A Small Exercise in Futility

A Small Exercise in Futility

     His eyes shot open as the train rumbled by outside his bedroom window. He knew immediately that the A/C was still broken. He peeled his still expressionless face off of the pillow and sat upright.

     "Ow. My head.", he spoke aloud to the empty room. The room did not answer back.

     The lingering effects of lasts nights bender were making it difficult to focus. He reached for the bottle that he remembered leaving by the side of the bed. It wasn't there.

     "That's strange.", he mumbled as he rose to his feet and headed to the bathroom.

     The cold tile stung his feet and made this particular morning ritual rather uncomfortable. The attempt to pee while brushing his teeth was as futile as it sounded in his head. The cool shower was a bitter reminder of all his faults, and the sins he felt like he was paying for. He barely noticed the other human being passed out, face down on the bathroom floor. It gave him pause, until he realized it wasn't a human. It was bag of dirty laundry that resembled a human. Dirty, dirty laundry.

     Showered, and feeling as fresh as a 29 year-old can after a night of hard drinking in an Apache sweat tent, he headed to the kitchen to find something to cure the stomach pangs. The dry toast and off brand orange juice was a bitter reminder of all his faults, and the sins he felt like he was still paying for.

     "Donald Duck, your orange juice tastes like tangy cat piss.", he thought. Remembering the time a cat peed in his mouth while he was eating sweet tarts. It was just like that. Strange.

     He hated dressing for work. His tie hung loose against his white shirt. He often wondered if he could strangle himself with just one tie. It seemed poorly made. But he would never do it. Not after that night in Portland where he saw a hooker do it to herself. He was never sure what happened, but he knew the Donald Duck orange juice was the result.

     "I have never forgiven myself.", he uttered into the void.

     "No one cares." replied the void.

     He was startled that the void replied to his comments, but was not surprised. He knew this day was coming. The psychosis had begun to take hold. He knew once his mind was gone he would never get it back.

    He took small solace in knowing that soon the world would know. He was not truly a man on the verge of a mental collapse at only 29. No. He was actually just seven ducks who found a jacket and somehow had signed a lease on this apartment.

     "Lenny, are you responding as the void again?", asked Stu the duck.

     "Quack.", replied. Lenny.