Arthur

     It’s Monday morning, the first of the month. Arthur eats a bagel with a tablespoon of peanut butter and drinks a cup of yesterday's leftover coffee out of a dollar store coffee mug. He eats alone, the faint humming of the last bit of Good Morning America playing on the old television set he’s had since his freshmen year of college. He places the empty cup in the sink, throws out the Subway napkin that he was using as a plate, and shuts the television off. He picks up his shoes from the closet near the door and laces them, making sure that the bow is double knotted and secure, and steps out of his trailer.
     He leaves by seven sharp, stepping out of his door just as his neighbor is letting out her Boston Terrier and getting the newspaper in his bathrobe. They exchange waves and good mornings as Arthur does a quick stretch. He pulls his left leg back, then his right, and jumps a small jumps, shaking up his arms and he does this. He slips off his shirt and throws it in the bushes and lets the Florida breeze hit his skin. He breathes in--then begins his run.
    The first few steps are always a bit of a shock to his body--the first stride wakes every muscle after a solid eight hours sleep, stretched out over a king sized bed where he sleeps alone. He strides again, and again, picking up speed until he settles into a pace. He turns left at the end of his street, and then once he hits the entrance of the trailer park he turns left again.
     Arthur is always alone, but he rarely ever lonely. It was just sometimes, on these runs, that he would let his mind wander pass the confines of his work desk. He begins to think about what it would like to live a different life, to be someone else in a different time or place. To work someplace other than his desk job at the local newspaper where he sits for hours, editing and looking over page layout after page layout, drinking cup after cup of coffee, not speaking to a single person. To live somewhere else, with someone special. At home, his only companion is his dog, Jack, who is usually only fully awake for two hours a day. He wonders what it would be like to share his space with someone, to eat dinner with someone, to have plates and cups that match.
     His days run together, the same routine, one day after the other. Wednesdays were the only day that offered any variety--he meets his mother at the diner down the road from his work at lunchtime. Yet, even when that breaks up the workweek, it still is part of his routine--the same diner, at the same time, where they will order the same meals.
     He took a left and about a quarter mile later, he hits the ocean and stops. Taking off his shoes he dug his toes into the sand and walked towards the water. He wades in, letting the salty water mix with the salty sweat from his skin. Taking a deep breath, he turns around and starts to head home.
     Two short hours later, Arthur is freshly shaven and dressed in a pair of dark blue jeans and a short-sleeved button up dress shirt. In his right hand is a cup of freshly brewed coffee and in his left is his suitcase. He sets the coffee cup on the roof of his car while he unlocks the door of his 1998 Chevy Malibu and gets in.
     The drive to work is an exertion, especially in the summer months. The stop and go traffic of rush hour, families on vacation, and teenagers out of school. Arthur sits patiently, an audio book playing over the car radio while he outlines the daily schedule in his mind and fans himself with last weeks issue.
     Monday is always the busiest with deadline being in two days. The entire office is frantic--everyone rushing around, making sure all the facts have been checked. Arthur sits at his computer, checking over each page of the issue as it comes in. This issue everything was pretty much spotless other than a misspelled name here and a few spelling errors, but for the most part his staff had been on top of their work and stories. He uses his curser to move one of the columns to the right and then clicks the save button. He sends the page to the printer to double check that his changes will come out correctly. He clicks out and opens another page, sipping his coffee, starting the process over for a second time. He does this again and again, over and over, one page after another. Working in silence, the hum of the computer and the clicking of the computer keys are the only sound that comes from his cubicle as the rest of the staff is rushing around. He doesn’t hurry, doesn’t stress, doesn’t ask any questions or for any help. He just works at his own pace as the clock slowly ticks closer and closer to the end of the workday. He will probably stay way past closing time to get a little extra work done as he usually does, eating the leftover food in the office cafeteria instead of going to Subway again. He prints out another page.
     "Mr. Culvert?"
     Arthur looks up just as he is opening another page. A woman's fiery red fingernails draping over the walls of his cubical, her brown eyes looking right at him.

Reviews

[roarke]

this is a good story. Your writing style captured my attention and keep me reading. Your narrative is uncluttered and interesting. The plot slows down though starting with the paragraph that begins: "Monday is always the busiest..." I realize this must be an excerpt, and Arthur's life is about to "heat"up, but keep the pace you started out with, it will make for a cracking good piece.