[Writing] clockwork office and other subpar literary events of your 15 min lives

          You are going to go home, and nothing is going to stop you. Your squeaky little office chair isn’t going to tell everyone that you’re leaving early. If it did, you would have to murder it. You’d cut its Chinese made throat with whatever sharp thing lay around your office desk.

          But it won’t do that, because you broke in last night and oiled it, along with every door to the parking lot. It wasn’t hard to do, but it took a lot of free time. You were up until 4 in the morning. Nothing has seemed so important before in your life than going home early today.

          Carol isn’t going to stop you today. She will continue working because you’re leaving 10 minutes earlier than your usual 2 hour earlier leave. She usually looks up before you even make a sound walking out, she’s used to it.

          Like a clockwork bitch.

          You stand.
          2:20.
          It’s too early.

          You sit back down.

          Your screen glares at you, already shutting down. It’s every being hates you. You can feel it, and you stare back.

          2:45.
          Time to go.
          You stand. Nothing is going to stop you.

          Your briefcase is unimportant. It sits there alone on the blue carpet with orange jagged lines across it.
          Your floor needs anti-aliasing.
          Carol hasn’t been in all week apparently. This makes for a clean exit, assuming a suit doesn’t catch you on the way out. Because if a suit catches you, you have to run.

                    ---

          You are running in your silly little suit, probably tearing every seam. A suit is going to tell your boss that you are leaving two hours earlier. Your boss doesn’t like you. Of course he doesn’t like you. You leave early every Monday and Friday.

          You are in your Honda. It is warm from sitting in the sun. It’s a beautiful day, and you roll your windows down. A suit walks past and you lean back into your seat as if he’s not going to see you. You think about running him over because nobody is going to stop you.

          Step one is done, getting out of the building. Step two is getting past the guards.

          The guards know your car.
          And your face.
          In fact, they know the sound of your small Japanese vehicle. They can hear it coming.

          But not today. You took the time to dismantle the traffic stick that comes down and blocks your driving. You dismantled it and it is sitting in your trunk in two pieces. The guards are probably inside talking to a suit about it. Too bad the camera footage went missing that night too.

          You drive on past. Nobody stops you.

          Nothing is going to stop you today.

          You’re going down the street. The radio is on, playing classic rock.
          You feel pretty good. You should pick up some sunglasses. You take a turn to get some because you feel that good.
          Where can you get sunglasses.
          The store, of course. Which is where you are heading when you see a police car with its lights flashing.
          A thought flashes across your head if your boss or his suit assistant who he calls sweet-cheeks called the police. Of course not, they’d just fire you by now.

          You wonder why they haven’t.

          You roll to a stop in your Japanese car. Five more police cars roll by in front of you. Then another car, black.
          Five more cars, also black. One is white. There are a few more police cars.

          You’re being stopped by a funeral procession.

          You look down at something stuffed in your pocket as you wait.

          It’s a memo. You unfold the yellow paper and look it over.

          Carol died.

          Her funeral was today at 4:00.

          You crumple up the paper and toss it out the window. You turn off the radio. You don’t need sunglasses.
          Nothing was going to stop you today.

          Carol did, for the last time.


          Clockwork bitch.

This is an amazing story, and I would love to read any more that you write

   It’s over. You are tired of it.

   Dunkin Donuts on the corner of the street by your work. Every morning you stop in there for exactly two donuts and a small coffee. The same guy has worked there for 4 months. You have stopped in nearly every morning in that whole time.
   Every time he asks you how many donuts you want and what coffee size. He remembers what donuts to get and what coffee to make.
   It’s that he asks you how many, and what size.
   Every time.
   
   Maybe it is company policy.
   That he can remember what to get and which to make, but he is fired if he assumes that you want two donuts and a small coffee. That you could sue him for all he’s worth. It’s probably not much.
   You stop the car. It’s raining.
   You start it back up again.

   Why bother.

   No, you’re already late for work, let’s not make it late without reason.

   Your dog had been hit by a car 2 months ago, another lie about it and people will start calling the news station about ‘the dog who could.’

   You shout fuck and hit your driving wheel.

   You open your car door with enough gusto to knock a poor guy over.

   You help him up in the pouring rain.
   You’re too nice for a guy who’s going to beat up a man working at a coffee shop.

   What is his name, anyway?

   You don’t remember. You suddenly feel hypocritical, but it doesn’t matter as you open the door to Dunkin Donuts with furor. A few people turn and look at you.

   You, soaked to the bone, wearing a black trench coat and nice leather driving gloves your mother gave you for Christmas.

   You’re going to beat up a guy with driving gloves your mother gave you.

   You move through the line of people, looking around maniacally for the guy. He’s behind the counter, asking someone how many donuts they would like. This only fills your furor. He is ungrateful to everyone here like that. You suddenly hate him with burning passion, and the only thing you want to taste are his tears. Is he too tough to cry? Now is a good time to find out.
   You push through a woman and her kids.
   And a very fat man.
   All the while wondering if you left the car on.

   You did.

   The man can’t even choke out ‘Excuse me, sir.’ All the way before you bound over the table like a jungle barbarian and start hitting him in the face. People scream.

   Of course they scream.

   You hit him about 4 times before people drag you off of him.

   His nametag reads “Tim.”

   You beat up a guy named Tim.

   The smell of blood and leather is all you can smell. You bound back over the counter and make for the door. Your car is still there.

   It’s still raining.

   You don’t know what to do with yourself.

   You go to work. You see your conquest on the news.

   ---

   You go to The Donut Stop now. The guy is getting the hang of what you want. His name is Alex.
   
   Maybe Tim just wanted you to remember his name.

   Then he would start remembering what you want specifically.

   You think about asking Alex if it is company policy to make things without asking what they want first. You think better of it and decide to just pay the poor kid.

   The smell of leather and money fill your nose. You’re wearing your driving gloves for the first time since you beat up Tim. No wonder Alex is looking shakier than usual. You pay him extra and you are on your way with two donuts and a small coffee.

   Just the way you like it.

Wow.. I'm not a person who reads, but this was.. Just... Wow...
I would love to read anything else you've written!
Very, very good!