Are you bored, too? [Trying to capture a feeling] (Late Night Quick Sketch)

“It’s a miracle, it’s a goddamn miracle we’ve made it this far,” Matthews says, holding his cigarette out nonchalantly. “Twenty years and it still keeps going… fuck if I could understand it. What do you think Clayton?”

“Well shit Matthews, how am I supposed to know?” Clayton leans in on the table using his right forearm as a horizontal support creating an “L” which leads into his body. He mends. “Wasn’t there some attempt back in the fall of ’13?”

“Jameson, pull up the record of fall of 2013.” Matthews at the helm.

“No problem.” Jameson walks out the door, across the lobby, says his hello to MaryAnn, the secretary, as he always does, walks up the spiral staircase, ties his shoe at the top and cleans off a smudge with his right thumb, walks past Caroline Alvarez, quite the stunner, they make eye contact, remember Jameson, you are a married man, the internal monologue always being in the third person, always trying to detach somehow, door opens, a room full of filing cabinets, snapping his fingers repeatedly, a habit of his whenever he’s trying to think of something, it’s the one in the far back, third drawer, front end, he fingers through the documents, ah yes, here we are, fall of ’13, pulls out the dossier and walks to the desk piled with laminate holders, taking special care to make sure the documents maintain a certain degree of condition for further investigations, slides the twenty page dossier into a laminated plastic sheath, records the section number and “reason for taking out” entries in the required dock, walks out the room, sees Caroline Alvarez waiting for him, averts eye contact, Jameson always leaves her wanting more, a pig in wolves’ clothing is still a pig, darts down the spiral staircase, says his hello to MaryAnn as he always does, across the lobby, and reenters the room from whence he came.

“It’s about time Jameson, you took damn near all day.” Matthews barks.

“My apologies, sir. Here are the documents you requested.”

“Clayton grab me those scissors on the desk. I hate these fucking laminates.” Clayton grabs the scissors and is tempted to chuck them at Matthews. Matthews’s size over Clayton halts any such action.

Jameson walks to the window. He looks at the street below covered by specks of people and blurs of automobiles. Twenty years. Damn, cannot say Jameson learned one thing… 


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