One of my longest held theories concerning the hole was it was a puzzle piece, and I just had to figure out what fit into it. Some days I’d try food, other days sex or porn. When I had a few days off in a row, I’d spend one of them just sleeping most of the day to see if that would work. On my not-so-good days, I’d drink. Fortunately, I’m a big enough lightweight that I end up just falling asleep before I’m able to damage my liver too much.
Today, my alarm wakes me up at five in the morning and I groan, quite positive that sleeping would definitely fill the empty space. My rumbling stomach disagrees and reminds me that if I pass on hitting the snooze button, I might actually have time to eat. Charlie, my cat, was also apparently quite eager to eat, and began nipping on my ear as if to say if I did not feed him soon, I just might be his next meal.
Some days I have a hard time getting out of bed. As much as one would think a missing piece would make me feel lighter, it felt more like a massive weight holding me down onto the bed. On days like those, I would press snooze a couple of times while contemplating the pros and cons of calling into work, but typically just make myself get up and act like a functioning adult capable of holding a job. Fake it until you make it, right?
Today was not one of those days, thankfully, and I was more-or-less easily able to get up, shower, and head out in time to stop by a gas station for coffee and a breakfast sandwich. Maybe I have really inexpensive taste in coffee, but I swear the gas station’s pre-mixed Mocha Xtreme! coffee tasted as good as, if not better than, coffee from one of the nice cafes in town. I don’t dwell on it too much; a buck fifty versus four dollars for the same kind of coffee was nothing I was going to fuss over.
Caffeinating myself was almost like playing Russian roulette. Most of the time I’d be fine, just your regular fake-awake person. Some mornings I had a “bad trip,” where the extra energy just fuels my anxiety, a quick trip to a panic attack. I pretty much worked at my own pace, so people didn’t really notice if I spent thirty minutes in the bathroom calming down. Some days I’d wish they’d find me in there, though, and figure out what was wrong and help me through it. I was just always sure I’d get fired instead. Who wants to employ someone who breaks under the stress of caffeine?
I chug the hot drink as I walk through the doors of my office building. I stride past the hivework of cubicles, always relieved I don’t work among them. My office is toward the back and is what I assume used to be the janitor’s closet before he complained enough to get a larger one. It can be claustrophobic at times, but I love the seclusion. Just me and my numbers.
The day goes by smoothly enough. I’m somewhat of a bookkeeper. I compare our insurance sales versus how much money we actually received. It’s simple, for the most part. Occasionally I’ll have to talk to the boss about so and so not completing such and such form properly, and I get a kind of sick delight to see the twinkle in her eye which means she is tired of the same person making the same mistake (today I was hoping it would be John Groeter from cubicle 37B). The twinkle was never directed at me, of course. I was just the messenger, and I triple checked the message before I sent it.
But today. Today, today, today. Today I had to call a client. The forms for Mr. Fieldweather says he bought the Ultimate Deluxe Savings for Funerals and Loan Payments, but the price he paid suggested he added on Hospital Stays and Medical Malpractice as well. Were this done by Jon Groeter from cubicle 37B, I would feel more confident saying he made the mistake and forgot to list the extra services. However, this was done by Lauren Fetch from cubicle 12F, who was new to the company, and whose transactions I didn’t know so well. I contemplate asking her, but would she be honest with the answer? Would she try to keep herself out of trouble? Was she doing it on purpose? No, I had to call Mr. Fieldweather to see what exactly he bought.
I steel myself, hoping the boss would walk in and take over for me, but dreading to be found incapable of doing my job. I breathe in and out steadily for a moment, then pick up the phone and dial the number.
Ever since I was young, I hated interacting with people when I didn’t have to, and it only got worse once the hole developed in high school. I made my parents or my friends order food delivery, I had someone else pretend to be me when getting the oil changed on my car or if someone needed to be home for plumbing issues. I’ve gotten better about it, but moments like this always filled me with dread.
“Hello?”
“Hello, I’m from Goldman’s Insurance. May I speak with Mr. Fieldweather?”
“Speaking.”
“Hello, Mr. Fieldweather, I was just wondering how you liked your new insurance policy?”
There was a silence.
“Well, I’ve only had it for a few weeks, and I’m obviously not dead or in the hospital, so how could I know?”
He said “in the hospital.” Does that mean he has the extra services?
“So, uhm. So would you say you feel more, uh, secure? With the added on coverage of Hospital Stays and Medical Malpractice?”
“Hospital medical what? I didn’t get anything like that. I got Funerals, Loan Payments, and 36 Month Post-Death or Injury Salary.”
Of course! That costs the same as the Hospital Stays and Medical Malpractice. Why hadn’t I thought of that?
I begin sweating. “O-oh, my apologies, sir, I must have written down incorrect information. So very sorry.”
“You called me on a Monday morning, got me out of bed with my weak knees, because you wrote down the wrong information? Do I need to talk to your manager?”
“No, sir! Sorry, sir! Won’t happen again, sir! Have a nice day!” I hang up the phone violently, my hands shaking. The caffeine that had previously heightened my attention and mood was now making my heart pound and I fear I’m having a heart attack. I bolt out of my office, past the cubicles, and out the doors. Even the air outside seems stifling, and I fumble with my car keys, and wonder if I should be driving at all in this state. But I have to get home. Away from this. Away from it all.
I don’t turn on any of the lights when I get home. I shut off my cell phone and climb into bed. I pull the blankets over me and try to go to sleep, but the conversation keeps playing over and over in my head. If I had really looked at the forms, I would have known what Mr. Fieldweather actually purchased. It was so obvious now! I can’t deal with these thoughts, and the coffee is not going to let me sleep. I get up and go to the medicine cabinet. I gulp down some night time cough medicine, then go to the kitchen and wash it down with a swig of whiskey, congratulating myself on a series of healthy choices.
Falling back into my bed, I eventually drift off into a dreamless sleep.
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