I’m slowly humming up the elevator back to my apartment on what feels like the highest floor in this building. I wouldn’t call my apartment run-down or neglected, you might, but I won’t. I have just enough self-respect to call it serviceable. I am always amazed at the end of the month when I am reminded of how much it costs to live here. You would think I would try to find someplace nicer to live, but I find comfort here. I am reminded of how little I had, it helps to keep me grounded. I have found it important to maintain this memory inside of myself and be conscious of it. Growing up with very little, it is hard to forget the feeling of struggle. Yet, I find myself growing comfortable with my new life. 

I lie down on my bed to unwind from my day. I have learned that closing my eyes for a few short minutes to collect myself has some great benefits. I feel the stress that I carry with me throughout the day slowly wash away as I sink deep into my pillow.  I hear the slam of a door vibrating through my walls and am quickly reminded of where I am at. A reality check if you will. The lack of complete privacy in this complex is good for me. I want to maintain the motivation and passion of a past self who would die to be where I am today. If a loud noise from across the hall now and again is the only way to keep me in check, then so be it. 

I sometimes wonder why I feel the need to bring myself back to a place of pain and despair. Why do I feel the need to remind myself of older days? When all I ever wanted was to be where I am today. Sometimes I can’t bring myself to think I deserve to be successful and happy. I put in my earbuds and listen to my favorite music. This always brings me joy. It is simple, but I could listen to music with nothing else on my mind for hours and be content. You might think that is a considerable waste of my time, but music helps me to find a place of peace inside me. Under the weight of my heavy blankets, I eventually fall asleep.

The slam of a door wakes me. I feel discombobulated and confused. I rub my eyes and shake my head back and forth like a wet dog before I realize that it is the middle of the night. I had fallen asleep just after returning from work and the rest of the day slipped through my fingers. Walking to my kitchen, I feel like a scavenger scouring for any hint of food. My stomach is guiding me at this point, and I have already accepted the fact that I will soon be lost in a bag of barbeque chips. I’m sure you can relate to this crazed hunger that arrives in the middle of the night. I feel a sense of relief when I begin to eat, not sure why, but I do. 

The morning arrives and I prepare for the day as I normally do. Shower, breakfast, brush my teeth, you know how it goes. I am obsessed with the feeling of being “ready for the day.” I can only describe that as the feeling of accomplishment or maybe preparedness would be a better term. I get this feeling that I can take on any challenge of the day ahead when my morning goes smoothly, and I am in complete control of what’s happening. That is the main thing that I credit for my success. I have always prided myself on being prepared. It is a habit that I learned from a very young age. I’m not totally sure how, maybe from teachers in school or coaches, regardless I’m happy that I did. 

The bus station is only a few blocks away from my apartment complex, making it easy to arrive there just as the bus is rolling in. I have it down to a science at this point so as to avoid the awkwardness of the few minutes waiting at the station. I dread the times of being alone, surrounded by people I do not know and frankly do not care to know. It is not a place of comfort for me. Showing up just on time with my earbuds in has proven to be the best way for me to start my journey. I climb aboard and the driver greets me with his usual, “morning Seb,” I give him a smile and return his “morning” before I head to the second row to the back. I like to be near the back end of the bus (its not a huge bus, probably the standard size that you would see in any downtown area) so I can see all that is going on in front of me. Still, I don’t choose the very back row, I guess just because I don’t want to be “that guy,” if there even is a “that guy” anymore. At this point, I’m lost in my own train of thought. Regardless, I can see most of all what’s going on during this ride. I like that.

There are a lot of stops before my destination, I am reminded of my elementary school days. I was always the first stop on the route in the morning, making it feel like I had to wait an eternity to even start my dead. Time wasted sitting there knowing I could still be sleeping or enjoying my breakfast. Now, as I’ve grown older, I have come to appreciate being one of the first people to get on. I have formed a habit of becoming a “people watcher” if you will, and this is my best opportunity to do so. You can always find a unique cast of characters loading onto public transportation. From average folks taking it to work as they do every day, (I guess I am average) tourists, visitors, and everywhere in between, someone is always providing some form of entertainment. 

In climbs an older man up the stairs at the next station. It is obvious that the steep stairs at the doors of the bus are a challenge for him, he takes his time and double-checks his footing before taking his next step. He finally makes it aboard and claims the first open seat at the front of the bus. Watching this, I am drawn to think about what this man could be doing. As well as why he is on this bus today all by himself. Based on his demeanor and body language, he seems to be disgruntled or upset about something. Maybe he just didn’t get enough sleep, but it seems more than that. He has a newspaper with him, but is not reading it. He keeps it rolled up, grasping it with both hands and twisting it between them as if he were strangling it. I notice that he carries a bag with him that he lets lie by his feet. One of those drawstring bags that are always being given away at events and promotions. I wonder for a moment what the rest of this man’s day is going to be until I am yanked back into reality as the bus screeches to a halt at the next station.        

 

Short Story Step 3

I’m slowly humming up the elevator back to my apartment on what feels like the highest floor in this building. I wouldn’t call my apartment run-down or neglected, you might, but I won’t. I have just enough self-respect to call it serviceable. I am always amazed at the end of the month when I am reminded of how much it costs to live here. You would think I would try to find someplace nicer to live, but I find comfort here. I am reminded of how little I had, it helps to keep me grounded. I have found it important to maintain this memory inside of myself and be conscious of it. Growing up with very little, it is hard to forget the feeling of struggle. Yet, I find myself growing comfortable with my new life. 

I lie down on my bed to unwind from my day. I have learned that closing my eyes for a few short minutes to collect myself has some great benefits. I feel the stress that I carry with me throughout the day slowly wash away as I sink deep into my pillow.  I hear the slam of a door vibrating through my walls and am quickly reminded of where I am at. A reality check if you will. The lack of complete privacy in this complex is good for me. I want to maintain the motivation and passion of a past self who would die to be where I am today. If a loud noise from across the hall now and again is the only way to keep me in check, then so be it. 

I sometimes wonder why I feel the need to bring myself back to a place of pain and despair. Why do I feel the need to remind myself of older days? When all I ever wanted was to be where I am today. Sometimes I can’t bring myself to think I deserve to be successful and happy. I put in my earbuds and listen to my favorite music. This always brings me joy. It is simple, but I could listen to music with nothing else on my mind for hours and be content. You might think that is a considerable waste of my time, but music helps me to find a place of peace inside me. Under the weight of my heavy blankets, I eventually fall asleep.

The slam of a door wakes me. I feel discombobulated and confused. I rub my eyes and shake my head back and forth like a wet dog before I realize that it is the middle of the night. I had fallen asleep just after returning from work and the rest of the day slipped through my fingers. Walking to my kitchen, I feel like a scavenger scouring for any hint of food. My stomach is guiding me at this point, and I have already accepted the fact that I will soon be lost in a bag of barbeque chips. I’m sure you can relate to this crazed hunger that arrives in the middle of the night. I feel a sense of relief when I begin to eat, not sure why, but I do. 

The morning arrives and I prepare for the day as I normally do. Shower, breakfast, brush my teeth, you know how it goes. I am obsessed with the feeling of being “ready for the day.” I can only describe that as the feeling of accomplishment or maybe preparedness would be a better term. I get this feeling that I can take on any challenge of the day ahead when my morning goes smoothly, and I am in complete control of what’s happening. That is the main thing that I credit for my success. I have always prided myself on being prepared. It is a habit that I learned from a very young age. I’m not totally sure how, maybe from teachers in school or coaches, regardless I’m happy that I did. 

The bus station is only a few blocks away from my apartment complex, making it easy to arrive there just as the bus is rolling in. I have it down to a science at this point so as to avoid the awkwardness of the few minutes waiting at the station. I dread the times of being alone, surrounded by people I do not know and frankly do not care to know. It is not a place of comfort for me. Showing up just on time with my earbuds in has proven to be the best way for me to start my journey. I climb aboard and the driver greets me with his usual, “morning Seb,” I give him a smile and return his “morning” before I head to the second row to the back. I like to be near the back end of the bus (its not a huge bus, probably the standard size that you would see in any downtown area) so I can see all that is going on in front of me. Still, I don’t choose the very back row, I guess just because I don’t want to be “that guy,” if there even is a “that guy” anymore. At this point, I’m lost in my own train of thought. Regardless, I can see most of all what’s going on during this ride. I like that.

There are a lot of stops before my destination, I am reminded of my elementary school days. I was always the first stop on the route in the morning, making it feel like I had to wait an eternity to even start my dead. Time wasted sitting there knowing I could still be sleeping or enjoying my breakfast. Now, as I’ve grown older, I have come to appreciate being one of the first people to get on. I have formed a habit of becoming a “people watcher” if you will, and this is my best opportunity to do so. You can always find a unique cast of characters loading onto public transportation. From average folks taking it to work as they do every day, (I guess I am average) tourists, visitors, and everywhere in between, someone is always providing some form of entertainment. 

In climbs an older man up the stairs at the next station. It is obvious that the steep stairs at the doors of the bus are a challenge for him, he takes his time and double-checks his footing before taking his next step. He finally makes it aboard and claims the first open seat at the front of the bus. Watching this, I am drawn to think about what this man could be doing. As well as why he is on this bus today all by himself. Based on his demeanor and body language, he seems to be disgruntled or upset about something. Maybe he just didn’t get enough sleep, but it seems more than that. He has a newspaper with him, but he does not read it. He keeps it rolled up, grasping it with both hands and twisting it between them as if he were strangling it. I notice that he carries a bag with him that he lets lie by his feet. One of those drawstring bags that are always being given away at events and promotions. I wonder for a moment what the rest of this man’s day is going to be until I am yanked back into reality as the bus screeches to a halt at the next station. 

A woman enters the bus along with a toddler. I think it’s safe to assume this is her son. She holds his hand and leads him to a seat near the midway point of the vehicle. I watch as she hoists him up onto the seat by the window and proceeds to sit on the aisle seat, protecting him. The instincts and patience of a mother should not be tested. The mother tends to her boy as our ride continues. He is consistently tapping her, wanting her attention constantly. I can hear him trying to speak to her; I can’t understand a thing he is saying. I hesitate for a moment and wonder if it is even English. Amazingly, his mom knows exactly what it is that he wants after listening to the same exact gibberish that I heard. She hands him a juice box from out of her purse and he quietly sips away at it. I notice that the mother’s outer leg is shaking, she taps it against the floor of the bus rapidly while looking straight forward. 

I come back into my own after realizing I had been lost observing my fellow passengers. I pray to myself that I hadn’t been staring too long at anyone or made it obvious that I had been watching these people. People watching has taught me a lot about people. At least I think that it has. I feel like I can understand body language no matter how subtle it may be. The slightest shift in a seat can signify something much larger. The variety of people that I see on a daily basis would rival the varieties that some people see in a year. People are amazing to me, the way they interact with each other and go about their days, all with a unique style and flair. I guess that is why I have a habit of watching them. 

This bus ride feels like an eternity.

Short Story Step 4

I’m slowly humming up the elevator back to my apartment on what feels like the highest floor in this building. I wouldn’t call my apartment run-down or neglected, you might, but I won’t. I have just enough self-respect to call it serviceable. I am always amazed at the end of the month when I am reminded of how much it costs to live here. You would think I would try to find someplace nicer to live, but I find comfort here. I am able to make it work, the smaller space feels cozy and my own. I have found comfort here. I’ll admit I have some work to do on the decor front, but after settling in and spreading out, I can’t imagine being somewhere else.  

I lie down on my bed to unwind from my day. I have learned that closing my eyes for a few short minutes to collect myself has some great benefits. I feel the stress that I carry with me throughout the day slowly wash away as I sink deep into my pillow.  I hear the slam of a door vibrating through my walls and am quickly reminded of where I am at. A reality check if you will. The lack of complete privacy in this complex is good for me. Living alone can be hard, so hearing my neighbors making noise across the hall every now and again is not something I mind. As long as I am safe and can feel relaxed and calm here, some loud neighbors won’t ever bother me. Plus, I quite enjoy being able to eavesdrop on conversations I’m not meant to hear. I’ve learned so much about the people near me you’d think we were roommates. I put in my earbuds and listen to my favorite music. Jazz and soft rock are my go-to’s. This always brings me joy. It is simple, but I could listen to music with nothing else on my mind for hours and be content. You might think that is a considerable waste of my time, but music helps me to find a place of peace inside me. Under the weight of my heavy blankets, I eventually fall asleep.

The slam of a door wakes me. I feel discombobulated and confused. I rub my eyes and shake my head back and forth like a wet dog before I realize that it is the middle of the night. I had fallen asleep just after returning from work and the rest of the day slipped through my fingers. Walking to my kitchen, I feel like a scavenger scouring for any hint of food. My stomach is guiding me at this point, and I have already accepted the fact that I will soon be lost in a bag of barbeque chips. I’m sure you can relate to this crazed hunger that arrives in the middle of the night. I feel a sense of relief when I begin to eat, not sure why, but I do. 

The morning arrives and I prepare for the day as I normally do. Shower, breakfast, brush my teeth, you know how it goes. I am obsessed with the feeling of being “ready for the day.” I can only describe that as the feeling of accomplishment or maybe preparedness would be a better term. I get this feeling that I can take on any challenge of the day ahead when my morning goes smoothly, and I am in complete control of what’s happening. I have always prided myself on being prepared. It is a habit that I learned from a very young age. I’m not totally sure how, maybe from teachers in school or coaches, regardless I’m happy that I did. And yes, I am aware of how cliche and generic this sounds.

The bus station is only a few blocks away from my apartment complex, making it easy to arrive there just as the bus is rolling in. I have it down to a science at this point so as to avoid the awkwardness of the few minutes waiting at the station. I dread the times of being alone, surrounded by people I do not know and frankly do not care to know. It is not a place of comfort for me. I don’t mind being near other people, I actually kind of enjoy it, however, talking and having to be friendly with those I do not know makes me anxious. Showing up just on time with my earbuds in has proven to be the best way for me to start my journey. I climb aboard and the driver greets me with his usual, “morning Seb,” I give him a smile and return his “morning” before I head to the second row to the back. I like to be near the back end of the bus (it’s not a huge bus, probably the standard size that you would see in any downtown area) so I can see all that is going on in front of me. Still, I don’t choose the very back row, I guess just because I don’t want to be “that guy,” if there even is a “that guy”. At this point, I’m lost in my own train of thought. Regardless, I can see most of all what’s going on during this ride. I like that.

There are a lot of stops before my destination, I am reminded of my elementary school days. I was always the first stop on the route in the morning, making it feel like I had to wait an eternity to even start my dead. Time wasted sitting there knowing I could still be sleeping or enjoying my breakfast. Now, as I’ve grown older, I have come to appreciate being one of the first people to get on. I have formed a habit of becoming a “people watcher” if you will, and this is my best opportunity to do so. You can always find a unique cast of characters loading onto public transportation. From average folks taking it to work as they do every day, (I guess I am average) tourists, visitors, and everywhere in between, someone is always providing some form of entertainment. 

In climbs an older man up the stairs at the next station. It is obvious that the steep stairs at the doors of the bus are a challenge for him, he takes his time and double-checks his footing before taking his next step. He finally makes it aboard and claims the first open seat at the front of the bus. Watching this, I am drawn to think about what this man could be doing. As well as why he is on this bus today all by himself. Based on his demeanor and body language, he seems to be disgruntled or upset about something. Maybe he just didn’t get enough sleep, but it seems more than that. He has a newspaper with him, but he does not read it. He keeps it rolled up, grasping it with both hands and twisting it between them as if he were strangling it. I notice that he carries a bag with him that he lets lie by his feet. One of those drawstring bags that are always being given away at events and promotions. I wonder for a moment what the rest of this man’s day is going to be until I am yanked back into reality as the bus screeches to a halt at the next station. 

A woman enters the bus along with a toddler. I think it’s safe to assume this is her son. She holds his hand and leads him to a seat near the midway point of the vehicle. I watch as she hoists him up onto the seat by the window and proceeds to sit on the aisle seat, protecting him. The instincts and patience of a mother should not be tested. The mother tends to her boy as our ride continues. He is consistently tapping her, wanting her attention constantly. I can hear him trying to speak to her; I can’t understand a thing he is saying. I hesitate for a moment and wonder if it is even English. Amazingly, his mom knows exactly what it is that he wants after listening to the same exact gibberish that I heard. She hands him a juice box from out of her purse and he quietly sips away at it. I notice that the mother’s outer leg is shaking, she taps it against the floor of the bus rapidly while looking straight forward. I feel for her, she looks so anxious and nervous like she is ready to explode. I imagine the uncomfortable feeling of bringing your small child out into the world, constantly hoping everything will be ok.

I come back into my own after realizing I had been lost observing my fellow passengers. I pray to myself that I hadn’t been staring too long at anyone or made it obvious that I had been watching these people. People watching has taught me a lot about people. At least I think that it has. I feel like I can understand body language no matter how subtle it may be. The slightest shift in a seat can signify something much larger. The way you hold yourself to the movements of your eyes all provide insight into what someone is thinking. People are so interesting to me, the way they interact with each other and go about their days, all with a unique style and flair. I guess that is why I have a habit of watching them. I can learn so much without having to even talk to anyone.

The bus finally arrives at my stop. The driver and I wish each other a nice day as I head off. I work at a small bookstore coffee shop hybrid. The cozy kind where people spend afternoons typing away on their laptops and sipping lattes. I have always found it ironic that the place meant for reading and exploring literature has become the prime location to bring laptops, tablets, and phones for working and surfing the web. I guess it’s our fault for making such a welcoming and calm environment. 

“Sebastian, you’re late” I hear right as I walk in. I swear my manager Erika can sense my arrival without even seeing me.

“I know, I know I’m so sorry. The bus was-” I begin to say before she cuts me off.

“I didn’t ask why just don’t be late again, I’ve warned you plenty.” She says.

“Yes of course” I reply, hoping to end the conversation. I am unsuccessful. Erika always seems to have something to say. I don’t know how she does it, but right when you think the conversation is ending and she is going to leave you be, something ignites in her mind that she just has to talk about. Today, of course, she feels the need to ask if I’ve made any progress in my job search. I’ve been on the hunt for a new job for a while now. I’ve realized that I can’t work at a bookstore my whole life, so I have reluctantly started looking for something new. What annoys me is that Erika is asking me more and more; I’m starting to think she really wants me to leave. 

“Nothing yet!” I say to her sarcastically. I make it a point to then quickly grab a broom and head out to the lobby, taking matters into my own hands and ending this horrid small talk. 

A few minutes later Erika unlocks the front doors and we officially open for the day. A steady flow of people streams in as I’m bracing myself for the incoming workload. I put on my most genuine smile and begin to serve the customers who seem to be in need of their daily caffeine. My coworkers and I weave in and around each other. It’s almost as if we are in a dance routine, gliding around each other to different stations, quickly changing directions in and out of the way of each other. We continue on for what feels like hours, yet the clock disagrees. Every time I look over it seems to be moving even slower. I have yet to find a technique that makes it feel like time is moving quicker than it is. The cruel joke that our minds play on us is that time always seems to move slower when we least want it to. I would love for everything to feel this slow and drawn out when I get home each night. Unfortunately, it is quite the opposite in reality. 

Everything at work is going along fine and normal until…