Chapter 1: Cheap Suits

 

Drip. Drip. Drip.

If I could just concentrate for five seconds, I might be able to get some work done.

Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip.

Forget it. I grab my bag and fill it. All the essentials I always keep with me, but never really need. Why do I need so many things with me all the time? I consider this for a minute before I realize I've already carefully packed everything without really registering it. I check through to make sure nothing was forgotten.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Latest issue of GQ Magazine with Kanye West on the cover. Posing in a sleek black and white Armani suit, complete with a narrow but not too skinny tie. Nearly empty container of Garnier Fructis hair gel, firm hold, no shine. Four Pilot neo-gel pens and two un-sharpened No. 2 pencils. Moleskin notebook. Brand new Kirra rain jacket, which I bought out of season, but still carry around in-case of an unfortold downpour. An extra Hanes plain white T-shirt, my Dolce and Gabbana eyeglasses, which I barely need. My cheap, Wal-Mart eyeglasses, which I barely need either, but these ones are black and the others are white. The keys to my seldom used apartment and my 30Gb iPod, video capable with iSkin cover.

I stop a second to think of why I need all of this just to go to Starbucks and waste time.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

The door makes a pleasantly dry click as it closes behind me. At least I don't have to listen to that damned faucet any more. I put my earbuds in as I wait for the elevator to creep it's way up to my floor. I live on the ninth floor. Not the greatest floor to live on, but not the worst either. It's far up enough to keep me away from the countless, frail seniors who live on the first three floors in my complex, needing quick access to the lobby. It's not high up enough to have a great view down into the city, or command the same kind of respect as the 30-something business men in the 16th floor penthouses.

The bell rings and the door slides open. I step over the thresh hold as the crowd goes wild to Radiohead live on my earbuds. Already occupying the opposite side if the elevator is one of those 30-something business men. With his annoyingly ill-fitting Men's Warehouse suit, bulging at the shoulders and pants crinkling three too many times above his dull, used-to-be-black shoes, he manages to force a smile and mouths something that I think was "how's it goin?"

I stare at the digital numbers counting down from nine to one. The sooner I could get out of this ever-shrinking box, the better. Three more floors. Two more floors. I take a deep breath and my lungs fill with hot, stale air.

The bell rings and the door slides open. 30-something business man gives me another one over and mouths what seemed like "have a good one."

"Go f**k yourself." I say in my head as my mouth returns something that resembles, "you too."