As part of an initiative I started, to get myself writing, I decided to write a short story based on a character from my office. I got so excited (or rather disappointed with each one) I wrote three.
Let me know what to you think.
The office guy 1
He walks in the
corridors compulsively. Walking helps him think; one can spot him walking in
circles, up and down, every few weeks. That’s the cue that work is hectic, that
he has too many things on his mind. This walking while chewing his nails and
the nail bed, head tilted to the right, lost in thought, is his way of calming
down his agitation. The fingers looked raw, gnawed away, the nails all pared
down, except two fingers on the right hand that sport longish nails.
As he makes his way to
his desk, he throws his bag with flourish, takes a sip of his coffee and flops
on his seat. He has been trying to keep things in control but everything seems
to be spilling out. Restless he reaches out for his morning fix of cigarettes,
and doesn't find it. He rummages through the drawers, table top, pats his
pockets but nothing. “Drats!” he thinks, “not again.” This is the second time
this week he’s misplaced his pack. He’s always been forgetful but this is too
embarrassing; he can’t go around asking people if they've seen his pack
anywhere, not again at least. He mumbles to himself, half cussing, half berating
his clumsiness. The missing pack is annoying him to hell. “Is someone playing a
prank?”, he wonders. That thought is enough to let loose another string of
expletives. Swearing vengeance on whoever was behind this, he begins to run
down a list of suspects. Halfway through, he considers adding the girls to the
list. Somebody could have easily put them up to this, and this kind of
irrational, childish prank would be just up their alley. The girls don’t like
him as it is. He senses their animosity veiled under their smiles and laughs.
Still, in so many years they have never bothered to trouble him, so what could
have changed now? Did he cross some line with someone? Quite possible, given
that he always speaks his mind.
He needs his fix
quickly. Borrowing (actually just taking) one from a colleague, he heads to the
unofficial smoking zone. Plugging on his head phones, he tries to sit and wrap
his head around this work situation. The music changes to Radiohead and he
gives a wry smile, happy that at least something is right for once. The day progresses, work gets more hectic;
more arguments, more abuses and the worst part is the cigarettes haven’t shown
up.
He picks his guitar
and hears something move within. It’s the damn cigarette pack. “I’ll be
damned,” he said, his left hand scratching his head wondering how they landed
there in the first place.
**************************************************
The office guy 2
He sits looking around
the room, hoping for someone to catch his eye. He adjusts his coat, checking it
for lint. His wonders if he should shed it anyway; he knows his bowler hat,
sitting atop his longish black hair, peppered with white and golden strands, is
enough to at least earn him a glance. His skin-tight rust jeans and white
t-shirt actually cling to the contours of his maintained body. He is very
particular about what he wears especially making sure it displays his best
assets.
He walks across the room,
confidently with a little spring in his step; this is his zone, he is most
comfortable here. Sometimes, his bearing can appear like that of a king looking
down on his subjects, or glad to be gracing the rest with his appearance, but
today it is just a self-assured walk of someone who knows what he wants.
Reaching the bar, he gives the bartender a flirtatious smile and places his
order. Turning around, he places his elbows on the counter and rests a leg
behind on the bar wall. Looking around, he is surprised at the number of good
looking women; they surely outnumber the men raising the stakes unfairly. He
hates to have to resort to ‘tricks’ to catch attention, but enjoys the build-up
to the chase. In this place teeming with beautiful people, what makes one stand
out? He knows his type and all he needs, is that one special thing to tell him, "This is it".
Collecting his
margaritas, he spots something. As they make eye contact, his eyes light up. “Gotcha!”
His excitement is impalpable; just to tease, feel and up the tempo, he
deliberately walks close to his prey, gives a reassuring smile and heads to his
booth. Chugging down his drink in one go, he collects his coat, kisses his
friends and promises to fill in the details later.
As he makes his way out
of the booth, he wonders, what name he should use today. Smiling to himself, he
looks at his reflection in the mirrors and takes a deep breath saying, “This
is it!” He taps the black coat and says, “Hi, I’m Priyanka!”
**************************************************
Someone, somewhere
He sits patiently sipping on his favourite frothy
brew. There is a reverence on his face, soaking in the splendour that this time
of the day brings; this place too is perfect—with not too many people to rankle
him with their talk but just enough for him to look up to from time to time.
He debates whether to put on his
headphones; they are a bright enough colour to attract attention, but that’s
not his intention for now. Now, he needs
to concentrate on people. It’s one of the things he likes to do — look at
people, read into their actions and then weave a story describing their life. Once he settles down with his observations, he can devote all his attention to
the girl who will come in shortly—in another fifteen minutes actually.
He had first noticed her last week, while
making a selection of the muffins. Her milky white skin, dark brown hair and
petite body drew him instantly. Her face looked familiar (only later he
realised that she looked like a cross between Kristen Stewart and Briana
Evigan) and he would have approached her, had she not just picked up her black
satchel and walked out. It would appear strange, and not to mention obvious, if
he walked out right after her, mid-order. Shaking his head as if to come out of
that moment, he gave a wry smile thinking about all the times when he would
have cared less.
His friends would not believe him if he
told them of letting someone like her go. Bad enough they had a hard time
trying to categorise him, but he prided himself on his ability to be a modern
day Proteus. To a casual observer, he presented himself as a mixture of
contrasts, actually contrasts within contrasts—one moment the master, next an
ardent student, comfortable in playing the role of the leader and the easily
malleable one as well. These are all masks he dons to throw off people, just
for the heck of it. Like a storyteller toying with his characters, at times he
deliberately baits people with his calculated passivity, then intentionally
inserts his presence in all kinds of situations and often manipulates people to
reveal more of themselves.
Within him lay polarities that are designed
to confuse—one moment he can hold you with his unwavering, unblinking eyes,
daring you to look away, enjoying the fact that you are aware of his scrutiny,
the next, his gaze can freeze you like a cold hit from the Artic, and at times
refusing to meet your eyes, talking to you self-assuredly but looking at some
point beyond your left shoulder.
His bluntness of speech is hidden in the glibness
of the words, tools he uses as a shield against mediocrity; he rarely suffers
fools. Yet, he is not beyond using subterfuge to get his way; little things of
timings and placements that he thinks people don’t notice, but that happen
often enough to reveal a kind of pattern. When something catches his eye, he
knows he will pursue it with an obsessiveness that is unnerving, but is smart
enough to pull back when it’s a lost cause.
His smile broadens as her spots her
entering. She was not a lost cause, definitely not a lost cause at all; as he
gets up to enfold her in a hug.
