A Man in A Polka-Dotted Tie

This morning was supposed to be very simple, or as simple as they like for it to be.

I put on my tie, the maroon one with little navy polka-dots embedded into it. It’s my good-luck charm for no particular reason other than it’s my favorite and that I bought it with my mom when I first interned at the bank, around five years ago now.

For these five years, I experienced the same exact, monotonous yet reliable, Monday through Friday. I wake up, put on a suit and tie regardless of the weather, drink a lukewarm cup of coffee, be careful not to spill it, straighten my spine against a stuck-to-the-floor desk-chair, type on the computer and stare blankly at the screen in meetings, and then, come home. My apartment is big because the bank pays well, which is only a shame because it's only ever I who's in it.

That’s it, nothing special, but again, pretty reliable.

Instead of departing from the desk at 5 pm, as I always do, I was called into my direct manager's office, a short and sweaty man named Fred who always has a poppy-seed stuck in the upper-left canine tooth. It makes me cringe every time he talks, and so I have tried to only look him directly in the eye. Big, blue, beady eyes. He never blinks, so I just end up with watery-eyes, staring back at the poppy-seed.

Somehow that meeting flashed from one moment to the next, like a cacophony of confusion, and now I’m sitting on the curb of the street, holding a cardboard-box of my belongings and trying not to use my favorite tie to wipe my tears. Instead, I blow my nose into the white-collared shirt I’m wearing, wondering what other use I’ll have for it now. 27 and expendable, that’s all anyone might see when they look at me from this point onward.

Who buys these cardboard boxes? The shallow ones that people tuck their personal belongings into. For the heartless nature of clicking a button and ordering a bulk amount. What's the quantity? Do they have to click it every time, or is it a renewable resource. I want a word with them, for how small the box is that they gave me. Do they not believe that I have anything. Am I not anything?

Probably not. 5 years is a long time to be somewhere, and then again, a flash of time entirely. It's business, not personal. But, that's about the most laughable statement I've ever heard said up until now. It makes me frustrated to think of how many times I used it to justify a lie to a customer or a mis-alignment of the numbers.

I glower at the people on the street, the mothers with their children, the other businessmen and women, casting skeptical looks at me. I know what they’re thinking, they’re just glad it wasn’t them. That’s all anyone will be thinking when news circulates back at the office. Unless, of course, everyone already knew, which they probably did. That’s why Rod from HR was giving me delicate looks everytime I grabbed a donut from the break room. He was probably adding it to my post-humonous bill.

Eventually, it becomes obvious that blubbering on the curb is unproductive, for both myself and my dignity. Down the street, I begin to walk with open-eyes for the first time. There’s no pinging in my inbox, no one trying to reach me about finishing a deal, or closing a contract. I’ve walked this street a million times and I’ve never noticed that the trees were so tall, I didn't even think cherry blossoms could be found on this street. But there are three of them, swaying and spreading their petals, until I’m standing directly under one and a petal falls onto my nose.

“Hey, that tickles!” I shout, laughing to myself. Again, I ignore the curious looks of passerbyers. It’s my decision how I’ll cope with the trauma of losing my job. If I want to talk to a tree, I’ll talk to a damn tree!

As I’m walking, I notice an ice-cream truck. Running over, I order a Spongebob pop, the one with the bubblegum eyes. The icey sugar drips as I walk further, hastening my pace when I come across a playground. There’s an open swing, and I sit on it, a child laughing at me. I shake my head, smiling. If only that child knew just how bad he might have it one day! He wouldn’t be laughing at me, but that’s not my goal here. Let him stay as green as he can for as long as he can.

Walking away, dizzy from spinning and popping a bubble the size of a fist, I venture to the open-field of grass. I plop myself down, laying in my white-collared shirt, unconcerned with dirt or stains for the first time in five years. Laying there, I stare at the sky. The accumulation of the clouds looks like an arrow, and it’s pointing me in a direction.

Only, I don’t know where the arrow leads.

I can only guess it doesn’t lead back where I came from. But if it is pushing me forward, where do I go? What choice do I have? With years of the same routine, the same clothes, emails sent back and forth in a never-ending merry-go-round of circling back and touching base. Where do I go?

Only forward, a path I have yet to explore. I used to have a friend named Harry, and when I squint, I can't remember why I haven't seen him in years. I'm only aware that I miss him. He would like this time, I know it, maybe I'll box it up for him and send it. Only then, how would I remember the exact shade of maroon my mom thought suited my brown eyes?

When I was little, I could watch the clouds with my mom for hours, telling stories about what they meant. Little lives within each cloud, forever represented in the spoken messages between my mother and I.

“That’s a man who lost it all.” I smile, saying to no one in particular, “But he still has himself. Isn’t that neat?”