A MIST OF LIGHT
by William Pauley III
Sometimes I have trouble moving.
What I mean is, my body won’t do things that seem easy for everyone else. I’m talking simple things, like ordering a coffee or driving a car or most anything to do with being around or interacting with other human beings. Something about it all causes me to freeze up—I go numb, and in my mind I instantly fall back into some impossible dark space that takes me far away from my surroundings. Most of the time I can feel it coming on and I’m able to dip out before it hits, but sometimes it happens so quickly that I don’t have time to react, so I end up just standing in place, staring vacantly, lost inside a deep void created by my own malfunctioning mind.
“Mr. Crumb!” a female voice sternly shouts, instantly bringing me back to reality.
It happened again. I was lost inside the dark place.
“Will you be joining us today, Mr. Crumb?” the same voice asks. It isn’t until I hear the name for a second time that I realize it belongs to me. A shiver runs through to the end of every nerve. I shake it off and turn toward the voice, but by the time my eyes focus on the figure standing before me, I’m berated by an onslaught of laughter.
That’s when I remember I’m in the middle of my second day of orientation for yet another new job. Despite closing in on fifty, I’m still not sure what I want to do with my life—actually, it would be more accurate to say that I’m still not sure what I have to do with my life, because I already know what I want to do, collect rocks, but unfortunately that doesn’t pay the bills. That’s why I’ve spent the last thirty years trying to find something I can do that does pay the bills, but also works around my many anxieties and insecurities and mood swings and…well, the list goes on and on. My point is is that despite being middle aged, I still haven’t found a job that works for me, and I’m afraid anything short of hoarding unusual-looking rocks just won’t cut it. It’s honestly the only thing that brings me any joy, but here lately, not having a steady job—not being able to keep a steady job—and all the societal pressure that comes along with it, is really starting to weigh on me. A few weeks ago I woke up one day just feeling…pathetic. That’s when I decided that the next job I took on, no matter what it happened to be, would be the one that I’d stick with for the rest of my life.
So, now I’m a window washer.
And I’m determined to make it work.
It’s time I finally grow up.
“Uh, yeah. Sorry,” I finally manage to stammer. Ms. Lorry, my boss, is standing with a group of new hires, over by a window at the end of a long hallway. She’s waving at me, motioning for me to join them, as the others just laugh at my brief moment of derealization. I can’t say I blame them either. I’m sure it’s a funny sight, seeing a man my age disconnect from reality, like some drug-addled youth—slack-jawed and stoned, foolishly attempting to pass off as strait-laced and sober. Hell, I’d laugh myself if it wasn’t so goddamn depressing.
I walk over to the group. Ms. Lorry hands me a squeegee, but pulls back just as I reach to grab it.
“Try to hold on to it this time, will ya?” she says, rolling her eyes as she says it. She’s referring to the day before, when my nerves got the best of me and I accidentally dropped the squeegee from my position on the suspended scaffolding, six floors up. I nod back at her, doing my best to conceal my embarrassment, and she hands it over to me. My palms are slick with perspiration, so I grip it with both hands.
“Alright, so now do I have everyone’s attention?” she says, as if it was the second time she said it. I’m not sure if she’s trying to be funny. If the group’s still laughing, I’ve already tuned them out. It’s a little trick I’ve learned over the years to help deal with the constant ridicule.
“As I mentioned yesterday,” she continues, “we only allow two on the scaffolding at any given time—no exceptions. It’s a matter of safety, people. Two bodies on a single platform allows our employees—meaning all of you—to safely perform their job duties. Equal weight distribution. Makes sense, right? Typically, the two standing on the platform would be the washer—or the one with the brush—and the dryer—or the one with the squeegee—but today, for training purposes, we’ll only be doing one at a time. I’ll be the second body on the platform, guiding each of you through your duties, that way there’s no confusion in what we expect from you in exchange for a weekly paycheck. Still with me?”
The question is directed at me, or at least she’s making eye contact with me as she asks it. I just nod my head once again, in hopes that she won’t continue jabbing.
“Luke, let’s start with you,” she says, pointing at another within the group. To my surprise, it’s my next-door neighbor. We aren’t exactly what you’d call friends—in fact, we’ve never spoken to one another directly, but I’ve worked with some people in the past who spoke fondly of him. They’d always talk about his paintings as if they belonged in some museum somewhere. I’ve always been curious to see one of them, but far too skittish and shy to ever talk to him whenever I’d see him walking the hallways.
One thing I know for sure though is that I’ve never seen him happier than he is right now, holding that window brush. I can’t honestly say I’ve ever seen a smile so wide in all my life. It almost looks painful. The man is radiating pure joy to an exaggerated degree, and I can’t take my eyes off of him.
Luke climbs out the open window and stands upon the suspended scaffolding just outside it.
Ms. Lorry follows close behind. As they settle into place, turning so that they’re both facing the building, I too position myself within the small crowd inside so that I can keep a close eye on Luke. He isn’t blinking. His eyes are shriveled and bloodshot, appearing as though they’ve been open for centuries. The moisture that once lubricated his eyeballs now leaks along the sides of his unshaven face. His smile is that of a contortionist’s, broken and bending in all the wrong places, and his open mouth is stretched so wide I can literally count every tooth inside his head—he has most of them. He wields the window brush like a rifle and waits patiently for Ms. Lorry to shout a command.
“Let’s see what you’ve got,” she says, much more calmly than I was expecting, and like a soldier marching across enemy lines, Luke attacks the glass with everything in him, pushing the brush across every last inch of the panel until the entire thing is covered in soap suds. He washes the expanse of the six-foot windowpane so quickly that I thought for sure it must’ve broken some kind of record, but Ms. Lorry doesn’t comment on his pace at all, so I can only assume this is the pace we’re all expected to keep.
The squeegee nearly slips from my hands, but I catch it before anyone notices.
“Nice work, Luke,” Ms. Lorry says, motioning for him to step back inside. “I think you’ll do just fine here.” Then she looks over at me. “Mr. Crumb, you’re next. I figure we should get to you while you’re still with us.” The group chuckles once again, but I ignore them.
Once Luke is back inside, I climb up onto the windowsill and step out onto the scaffolding. I absolutely hate this part. I’ve never been one for heights, and this rickety platform isn’t helping me warm up to them either. Honestly, the fact that I even applied for this job in the first place goes to show how desperate I am to find anything that will help me feel less pathetic. Still, I’m trying to remain optimistic by hoping that eventually I’ll become so used to this job that I’ll just get over it, that I’ll finally conquer my fear. Here’s hoping. Until then, every time I do this I’m keeping my eyes closed until I’m facing the building. I’d probably pass out if I ever got a real glimpse of the city.
“Wake up, Mr. Crumb,” Ms. Lorry says, not missing a beat. “Hurry now, before the suds dry and we have to do the job twice.”
I open my eyes and nod, squeezing the handle of the squeegee so unnecessarily tight that my hands actually feel numb from it…so unnecessarily tight that I can’t quite get the angle right…so unnecessarily tight that the moment I push its rubber edge against the glass, the entire windowpane bursts into glass confetti.
Ms. Lorry doesn’t even look surprised. The rest of the new hires are in tears, they’re laughing so hard. That is, except for one: Luke.
He just stands there, staring back at me, casting that wicked grin. But he isn’t laughing. Just smiling that awful, painfully outstretched smile and staring blankly ahead, at nothing, as if his body is some kind of idling machine, just vibrating and waiting to start up again. His eyes are so vacant he doesn’t even seem to be there—inside, I mean. That’s when it occurs to me that perhaps Luke and I are much more similar than I’d once suspected. Perhaps he too falls into the dark place, and if so, then somehow he’s managed to override it, to get his body to do things he never could’ve done otherwise.
If it turns out to be true, then maybe there’s hope for me yet.
Thankfully, Ms. Lorry doesn’t fire me on the spot, although she does make a point to tell me she has a three-strike rule and I’ve already burned through two in my first two days. Things aren’t looking good for me, but I’m trying not to let it get me down. She also tells me my first paycheck will be garnished to cover the damages. I wanted to tell her that I should only have to pay for half the cost of the window, as Luke’s violent brushing is what surely weakened the glass, but I decided just to keep my mouth shut. Really, not having that first check doesn’t bother me so much. Don’t get me wrong, I can sure use the money, but right now, the most important thing to me is just to keep the job. I have something to prove to myself and I can’t keep going through life letting myself down time and time again.
I’m breaking the cycle.
On my way home this evening, I walk alongside Luke the entire way. At first, I’m too shy to say anything, but I can’t stop thinking about all the things I’d like to ask him. This isn’t like me at all. Most of the time I’m out in public, all I can think about is how to maneuver through each situation without having to say or do anything in the process. There isn’t much room for any other thought. But now, walking along this hallway, all I can think of is how I’m going to approach this man to ask for his guidance. He clearly knows something I don’t, and what he knows might give me everything I need to succeed in life. If I don’t muster the courage to speak to him, I might lose my job. I have to do it. I can’t put it off. It’s now or never…
He stops at the elevator and pushes the call button. Even though it lights up the way it’s supposed to, I know it’s out of service, because I tried it earlier that day and I couldn’t get the damn thing to budge. Still, I stopped and stood beside him as if I hadn’t a clue.
This is it. Say something. Talk to him, damn it.
“Your name’s Luke, right?” I stammer. Although the words seem to come out okay, on the inside I feel as if my every major organ is melting. I almost prefer stabbing myself in the eyeballs repeatedly than saying another word. Almost.
Luke turns toward me in the most odd, robotic way I’ve ever seen a human move, and my body shudders the instant I see that bulging, gap-toothed smile pinned at the edges of his face. Even though I should’ve seen it coming, I still stand there like a doofus, staring at the dark spots on his gums until something he says snaps me out of my trance.
“Hey, aren’t we neighbors?” he asks, his words sounding a bit garbled because his lips don’t slide fully over his teeth when he talks. They don’t seem to fit over his smile. It’s as if his mouth has somehow outgrown the rest of his face. I try not to pay it any attention.
“Yes! We are!” I say, sounding way too enthusiastic, but I just go with it because it’s not as bad as it could be. “You’re a painter, right? I used to work with a guy who bought one of your paintings. He says you’re really talented!”
“Hey, I have a favor to ask,” he says, totally ignoring my question. “Can you please punch me in the face? Right here in the hallway, I don’t care. Just make sure you hit me hard enough to knock me out.” He’s still smiling as he says it.
“Excuse me?” I say, then laugh. Although there really isn’t another thing he could be saying, it makes so little sense to me that I still question it. I assume I must have heard him wrong.
“Please, I’m begging you! Put me out of my misery,” he says, then falls upon his knees and hugs my legs. I have to lean over and balance myself on his back in order to keep from falling over.
“Misery? What are you going on about?” I ask, pulling him back up to his feet. Now that I’m really looking at him, I can see there’s deep sadness in his eyes. The smile doesn’t seem so happy now, just an immovable fixture perched on the lower half of his face, no longer able to accurately display emotion.
“This isn’t me!” he shouts, his words sounding even more garbled the more hysterical he becomes. He digs into his pocket and removes a small orange container with a white plastic lid. A tube of prescription pills. He tosses it down the hallway. “I knew I shouldn’t have listened to that quack of a doctor! He doesn’t even have a proper office! He operates out of a goddamn abandoned building!”
“Whoa now! Hold on, are you okay? I mean, should I call for an ambulance?” I ask. My hands hover before him as my mind struggles with deciding whether to serve his needs or my own. He clearly needs to be comforted, but I don’t feel comfortable being the one to comfort him. So instead, I just…hover.
“I haven’t been able to paint since I first started taking this! It’s altered everything! My thoughts! My entire personality! It’s gotta wear off at some point, right?” he says, now pacing in circles. “And what’s up with this elevator? Doesn’t anything work the way it’s supposed to around here?!” He rears back and kicks the door of the elevator with all he has in him. The door dents inward slightly, then, for no real reason that I can see, he runs off screaming towards the stairwell, disappearing as he turns the corner.
I stand there for a moment, wondering if all of it actually just happened, or if I was asleep in my bed and dreaming all of this. It appears that it actually happened.
Before heading back to my apartment, I walk over to the pill container laying on the floor in the middle of the hallway and pick it up. There’s only a single word written on its label, ‘Happiness.’ I open the lid and see a handful of purple orbs inside, each about the size of a pearl. I hold one up in front of my face to get a better look and much to my surprise, the thing bursts in my hand, expelling a short mist of light into the surrounding air, then quickly fading. It smells like cotton candy. Instantly, I feel it working its way inside me.
I take the bottle home with me.
The next day, Luke doesn’t return to work, but I do.
I work the entire shift, plus an extra two hours—cause they’re a little short on manpower right now and can really use the help. In that entire time, not once did a single squeegee drop or window break.
I did it. I’m doing it.
Ms. Lorry says there’s plenty of opportunity for me to move up in the company. She says if I keep working the way I worked today, then I’ll be a supervisor in no time. So, tomorrow I’m going to work an extra three hours…hell, maybe even four. I want to show my dedication to the company. It doesn’t leave me much time to look for unusual-looking rocks for my collection, but I can do that on the weekends. No big deal.
Well, they may need me on weekends too…
No matter.
I’m happy to do it.
A MIST OF LIGHT
© William Pauley III, 2023
All rights reserved.
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