Puppets

Half an hour before five o'clock is when the heavy, saturated air of the after-lunch has receded and everyone in the office is jealously waiting for the day to finally be over. I stared blankly at old-fashioned clock on the far wall that looked exactly like the one in my high school. The time was moving so slowly I was convinced I could taste it.
I slowly idled my small chair around to the inside of my cubicle. A picture of myself and Ronald Reagan hung on the right side. I was wearing a goofy looking campaign T-shirt emblazoned with "Reagan '84", and the octogenarian president smiled confidently, although I thought somewhat blankly. The picture was a memento of what I had once thought of doing, once thought valuable and noteworthy. After a few years working on the Hill and for various campaign offices, I had taken what I thought would be a lucrative job and a stepping stone to a long political career. I now worked at the lobby of a powerful cell phone company, preparing reports on the usage minutes of different subsections of the American population, which were used by someone to talk to some politician about some arcane regulation.
The trouble was, I thought as I stared at my Reagan picture, was that I was actually good at this job. I had enough of a stats background from college to qualify, and I was fairly efficient at compiling the data into a readable form, simplifying and dumbing it down for my bosses, whose sole specialty was in persuading people to grant them favors that cost other people money. My latest report, "Trends in Minute Usage among 18-25 African Americans", lay on my desk. I still needed to edit it, and then submit it to my boss. But so close to five o'clock, it was inhumane to begin to work again.
I turned around and looked at the cubicle behind mine and to the right. Amanda was another analyst working in the lobby who was a decidedly attractive brunette. She had a penchant for black---black skirts, suits, and slacks---which made her seem mysterious, inviting. She was a Ivy League grad, yet was in the same position I was, and hoping for the same break I was. We were not in the same party, but when you spend your day fiddling with Excel, political affiliation does not seem to carry the same weight.
I noticed that she was staring intently at her computer, apparently not influenced by the relaxed atmosphere I felt. Feeling impulsive, and somewhat flirtatious, I reached into my cubicle, grabbed a small rubber eraser in the form of the Republican elephant, and tossed it right near her head. The eraser hit her desk and made her almost jump out of her seat. I chuckled, glad that my trick had worked.
Then she turned around -- and my grin stopped. She was almost in tears, and looked confused. She stared at me for a few seconds, made to turn back to her computer, but then decided to remain where she was and leaned her head down. She was wearing a black button-up sweater that was open, revealing a white shirt underneath. I saw that her mascara was dissolving slightly, but she then put her hand over her eyes, and leaned forward. I could hear what I thought were half-sobs.
She then looked up at me.
Wiping her eyes, she said in a broken voice, "I'm sorry, David, I'm sorry, I just learned from my... mom that my brother was injured in a terrorist bombing in Iraq." She took another break, staring down at the floor. She took a deep breath and continued.
"He might not be able to regain the use of his legs."
A feeling of immeasurable weight came over me. I felt guilty at having been so light-hearted earlier, and even worse that I was thinking of flirting. My face burned, as though I was ashamed, and I felt like this display of emotion was inappropriate for the setting.
I stared at her for a bit, watched her sniveling, and realized I needed to say something.
"I am... sorry, Amanda," I said, doing my best to sound caring. I was never very good at sending that impression to people.
"So... is he coming back here soon?"
"I think, uh, next week. My mom's coming out too."
"OK."
Silence followed, which made me feel like I needed to say something, again.
"But he's OK..."
"Yeah, he's, he's fine."
I stared down at my hands, leaning forward in my chair. "Amanda..." my voice trailed off.
She looked up at me, expectant.
"Eh.... you shouldn't be here right now. You should go home."
Amanda nodded, but did not move.
"This isn't... how its supposed to be."
Amanda looked up again, questioning.
I stood up, put my hands on my hips. I wanted to follow that up with something profound, something that would impress her, help her to understand, enlighten her.
Instead, I said, "Let me get that eraser back I threw at you. I'm sorry about that, I had no idea you were-"
"Oh yeah, sure, uh, where is it?" Amanda turned around and stared at the ground. She spotted the elephant, and gave it to me. Her face was blank, I thought, sort of like Reagan's in the picture.
I made eye contact with her for a second. Her expression was poignant, expressing something I wanted to say. But I did not say anything.
After a few moments, she got up, grabbed her purse, and walked out of her cubicle.
"See you... later." She said, paused, before turning away.
"Bye."

Thunderstruck

Never was a man so small, so broken
Gone, replaced, diseased, torn down, without hope.
Pants from a secondhand merchant, no coat,
Just one mangy measly sweater, colored
Gray. "Need help?" she said, the pretty woman,
Who was painted white and red and feminine.
"Yes," he replied, with fear, and spite, without
A thought of losing face, of losing what
Amounted to the dignity of men
Who straddle life with mismatched socks and slacks.
"A burger, ma'am, a buck, or two, no more--
A smart answer, a quick reply, "Sure thing".
Awkwardly his pale lips part, he lets a smile
Penetrate the barrier within that
Covers his white-knuckled hands, which clutch his last
Remaining thought - a book of dreams almost forgot --
A copy of Dickens, Copperfield, last page missing.