Between one excruciatingly indebted customer and another, his exuberant contrivances were about the only thing stopping him from killing himself by repeatedly hammering his head against his desk.
Six days a week, eight hours a day he spent in a tiny cubicle placed on the fourteenth store of a bland office building that was just yet to be trampled by the insensate Horseman of Recession like the one on which he was standing atop of right now.
Surrounded by other dull individuals teetering on the brink of suicidal psychosis, Charlie worked as a customer support for a bookmaker site Bet-247.
The pay was less than shit, the co-workers were practically zombies, the job was as abysmal as repetitive, and the company he worked for was a callous corporation exploiting deadbeat dads. His imagination was the only thing that kept him alive, and it was no overstatement. While his mind drifted far above the skeevy world filled with anguish, reenacting the riveting scenarios and ideas, his fingers swayed about the dusty keyboard, informing another ruined gambling addict about his revoked membership. The death threats, dramatic pleads and allegations about his mother’s decency were rolling off him like water off duck’s back.
He buried his face in his shaky palms.
No, the thought resonated clearly among the pall of doubt encompassing his mind. No. He had made up his mind a long time ago. A trivial pleasure helping him cope with the overwhelming misery was just not enough.
He stood up and carefully placed his feet on the curb, stealing a quick glance over the rooftop’s edge.
Breath in, breath out.
The decision had been made. Not a single doubt could sway him into believing this parody of a life was worth struggling through.
The chilly breeze dabbed his cheeks as he looked about at the bleak landscape of galloping capitalism surrounding him near and far.
He placed his right feet on the curb, slightly leaning back to keep balance.
A pang of fear accelerated his heartbeat; what if he was about to feel each and every bone in his body breaking after reaching the ground? What if the death wasn’t as swift as he hoped for it to be? What if he fell on someone, killing them both in the process? What if something good was about to happen today, something that could change everything, and he wouldn’t be able to witness it for obvious reasons?
An expanse worth of fifteen stores separated Charlie from the cold, hard surface of the ground.
He swallowed, spreading his arms.
The height seemed to draw out all the buzz of a waking up city into an overwhelming hum, at times interrupted by raucous honking from the jammed highway.
Charlie swayed jerkily, gazing at his raddled sneakers as if they were his only…
He couldn’t help but giggle.
… his only foothold.
The gentle morning breeze transformed into a stronger gust, nudging him forth and almost sweeping him off his feet right into the abyss below.
"Alright, alright, fine!" he yelled in a squeaky voice, jumping off the curb and glaring at the innocuous sky above him, "I don’t want to die, fine! But I don’t want to live either! Fuck me, right?!"
As he was busy eye-wrestling the invisible Flying Spaghetti Monster in the sky, his phone blared out the a cappella part of Carry On Wayward Son.
Still gazing with reproach at the perfectly clear sky, Charlie patted his pocket to find the phone.
He cast a quick glance at the cracked screen, but he didn’t recognize the number.
And there it was: the faint glimmer of hope.
"Yes?"
"Charlie? Man, is that you?" a familiar voice boomed on the other side, convoluting Charlie’s innards into a maze of revulsion.
He hung up immediately. When the song blasted again through the chilly air, he took a swipe, intending to throw the phone straight ahead.
With his arm suspended behind his back, ready to sling his cell into vastness, he burst out laughing. Was he actually foolish enough to believe there might be something good awaiting him, if he wouldn’t hurl himself off a building to meet certain death? The only thing he could count on was Chase, swinging back towards him like a cursed boomerang.
The call died away only to start anew. With his face contorted into a painful grimace, Charlie glared at the vibrating phone, jiggling about his open palm. The cycle repeated itself a few times and didn’t seem to cease; the caller was not the giving up type, Charlie knew it all too well.
To be continued.