smelling and sipping on the coffee; dad, having nothing to do, looked at me, smiled awkwardly, and tried to say something cool, something I would like. I imagine that would require a lot of creativity on his part.

“A little tired, huh? Too much party last night?” He said. “It’s okay. Drink up your coffee. I don’t mind stopping by a coffee shop, really, if it makes you feel better.”

“It does make me feel better,” I said. “It’s dark in here. Back south it was warmer.”

I had moved back from the south to my hometown after I broke up with my girlfriend there. At least I thought we broke up. We didn’t really discuss it; I had left suddenly, making a vague suggestion that I might return. Since I got back to my hometown though I didn’t call her at all, and it’s been several weeks. She didn’t call me either. So, guess we broke up. Now I was unemployed, starting from scratch. I had missed my family, but not my friends. When I said I was starting over, I meant not going back to my old profligate ways.

“Wait till you get married,” said dad. “Wait till you get married, have children. Then you will know the meaning of true exhaustion.”

“Kids, family?” I thought, “Sounds terrifying. This whole grey place is populated by kids and families. It does not look inviting.”

A friend of my dad’s then walked into the coffee shop and came to greet us. He was smiling and very fat; he had grey moustache and wore glasses. He shook hands and sat drown next to me with his coffee after my dad invited him to chat a little. The man ended up talking about a mutual friend and recounting a party at that man’s house:

“It was a big, big barbecue. He got a roast pig from somewhere and treated us all. There must’ve been thirty people that came and went. We must’ve finished ten cases of beer. Luke really got drunk, started singing.”

My dad laughed at that, and so did his friend. I could imagine the party – a group of miserable, overworked men in their fifties stuffing themselves to an early heart attack, their wives hanging out separately, exchanging unhealthy recipes and gossiping. 

“His son was there too, with the younger lads,” continued the friend in the coffee shop. “They were swimming in the pool. It was already cold, but they jumped in anyhow. One of them even tossed his wife in.”

“Marky simply does not give a hoot about anything,” my dad said, admiringly.

I picture Marky. Obese, tattooed moron with zero sense of restraint. A total asshole to his mother and sister, and probably also to his child’s mother. I get a headache thinking of that man’s eating, drinking, and smoking habits.

The friend wraps up his story and leaves the coffee shop, shaking hands for goodbye with a smile. My dad and I walk out too and proceed driving to the office. We get stuck in traffic, a vast serpent twisting left to right and up and down through midtown. My dad curses and complains about the traffic, but his words come out prepackaged, automatic. He does it every day, but he never quite loses it.

“Don’t worry about the job,” my dad slapped my knee. “You will handle it easily. They will give you time to figure out the software. The boss is a good guy, don’t be afraid of the boss.”

“I’m not afraid of the boss,” I said. I had met the guy before. Some goofball wearing silk shirts and lording it over a crew of shell-socked refugees. Nice guy, takes pride in being a job provider, but a bit of a goof. 

My dad continued: “It’s a safe, cushy job. You can save up some money here. If you are patient, they will promote you. They will like you. And if the economy goes south and you lose your job, remember you need only nine months of work experience, and then you can go on unemployment benefits.” 

“Unemployment benefits! Now that’s something to aspire to!” I didn’t say this, I only said it to myself. I hated the low expectations. I am too young, too ambitious for that. I don’t want a safe job; I want an interesting job. In the south I worked as a private instructor. It was unpredictable and didn’t have the safety factor, but over a couple of years I ended up making more money than I ever made here. And it was interesting. It energized me. I didn’t even know why I agreed to go to this stupid office job.

We arrived to the industrial area and parked in front of the office building. We walked out of the truck and my dad walked a little bit ahead of me. He got to the front door and opened it and walked through. I walked towards the door, but strangely, it was taking me a long time to get there. I walked harder, but the more I pushed, the slower I moved. My breathing became heavy. I looked towards the glass door, and pushed with my feet, but couldn’t quite get there. Maybe I didn’t want to get there; maybe my unadmitted but profound dislike for the place had created a spacetime warp between the parking lot on which I stood and on which I walked and that glass door. The asphalt of the parking lot was not passing under my feet; my steps were spinning in one spot. It got dark suddenly; it was night. My dad didn’t walk back out, the place was deserted. I remembered only my dad’s big office shirt floating through the glass door, and I felt my office shirt rubbing against my chin.

I woke up. Where was I? It was a bright summer morning. I remember now. I was in my own apartment. I was down south. It was the first day of my summer holiday after I finished teaching a semester at a local school. It must have been six o’clock. My two-month son had woken my wife and me at four-thirty. Then my wife took him to the other room to breastfeed him, and I went back to sleep gain. It wasn’t a deep sleep, but I did have a rough dream. It’s okay; I can’t wait to play with my son, and I know that will fix everything. The summer will be glorious.