Picking Stones Chapter 1
"Lost"
Table of Contents
Chapter 1; Chapter 2; Chapter 3 & 4; Chapter 5; Chapter 6 & 7; Chapter 8; Chapter 9; Chapter 10; Chapter 11; Chapter 12 & 13; Chapter 14, 15, & 16; Chapter 17 & 18; Chapter 19; Chapter 20; Chapter 21; Chapter 22; Chapter 23 & 24; Chapter 25 & 26; Chapter 27; Chapter 28; Chapter 29; Chapter 30; Chapter 31 (Final Chapter)
Chapter 1 - Lost
Like most things in life, I have no idea where to start. So, I figured a good place might be the day before my life was completely changed by a little white card with three letters printed on it. We’ll get to that later. For now, an apt place to begin would be at the office, the day before the story really starts. For your entertainment, I’ll start right at the onset of a serious bout of existential dread—or, a typical day at work.
Let me be clear, the initial cause for such deep feeling wasn’t anything particularly deep at all. To be honest, the existential dread kicked in right around the time psychological warfare broke out between myself and the fluorescent light that was blinking above my head. As usual, I was losing.
Why do offices always use the most overwhelmingly bright and brutal lighting? Could they not think of anything better to illuminate a room? Did they want to torture us? (The they in question being the bigwigs that get to force their pencil-pushing will onto all of their loyal subjects pushing said pencils for them.)
I always figured the inception of fluorescent lighting in offices went something like this: Somewhere in the design phase of the first ever office build-out, the CEO got up out of his chair, struck by a bolt of inspiration. “Let’s brighten this bitch up!” he exclaimed. “That’ll keep em working!” Slow clap from all his Yes Men as if he had just uttered words that would change humankind for all of existence. Actually, it did change humankind forever, and people like me are stuck paying the consequences. On top of that, some of the people in my office actually like this lighting. Sick bastards.
Anyway. I couldn’t take it anymore. The torture had to end. The low buzzing that the faulty light was giving off had become deafening. It was wrapping its buzzing clutches around my psyche. There wasn’t much time left before I’d start suffocating. Then it would be goodbye world and office and girlfriend and cat lamp and—wait.
Darkness fell in my cubicle. The light, apparently hearing my internal monologue, seemed to have lost the will to live. It shut off. But its horrible buzzing did not subside. Somehow, it had gotten worse. It must have gotten loose. Too much fist pumping in the office upstairs maybe. All I knew for sure was that there wasn’t much time left. I needed to make a move.
The HR department would have lost their shit had they seen me step one foot, then the other onto the company-provided faux leather swivel chair. Wrong move. The chair jerked to the right as I lurched up.
This would be how I’d die. Reaching up to tap the light back into place. The chair would roll a few inches. I’d be thrust off, my arms flailing like a graceful manatee suspended through the air, just as my head crashes down onto the edge of the desk, severing my neck from the spine.
All of the coworkers I couldn’t stand would be gifted a free week vacation from witnessing such a traumatic event.
Maybe in a different reality. In this one I tapped the light back into the socket, was momentarily blinded, and promptly hopped off the chair in defeat. Returning my butt into the chair, I realized I didn’t wipe off any dust that my shoes probably tracked onto the chair. I’d need to get to the bathroom and wipe away any evidence from my soiled hindquarters.
Later that morning, my disheveled face stared at me from the reflection in my rebooting computer. It was Friday. The weekend was shaping up to be a miserable one. My stomach was in a violent knot. Realization of losing $5,000 on a bad stock trade just hit me. I sat frozen looking at the little red chart on my phone sinking lower and lower. Despair kicked in. During the Battle of the Florescent Light, I had somehow forgotten I was supposed to hit sell at 9:30 on a trading tip from one of my coworkers. I had missed the window. The dollars on the screen continued to dwindle lower and lower.
Had I clicked sell when I was supposed to, it would have been a pretty significant gain. Like rent covered for the next six months type of gain. I rubbed my temples. My head was pounding. Why did this always happen to me?
I buried my head in my work. Maybe it was the job that made me feel so miserable. I snapped my neck left. Crack. Right. Crack. The knuckles followed suit. Cracked mentally and physically, I was able to get back to it.
Who was I kidding? Of course it was the job. I hated—
“Will! How’d you make out on that tip?”
I internally winced. Swiveling around, my eyes had the misfortune to settle on the sneering face of my coworker, Clark. He’s the one who put me on to that stock tip. He had a smile from ear to ear. The fluorescent light above my head blinded me as it reflected off his veneers.
“I’m up fifteen grand from Monday! What a week, huh?”
“Well,” I started. “It hasn’t blown up for me yet.”
“You’re not holding right? It’s a pump and dump. Whoever is holding is going to lose their shirt!” Was his smile growing wider?
“No way. I made out pretty well. Thanks for the tip!”
A few more excruciating comments later he finally trotted away. My breath started returning to normal. Six more hours before I could clock out. At least it was Friday.
Cold air slapped me in the face when I exited the building and walked out onto Fifth Avenue. It was a crisp October evening. Almost half past five. The sun was just about ready to set. I felt a second wind entering my brain. Not that I would need one.
Fridays usually consisted of me walking to the subway, saying hey to my girlfriend Beth, pigging out, and falling asleep in a greasy fake-food induced stupor. This same process would be repeated tomorrow night, before Sunday would send the horrible reality of returning to work shuddering into my bones.
How was I supposed to look Beth in the face when I got home? She’d been bugging me to save as much as possible so we could cough up a down payment on an apartment I didn’t want to buy. Since first trying to instill that into my brain, I had proceeded to lose almost all of my surplus income on either stocks or cryptocurrency “investments.” At least she was understanding. I knew the news would disappoint her, but her comforting embrace would be the only thing that would keep me sane tonight.
I stopped at a Starbucks for a coffee and to grab a surprise muffin for Beth. Blueberry. Her favorite. A second reason for stopping had been to relieve myself, but that’s a story for a different day.
I zipped up, juggled the coffee/muffin combo, and stole a glance at myself in the bathroom mirror before I made way for the subway. My dirty blond stubble was growing in. I tried to flatten out some wrinkles on my forehead, and then wiped said forehead grease through my hair to fix it. The person staring back at me looked like a stranger.
I coughed and walked out into the city. It was so crowded, but empty. Strangers passing by. No one noticing each other as they hurried to wherever they had to be. The last rays of the sun were breaking through the glass buildings towering over me like spears being thrown from the heavens. I wished one of them would impale me.
My phone buzzed. It was a message from my friend Phil. Apparently I had agreed to go hiking upstate with him tomorrow morning. There goes sleeping in, I thought.
The subway entrance was fast approaching. I took one last look at the sun before I ducked inside. I loved the fall, but like everything else in life, it had its faults. The sun would be set by the time I unearthed from the subway station in Forest Hills. It was something that always made me a little sad.
Like I said, in the span of my thirty-minute ride, it was as if the world had fast forwarded six hours. It was a dark and lonely walk to my apartment. As I walked, I couldn’t help but check behind me every few steps.
I had been extremely paranoid lately. Of what? Who knows. I kept getting the strange feeling that someone was following me. I highly doubt anyone really had a bone to pick with a complacent 28-year-old, but it did nothing to shake the feeling.
The first time it happened was a few weeks ago. I had gotten out of the grocery store when the hairs on the back of my neck began to creep up. Any morsels of oxygen in my lungs were vacuumed out. There I was on Austin and Ascan, no one around. Just this weird presence around me. I just clenched my butthole and made a mad dash for home.
I never told Beth about it, just acted natural when I got home. But since then, the feeling returned whenever I was alone. It must have been something I put in my head. Maybe it was some stupid show I watched.
Not that it mattered. The feeling of being watched still lingered. Maybe I wanted someone to follow me. Maybe I wanted to believe someone would give me the time of day. The desire for importance was just hard to shake.
An old woman hobbled behind me with a couple of grocery bags. I almost jumped. My eyes darted at her fifteen times. I needed to make sure she wasn’t a shapeshifter or demon or anything. Aright, something was definitely wrong with me.
Here’s a little old lady carrying her groceries. Meanwhile I’m checking to make sure she’s not trying to toss me into an alley and force her little hand down my pants. I’ve always been attracted to older women, but shapeshifting demon lady wasn’t on my bucket list.
My apartment building came into view. I shook off the image which had unfortunately etched into my mind and made way for the entrance. I’m telling you though, something strange was going on. I could feel it.
The hallway light was flickering. I reached for my apartment door and was transported for a split second back into my cubicle, under the light from this morning. Then I snapped back to my hallway when the motion of opening the door was prematurely stopped, transferring that force back into my elbow. I pushed at the door again. It opened six inches before I heard the thud. Something was blocking it. Peaking in, I saw the culprit: a suitcase.
This was a surprising development. I clutched the surprise muffin and slowly pushed the door open so the luggage didn’t topple over.
“Beth?” I called out. “What’s with the luggage? Are you surprising me with that Maine trip we talked about? If so, I’ve brought a surprise of equal or lesser value!” I looked down at the muffin. Judging by the imprints of my thumb into the wrapper, I’d say it was teetering on the lesser value side of surprises.
No response was given, so I kicked off my shoes, walking the four feet through the kitchen, and plopped myself on the couch in the living room.
“Will?” Her voice came from the bedroom, the only one we had. Quick footsteps started sounding. I ducked the muffin under the coffee table so she wouldn’t see it. She unearthed from the bedroom and entered the story. Her jacket was zipped, blond hair in a tight bun. Confusion set in.
“Where are you going?” I said.
“Away.”
Silence set in.
A few moments passed.
“Away where?”
Tears set in. Her eyes, not mine.
“Away, like, I’m leaving, Will.”
Tightness began in the chest. Temples pounding. Paranoia. Not unlike the run-in with potential demonic energy from earlier. Her face was stone cold. Blue eyes sending icicles right into my heart. Makeup smudged her usually red cheeks.
“I’m confused,” was all I could muster. In reality, how could I have been confused? Anybody could have sniffed this out a mile away. Anyone but me.
“I thought we were happy,” was my next attempt at rectifying the situation. Bad move.
We’d been together three years.
“I’ve invested too much time in something that isn’t working.”
We were getting ready to buy a place together.
“You can’t even afford to buy a shitty one-bedroom apartment.”
Things were going to start looking up.
“You hate your job, you hate your life. How can you expect anything to get better when you won’t do anything to make it better?”
Unless there was someone else.
“There’s someone else.”
Bingo.
“Someone who knows what they want and isn’t stringing me along just so I can pat them on the back and make them feel better after they had a bad day at work. I can’t do this anymore. I need to worry about my own happiness. I can’t just constantly walk on eggshells anytime you come home upset. It’s draining, Will. I can’t do it anymore.”
My mind searched for an answer. All it came up with was, “Um.” Yikes.
A few painfully awkward minutes later, she gathered the rest of the stuff she had packed up, and then she was gone. The door slammed shut behind her so hard it popped back open. I got up to close it and grabbed a beer from the fridge before returning to the couch.
There was an eerie silence. The TV was on but I couldn’t hear anything.
This is the first chapter of a novel that was published in installments here on Thinking Man.
Thank you for reading. I hope you continue to follow along.
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You can also buy me a coffee. It’s a good investment—this whole thing was written in coffee shops, and it can get expensive.
Try dining in an intimate setting under fluorescent lights if you want to end your relationship, Lol! 😏
So great! You’ve set it up really well and I’m eager to read the next one. Ugh, I hate that horrid bright white light. It’s so cold and ugly; lifeless.