...And Now For Something Completely Different...

the day that richard had at work was one that was, by now, considered a standard monday: annoying clients, pissy retailers, and even more pissy managers. the managers seemed to love cracking the whip over the loyal peons, crushing the will to fight. richard was counting down the days until the monotony was broken by a group of freedom fighters broke in and demanded the transferance of the "loyal peons" to the steady, caressing waves of the "dream vacation" that awaited every peon, as long as they did their work and quietly accepted the words of the masters as law. until that day came, he spent his days doing just as he promised with his signature: eyes down, a simple "yes, sir" when addressed by his superior (in title alone), and his time spent dutifully filling out expense reports for his "superiors" that they were too busy to fill out. busy, in this case, meant fucking their secretary, then bragging about the "squealer" when they all dined out at alesandro's for lunch. they never abided by the one hour rule on lunch breaks, yet their managers turned a blind eye to their blatant indiscretions. richard took joy in the fifteen minute smoke breaks he used to clear the disease from his lungs, the smell of sterility that was so abundant in his office (a cubicle) that at times it was sickening. he took pleasure in the bagels he had for lunch, for it was all he could afford, what with there being no rent control on his apartment; a bagel, while his "betters" who couldnt do their own goddamn work dined in the most expensive restaurant in town. he couldnt wait to retire from this miserable job; it was sad, his looking forward to old age. he couldnt wait to be some retired old man, no kids, no grandkids, waiting for death in his state run hospital bed, wondering if his heart monitor might suddenly give out, or if he had another stroke in the middle of the night, or if the nurse dropped the ive bag on the ground as she changed it, sending that one, tiny inconsequential bubble to his heart, ending his miserable existence. until then, he had the smoke breaks; the smoke breaks and the occasional run-in with brad, from down in the mail room. though brad was involved with a girlfriend, richard knew he was just holding out for him, knew that deep down, brad felt the connection too, even if it were no more than the inconsequential brush off fingertip to palm as richard took his mail from the mailboy. but he wasnt a queer. his father made it very clear that homosexuals were wrong and not to be trusted. thats why it was alright for richard to masturbate to brad; as long as he didnt act on his fantasies, then he wasnt a fag, a queer, a buttfucker. in fact, brad is the reason richard first got into jazz. richard was asking about things that interested the mail boy, and his answer was billie holiday; jelly roll morton; john coltrane; wes montgomery; miles. the glass of wine that richard had at night was accompanied by a half hit of vicodin and the sound of billie holiday. that voice, so smooth, so encompassing, ushered him out of his state in life. it gave him his release from time. he sailed along the ridges of her voice, felt the bumps in the back of her throat, the subtle ways that her larynx expanded and contracted to create the sultry, slutty sounds of her voice. he breathed in the sound, taking in the slippery intonations of jazz; happiness.