The History of Writing (Part Three) I've Been Kind of Unhappy Lately and I'm Not Sure I Want To Live Here, Anymore

Samantha had been feeling especially low since Sisyphus said the curious/flippant thing he said that ended up bringing a couple thousand people to their window & doorstep on July 8th, 2036. Her heart felt like a 200 lb. stone and her blood seemed to be a little on fire all the time. She'd been a native to the Landscape of Insomnia  since she was a teenager going into the 1920s, and in many respects she unabashedly savored and ingested rejuvenation like it were fruit or an indelible mixture of chocolate. But lately her super-centurion nerves were going down the quiet trail of entropy. It was a bummer.  

Twice in the same week: Tiffany had seen and accosted her in the CVS when Samantha was just browsing the Seasonal Aisle for funny things to bring home to Sisyphus while he was going through one of his 12-hour a day sleeping-phases...and Tiffany, since Brittany was no longer with us, could practically smell the practically-ancient woman since either of them left their respective doorsteps. Samantha had been raised, more or less, to never ever Hate people--and it was advice that served her through Sisyphus's 1926 Assassination and even through much of the 1960s and 70s (and then it wasn't really needed in the 80s because most people couldn't even use a word like hate when America seemed evenly divided between living through the Crack Epidemic, growing the Crack Epidemic, ignoring the Crack Epidemic, or just nonchalantly going about their business waiting on Jesus or whoever to fix everything, which as it turns out go figure: Never Happened. 

Today, being all hangdog over the sink in the bathroom (the fan going like a hungry ghost of yesteryears) Samantha knew she had to do something. She hated to say anything as trite as 'enough is enough'--but the time to draw a line had come & gone a while ago. She cleaned herself up. She combed her neck-length lightly nappish hair (not even bothering fishing & plucking the fugitive white hairs where they'd appeared with more & more regularity these days) and she got herself dressed okay and went down to the lobby and toward Mrs. Wilson, the building manager's office for a chat. 

If you forgot who Mrs. Wilson was: don't sweat it. This is a pretty friggin' busy story considering how little is going on for the size of the challenges and we, the creators of this document would like you to know: we forgive you. 

Mrs. Wilson was doing what she was always doing at that hour. She was making a dent in the paperwork. It seemed to accumulate faster than billionaire bank accounts accumulated interest. She looked up from the indefinite/bureaucratic nightmare of obligatory tediousness (with that soft strong face you either adored or envied) and she said good morning to Samantha standing there in her open doorway, recoloring the breeze with her delicious aroma. 

"If now's an okay time, Mrs. Wilson, I'd like to have a word with you." 

Grateful for the interruption, Mrs. Wilson put her pen down on the pile she was working on and said, "Of course. Of course, sit down my dear." 

Samantha was always awkward when people said that. Back in the day, since she'd quit being a hooker and S. died and she had to go to all the Social Services buildings, people were always telling you to 'sit down' or 'have a seat' and sometimes Samantha would think, 'yeah, have a seat on your face.' 

She was mad, now, and therefore focused. She took a seat. 

"What's going on, honey?" said Mrs. Wilson. The question brought the absurdity of her dilemma to her mind's forefront. She knew exactly what she wanted to say. And that was the problem. She felt herself getting a little lost in all the options, which was usual, so she just said, "I've been kind of unhappy lately and I'm not sure I want to live here, anymore." 

Rarely are such declarative confessions so acerbic and astute. 

"Well," said Mrs. Wilson, "I'm not sure most people say it like that. Bewilderment and Purpose moved in her expression. "Is there something... Well, obviously there's something. Just tell me what the matter is honey and I'll see what I can do." 

"I'm surrounded by Assholes is what the problem is. Ever since S- Troy made that dumb remark during the fire-drill it seems like I'm the International Headquarters of Fuckheads Anonymous! You know I never say It Isn't Fair--I can't stand how much other people say it about every trivial thing... But... Well... I know I have a little stock money in New Life and some other places and I was wondering if I could maybe cash that in and with my personal savings I could go back to Tennessee or somewhere..." She started adding up some figures in her head. 

"Well..." She looked to the right where the computer was and clicked through a few menus with rapid efficiency until Samantha Fitzgerald's casefile appeared on the screen. Her vigor of purpose instantaneously collapsed. "You're not gonna like this." 

"I'm not gonna like what." 

"There's been some trouble due to S- Troy's bloodwork-screening." What the reporters said came to mind so fast. Reading from the screen: "They've temporarily frozen your accounts pending an interview with you and Troy." 

"What?" 

She didn't need an answer. 

"They didn't give a fuck about him since April! Now they think he's the source of life and youth since the beginning of time?" 

"I'm afraid so." She closed her eyes. "I could probably pull some strings and we can just handle it in here and once he tells them yes-and-no to all the crap they want to hear you should have your money back." 

"It's my fucking money! I should have it, now!" 

"I know." 

"Cocksuckers. Interloping dilatant cocksuckers!" 

Mrs. Wilson smiled a little bit. 

"Well, schedule an interview, then. Get this shit over with." 

Mrs. Wilson knew better than to say she was sorry. She let Samantha vent herself and quietly moved the mouse around nowhere in particular and when Samantha exercised as much of the frustration & what else as she could possibly exercise, Mrs. Wilson said, "Is there anything else I can do for you?" 

Samantha felt slightly better. "No, Mrs. Wilson. I'll be alright. I'm gonna go lay down for a little while." She began to rise. 

"You know where I live,  honey." 

"You want the door open?" 

"No, you can close it for now." 




**** 

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