Quiet As Day....

Moved everything to quietasday.wordpress.com. Those teeth whitening ads finally got the best of my patience.

Well, this is really from a while ago. I was avoiding homework when I dug it up and managed to edit a bit. It's....depressing. Aaah, I don't want to grow up anymore!



My friend Chris claims that he loves his life. "Seriously, my life's been great," he told me when we met for his usual birthday party celebration among old high school friends - himself and me - together over a lunch or something between hours. As his sworn "study-buddy" all through five years of college and both still unmarried, the two of us are pretty close. Everyone else seemed to have drifted off somewhere and gotten married, leaving just the two of us geezers to contemplate life at the age of thirty-two.

"You say that," I replied, "but you haven't told me the 'why?' yet." He nodded then, with that characteristic quick, cocky upwards tilt of his.

"I get up every morning," he explains to me, "and I get ready for work.

"I got the coffee machine on a timer, set up like one of them bombs you see on tv, where, seven-o'clock--'boom!' you've got coffee in the morning. And I've got my alarm clock that runs on a double-A that I haven't had to replace since I bought the damn thing two years ago. I try to get up right away but I'd usually hit the snooze once or twice before getting up. I go to the washroom and do my thing for a bit, you know?

"I've gotten used to breakfast cereal. 'I love mah cheery-ohs', right, but I can't live without a cup of coffee in the morning. Two sugars, no milk--can't stand the stuff outside of the cereal--and thirty minutes to finish up, with the tv turned on. I used to subscribe to the newspaper, cancelled that when I realized that I never read it. Plus, do better watching the news. Those kids at the bus stops hand out free papers, anyways, not that they're worth reading much.

"I plan out my outfit the night before, so I always look great in the morning. My last girlfriend - Cherise, you saw her before - she used to iron for me and pick out my ties, but she kinda got sick of that and left me. It's fine - don't say anything. I hardly ever saw her while we were going out, anyways. Plus, I got better at ironing.

"At 8:05 am I get in my car and drive to work. Takes almost an hour from here to there with all the traffic and everything. Then they started building that rapid transit system right smack in the middle of the street, right? Slowed everything down, those beauro-idiots. Found out the perimetre--the long way's faster. Problem is, everyone knows that now. Heck, going across the city might even be faster now. Just sucks when it rains, wherever.

"I arrive at work any time from 8:55 on a good day to 9:30 on a really bad day. My boss knows I'll stay as long as he needs me to, so all's good and he lets me come in late. Now, see that's a benefit of being unmarried. Boss piles me with work and I can actually finish it all before heading home. And the work's not bad, either. I got the orders coming, in, the invoices going out, and everyone calls me now that the old senior's retired and I've been quasi-promoted to take his place."

"Did you get to move to a shiny new office?" I asked.

"Hell, no. All our desks suck equally." He grinned, tilting his head again into that nod of his.

"Anyways, so I got to keep my old place with the view of the washroom and people scratching their butts on the way in and out. But my boss is right beside it, so gets to smell them, too, lucky guy. It's quiet, at least, with all the padded cells we've got and everything, and it has to be seeing that I've got to be make a bazillion calls a day. And some those at the other end? They yell like we're taking the last of their money and they wouldn't be able to live anymore. Sheesh. Don't buy what you can't afford, you damn idiots."

I nodded. He smiled back, coyly.

"So, yeah, that's my life until five pm."

"You get time for lunch, or snack breaks?" I asked. "Those are normal, right?"

"Oh, yeah! I never told you before? I always go out for lunch.

"Couple of us always go to a place one block South called Mississippi. Well, okay. Most of the guys pack a lunch, or their wives pack them lunch. Bob and I are the only ones who always go out. Seriously? That place has panini sandwiches to die for. One taste, and you'll never go back to those bagged lunches you always take. Always looking forward to those lunches. Always."

I saw him looking into the distance somewhere on his left, so I waited patiently for him to go on.

"....Yeah, those soups...."

"Maybe I'll go try the place someday," I said.

"Yeah, I'll bring you," he said, absently. Suddenly, he snapped back. "So, where was I?" he said.

"You've just told me about work," I said.

"Yeah, right. So I work until five, or five-thirty...."

"Driving home takes about 45 mins, at least, usually. 2 hours on a bad day. I might stop at the grocery's if I know I'm missing stuff for dinner. Then, when I get home, I cook stuff, or I microwave stuff from last night, check if the bread is still fresh and toast two slices for myself. Then I eat--is this really interesting for you?" he said, taking a look at me.

"Ah, pretty interesting," I said, grinning a bit (I think).

"Well, whatever floats your boat," he said, winking.

"So, yeah. Then I take a shower, brush my teeth, watch the news, check my email, watch tv if it's interesting, then go to sleep--"

"Hmm," I muttered.

"So, that's what I do everyday."

"Course you have weekends," I added.

"Yes, weekends, yes." He stared off distantly.

"It sounds like you love your job."

"Love my job?" He chuckled harshly. He contemplated for a moment, chewing something insubstantial in his mouth, before continuing. "Let me tell you how much I love my job." He leaned forward to look me in the eye. I leaned back, on reflex. He didn't seem to notice.

"Every night I sleep without dreaming. I think I used to. I don't remember. The alarm clock goes off at six-thirty and I hit the snooze in my sleep. When I finally get up, I sit up in bed and feel the blood drain from my head. Let the cold air wake me up a bit. I always prepare my outfit the night before, to save me from having to think too much in the morning. So I put that on, make breakfast and eat, go to the washroom, go to work, all in one hour.

"Eight fifty-five, I arrive at work. I get coffee from the coffee machine, or make it if there is none, and sit at my desk. I turn on the fluorescent table light that makes this high-pitched buzzing noise, turn on my computer which also makes the same noise, and wait about two minutes for it to load up. Then I check my email, and work over the usual crap for three hours, making phone calls and everything until twelve.

"Then I clear up all my stuff and head over to Bob's and start yapping at him about lunch. If he's on the phone, I sort through the mail or go to the washroom 'til he's done."

"You always go to that Mississippi place, then?" I asked.

"Yeah," vacantly, "...God, I love lunch hour.

"'Course we're only allowed one hour to eat anyways. We stay out for as long as it takes to make up that full hour. Bob ends up doing most of the talking - he's the one with kids, after all. Always talking about them, the little bastards. The women at the office go walking to God-knows-where when it's sunny. Sometimes they're not back til one-fifteen. God knows where they run off to. There's damn well nothing interesting near where we work, at least not within walking-distance.

"Bob and I get back at one-sharp, or whatever time makes up exactly an hour, one-oh-five, or whatever it happens to be. Then I get back to my desk and work for four more hours until five. I'd work longer if I have to, to get stuff done, but at four-thirty my mind starts to quit on me. Bob's usually gone by then. He starts at seven so that he can pick up his kids when they're off school. Apparently he's also the one that cooks in their house. Never would have imagined it. I always know when he's going because he always stops by first and says to me, 'Time to go home!' and I always tell him, 'Not yet, lucky bastard. Not for me. Two hours left to go!' Bob loves his job. God, do I hate mine."

I was staring at him now, his forehead deeply wrinkled and his gaze sharp, piercing, dark. I wondered if I should say something.

"Oh," I said, stupidly. He ignored me.

"I get my paycheck twice a month, every two weeks, and every week I look forward to the weekend, when I will either spend off my entire paycheck or lie around at home all day doing nothing. 'Course, what else do I do? God, every day at work I'm counting the days 'til the weekend, and on Fridays, I'm counting hours. I live for those two fucking days when I don't have to work. Every day at work I'm counting down to those forty-eight fucking hours of doing nothing. Every week, the same! You know? Now, what does that make me?"

He asked, as if I could somehow give him the answer he wanted. And because I didn't know what to say, I leaned back, looked down at my hands, and said nothing.

"Eventually," he sighed, "you find a reason to enjoy life. You have to." He paused, his eyes unblinking, his right hand cupping his chin. "Everyone has to," he says. His voice was calm and rational.

"Everyone?" I asked.

"Yeah." He smirked and cocked his head. "'Course, what the hell do I know?"

I haven't been writing much. School is a problemmmmm. What I write I don't necessarily type up either (or even edit much), so~ I think I'll go back to studying now.

It's a school-related story, since I haven't been thinking of much else lately, anyways.



The room was dark when Cassandra walked in. The only light came from Theodore's desk. He was working late again. His research proposal was due in less than a week. Yesterday it was Cassandra who was working late. Her proposal was also due soon. She sat at her desk on the other side of campus. Theodore had gone to visit her. She had turned him away.

Cassandra was tempted to turn on the ceiling lamp, but Theodore didn't seem to notice when she entered; she didn't want to disturb him. Like her, he would probably prefer to be left alone while he worked. She closed the door carefully behind her, guided it with her hand so that it wouldn't make a sound. There might have been a soft click - Theodore didn't look up. Cassandra leaned against the closed door. Theodore's back faced her. His shoulders were slightly raised and he was hunched over his desk. She could see the outline of his shoulder blades through his shirt. His hand rose periodically to rub the back of his head. His collar was crumpled up around the back of his neck. Cassandra's fingers itched to fix it for him.

The room was silent, with only the sound of Theodore's pen scratching against paper. He never got used to writing his drafts on a computer. Cassandra sometimes teased him for being old-fashioned. He only used fountain pens, said they were less strenuous in the hand. He was using the one Cassandra gave him for his birthday last year. Seeing it made her happy.

It wasn't that Theodore didn't notice her. He simply chose to ignore her. He knew who it was by the way she closed the door, how she shifted, and by the sound of the sigh she let fall from her lips. He knew she would wait for him. He continued to write, no faster than before. He knew he was being a little selfish.

Theodore could remember how Cassandra looked that morning: she was wearing a long, wide skirt with a checkered, pale brown print. Her deep red cable-knit sweater gave her the appearance of warmth and comfort. He remembered the feeling of wanting to touch her. He held back. In the morning they had walked through the chilly autumn air together from the parkade on the south side of campus. He had pretended not to notice, how she probably dressed up a little today. He had imagined that she would smell like clean linen.

"You're distracting," he muttered suddenly. Cassandra said nothing. Maybe she smiled. Theodore didn't turn to check.

He knew he was being selfish. He knew Cassandra would understand. They were both a little selfish. But it will only be another hour until seven. Then they will go home together.

There's barely any editing on this. It's not a very cohesive story, but it's closest to my own feelings now (which aren't very cohesive anyways.) The actions our heroine performs do not have much meaning on their own, but every little movement is important in its own way. They're her way of recalling her feelings and trying to understand the world around her.



Behind her was the road and in front of her was the sea. She took a step forward to examine it closer. Her brother, she had heard, his body had been found at this beach two months earlier. She wanted to see the place with her own eyes.

She took off her shoes and her hat, dropped them on the sand behind her. She stepped forward until her toes could feel the sand grow cold and wet. She recoiled in shock when a wave swept a foaming wave over her feet. There was a breeze. Her hair was pushed over her face with such force that she lost her balance. She fell, her arms instinctively reaching behind her and feeling the cold sand yield barely to her weight.

A wave washed over her feet again. She shivered, curling her legs up, hugged them close to her. Her arms, her clothes, her legs, everything was covered in sand which stuck to her and pricked at her skin. So this is where he died, she thought. "Like this," she said.

The news came unexpectedly, of course. Her mother was brought to the hospital after tripping down the porch steps in a daze because of the news. Her father took some time off from work. He would soon be going back to work again. She quit her job at the department store to make this trip. Her brother was going to become a doctor. It was unfair: to him, to her and their parents, how that man who could have one day saved so many lives could not save his own?

The police called it suicide. The private investigator her father hired eventually reached the same conclusion. There was a note that she was afraid to read. Her father summarized what was in it - her mother couldn't read it, either. There was a death on the operating table while her brother was assisting. There would have been a lawsuit, but the matter was settled out of court, somehow. She didn't understand what would have caused her brother to die. There must have been something else.

So she made this trip, to see the same scenes that last met his eyes. The sun, glaringly bright, and the warmth that glowed up from under her feet, turning cold as she approached water. He must have noticed this, too. The cold wind, and the waves which swallowed everything in its path, leaving a slug's smooth trail where it dragged over. He must have seen this, too. And the sky, so blue, cloudless and bright that it hurt to look at, weighing itself on her shoulders until her back ached with strain. He, too, must have felt this. Not a single wrinkle in such a perfect landscape for the eyes to rest on.

--But a stone. There was one near her hand, smooth and perfect to the touch. She picked it up, with some effort pushed herself up to stand. Slowly, she bore the stone through the cold water until it reached her chest. She held the stone in front of her, contemplating its shape. It was round, as large as her palm, heavy. Her arms grew sore. She let it drop.

The sound it made as it entered the sea was gentle and barely audible. The stone fell downward in a straight line, in a delayed motion as if some hand was guiding it still. Then, in the darkness, it slowly disappeared. She closed her eyes and reached down her head to look for it.

The feeling of being surrounded by water caused a sensation almost like panic in her, but she forced herself to remain calm. She forced herself to open her eyes. Her eyes stung. She refused to close them. She let her arms relax and float to the surface, her feet still rooted to the mud beneath. Should she take a breath now, she wondered. How would it feel?

And it was comfortable, resting like that.

Her instincts took hold of her and she found herself gasping for breath above water. She coughed, trying to throw out the water that had become trapped in her throat. Her nose burned. There was that sky again. The seawater dripped from her hair into her eyes. She brushed it away.

Gradually, she pushed her way back to the car, feeling her weight grow heavier with every step. She strained to pick up her hat and shoes where she left them. Water dripped from her face. She wrung at her hair and clothes before giving up and climbing into the car anyways. She felt her clothes stick to the seat. She found her key, turned the ignition, positioned her hands to drive again. That night, she would go home and read that letter her brother wrote. This time, she thought, she would understand every word.

I really hate this time of the year. It really really makes it hard to write anything good. Every few minutes I just get depressed, so everything I write at this time of the year is very short. Mostly I'm just grasping for words and feeling sorry for myself. And every summer it's like this. I look back and I think, "Damn. I really should have done more this year." *sigh*



That lady named Diana who lived down the road from me picked up a new companion some day when I wasn't paying attention. I should probably explain something first: Diana was at least forty-something, single, unhindered by Life. Which is to say, she was still beautiful at her age, even compared to women my age. In other words, she's good at turning heads. In some ways, that's how I came to know her.

Of course, a gorgeous woman living alone in middle age creates rumours simply by existing. Some are true: that she goes to the hairdresser's to have her hair dyed dark brown to hide the grey strands, that she lives comfortably from her job as an office manager somewhere, likely somewhat rich. Some are,...well. I won't go into them, although I can say they are probably mostly well founded, now that I had witnessed the new thing that seemed to have entered her life. As I began saying, she recently started bringing a beautiful young boy with her around town. There are no other words to describe him. This person, he's young - even younger than my daughter, I'm sure - and agonizingly beautiful, like a doll. He is tall, slim, with skin so delicate, almost porcelain white, coloured by a faint blush of candy pink that exists only on those who are young. His blond hair is let long, and curls over a fine boned face with delicately shaped lips. I have not seen him up close, but I can only imagine that his eyes are blue. It makes a woman like me jealous, both seeing such beauty on a man, and seeing that boy pleasantly shopping next to some other woman. Just between you and me, I changed my daily walking path around the neighbourhood so I could pass by Diana's house, just in case - you know?

Sometime last week, that boy suddenly disappeared. Word spreads quickly around neighbours mowing the lawn and walking the dog together, and I quickly found out what had happened. Sure enough, that news was confirmed yesterday when my daughter reported seeing him in the Pulseline nightclub on East Haver Street. After spending the poor woman's money and kindness, the boy used Diana's house as a weekend retreat while she was away on a business trip. On the Friday night, he had entered the house with some pretty girl. Both were very drunk, according to some sources. Neither were observed exiting the building until Monday afternoon when Diana came home and, with a great amount of shouting, threw them both out. I'm sure you'd be as shocked as I was when I found out - and don't you feel sorry for that poor Diana? It seems that the boy with the doll's face was not such a doll after all.

Even so, could you ever put blame on such a pretty face? Such a shame,...

Well, hmm. I guess I can say that this is partially based on someone I've known. All my stories are strongly tied to experience, after all. I can only write what I know~



Thank God for the television. That it exists, such an appliance, which gives purpose and meaning of life to those who use it regularly!

It is just such a device that showed me a happy Ellie last Friday, on the first day I've seen her since high school. She was wearing a purple polo shirt. Her usual shoulder-length black hair with bangs that had not changed for years was tied up in a purple elastic. She also wore jeans and white runners. Glancing down at my own shoes, I wondered when I stopped wearing those things.

We had riveting conversation over fish and chips, the weather being perfect for that sort of thing. We talked about everyone we new, and all the old stories got tossed together with the new stories, and the rumours, and the gossip, and the number of kids so-and-so had with whom.

Eventually, we ran out of things to talk about. We began to talk about ourselves. Me, you already know, and I'm not so interesting, either. Ellie, on the other hand,...

She's a road construction worker now. Since being pushed violently out of her childhood home, she had taken up the job in the hopes of one day finishing college, but she never went back. After years of standing under the sun, her skin has toughened. She told me that she smiles and enjoys the fresh air, is sympathetic to those who are not so fortunate.

The television saved her. After getting basic cable for the first time, bundled with her home phone line, her whole life changed. She goes home every night with something to look forward to. Every night - and she memorized the television schedule and could recite it to me with pride - a new episode of an ongoing, absolutely exciting series would be showing just for her. She curls up every night on the sofa in front of that wonderful machine, tea in hand, blanket on her lap, the beautiful screen in front of her. Her home may be empty, but her life is complete.

Marvelling at her exuberance in the face of my own, miserable life, I asked her to describe a series for me. Her eyes lit up with stars, and then her mouth began to quiver on the edge of a miracle. I listened to her speak in another language I did not understand and became confused, hopefully not noticeably. Something about Steve and Jake (or was it Jane?) doing something and the police. One of them held a powerful secret. All over the city, with lights and close to the end of the present day as we know it, there is an incurable disease. And remarkable, inexplicable, astonishing wonderment of existence, the incomprehensible World!

Maybe I'll try watching the show first, if I can remember what it's called. I'll let you know if it is interesting.

What is the face of Happiness? I continue to ask myself this question. I still don't know, don't know if I'm capable of answering. Only,...now I know one thing: Happiness, it can be found....somehow.



There was Angeline and Jeannie at the back of the classroom. Those two were never meant to be sitting beside each other. By miracle of assigned random seating order, those two were sitting beside each other at the back of the classroom. Usually, Angeline would be in the front, two seats to the right of centre. Jeannie would have been second or third row from the back, or standing next to the door if she was caught talking or late.

Angeline's the pretty one. Well, no, they're both pretty. My tastes run towards the more mature girls, so I would say that Angeline is the prettier one. She is also smarter than most everyone here. She also sucks up to our teachers. Mr. Weber once told her in class that he would give her detention if she wouldn't stop trying to suck up to him. I think he was right. Thank God not all teachers are stupid. Even if she's pretty, I don't like her very much.

Jeannie is the normal one. She talks like the rest of us and screws up on her tests like everyone else. Sometimes she plays soccer with me and the other guys at lunch. Jeannie's kind of a tomboy. On basis of principle, she should have hated the super girly, stuck-up Angeline more than any of us, except that she didn't. Angeline probably knew that. I think Angeline liked using her as an opportunity to look good in front of the teachers. Whenever Jeannie gets an answer wrong in class - or even if she gets it right - Angeline would have something to say after her: the right answer, or some stuck-up comment. It was all just to prove that she had an encyclopedia shoved up her ass. I tried to confront her after class about it once, but Jeanne held me back.

"Why aren't you more angry about it?" I said. "She's just using you to further her status as Teacher's Pet."

"I'm okay with it. Just don't make a big thing over it, okay? It's not like it's a big deal or anything," Jeannie said.

"It is a big deal. If she were a guy, and if I were you, I probably would have already dislodged some of her teeth."

"No--really, it's okay."

"Why? Get more angry about it. You should be the one getting angry about it, not me," I said.

"Look,...I know I'm stupid--"

"You're not stupid."

"--I'm not as smart as a lot of people. It's not a big deal. She's smarter than me. That's fine. Okay? Don't make it a big thing."

Jeannie always grins like an idiot, even when she's upset. She was grinning the whole time we were talking.

I ended up not doing anything about it, and Angeline kept on taking advantage of Jeanne, like always. I let it go, because Jeannie said so.

Except that one time, they were sitting next to each other in the music room, and there was fifteen minutes before the bell in the last few weeks before summer. Ms. Liza was nice and she wanted to let us do whatever we wanted to, but Angeline had a brilliant idea. She said she needed to practice performing some piano piece for her competition coming up. She wanted to use us as her flock of glowing admirers. Ms. Liza was nice, so she had already fallen for Angelina's innocent little smile, and we all had to sit quiet and listen. Whatever she played was so long, complicated and depressing, it made me want to hit her.

When it was finally over, I caught Miss Child Prodigy smirking at Jeanne as she went back to her seat. I could see Jeannie turn red. For some reason, that made me angry.

"Ms. Liza, Jeanne can play the piano, too," I said.

Ms. Liza finally took her eyes off glowing Angeline. "Oh? Jeanne, is that true?"

It was true. Jeanne had been playing the piano since she was seven and, from what she had told me about it, she was probably pretty good at it. I was gambling. It made me feel light-headed.

"Yes,..."

Ms. Liza was nice. I knew she'd let her play.

"Oh? Then, would you like to play something for us, too, Jeanne?"

Jeanne was still blushing, but I think she also really wanted to play that piano. She was always looking at it whenever we walked into the music room, and she sometimes allowed herself to pass her fingers over its glossy white edges. She bumped my chair deliberately as she passed my desk towards it.

"You should probably cover your ears," she said. Some guys laughed at the front. Ms. Liza shushed them, then it all turned quiet.

Something about the light in the room coming in from the window, some softness of the song she was playing, and the tension of waiting for the day to end caused something in me to crack. I could feel the air rise up, and its warmth, and how the whole room seemed to open up with the space around me. Her fingers were gentle. She was smiling, like always. Her eyes were softly closed.

When her hand finally fell away from the piano, there was a moment so silent I was afraid to breathe. It ended. I heard a sigh pass through the room, and I saw that I was crying. I wiped my eyes as fast as I could, hoping that no one saw. Then, around me, I saw some others doing the same. Even Angeline, whose heart was usually frozen, had shed tears and was compelled to wipe them away.

The bell rang. Jeanne and I got up with the others to leave.

"How do you play like that?" I asked her.

"I don't know," she said. She looked happy. "I just like playing the piano."

"You should become a pianist," I said.

"Maybe," she said. "I don't know." She smiled then, and turned to rush home with everyone else. I also decided to start heading home.