The Stand-Off
Monday morning, Winston awoke at 5:30, having slept for three hours. He'd sat on the floor of his bedroom, avoiding much of his mother’s annoyances; he cooked quickly and quietly before his mother awoke, and was eating scrambled eggs and bacon on a white, clean plate. He was able to go to the back of the house to dump the trash and carry the two, large trash cans down the sidewalk.
Presumably, his mother, Mrs. Sylvia didn't need to remind anybody in the house she was irritated about life. Showing some evidence of effort before she awoke would lessen the unease within Winston and give enough time for Mrs. Sylvia decided whether making breakfast was worth the effort. He didn't want to hear his mother's grunts and thought it was good of him to eat breakfast in his room before work. Since it’s always best to stay out of the way until his shift is done at 3 in the afternoon, letting the day do most of the work for everyone: - his little brother, Jeremy, and his father, Brendon.
He didn’t know what to do once the morning started. Being 20 years old, there was, it felt, much left undesired and a little left to look at his phone, play games, or maybe read a book as long as he could. Too much before nine, he thought. Usually, when the future looked lonely, frightening, or plain mundane, he would cry for half an hour before getting in the shower. And because he needed himself to be well-composed, since at this age, some expected unbalanced sensitivity, he would take his time doing the dishes, or, in this case, making breakfast and dumping the trash, making sure he had backup memory when he was productive and full of effort.
He took one more sip of his orange juice and a bite of his eggs, then went out of his room and down the hall, to the kitchen. Jeremy was eating at the table, and Brendon was sitting on the couch, watching the news - Mrs. Slyvia turned around, having not said anything, then turned back, washing the dishes left over from yesterday. Thus, Winston, instead, carried his empty plate back to his room and set it under the bed. I’ll wait till she’s done, he thought irritably. He grabbed his towel from his closet door and went into the bathroom to take a shower. Quietly as he could, he waited in case his father, or someone, came down the hall to say, “Winston, how come…?” or, “Winston, at least do the ….”
In the bathroom, he set down his towel on the sink, started the shower, and listened as the water hit the floor of the tub. He lets his mind drift - then, hearing a strong knock, Mrs. Sylvia’s voice says, “Winston! Your breakfast was ready, come back down and eat once you're done.” He stopped the water, afraid to ask what she said. Instead replying, “Fine,” and waited a minute before turning on the shower again.
After minutes, clearing up his irritation towards oncoming burdens: drying himself, choosing clothes, and driving over to work - he managed to shut off the shower and take his towel to dry his hair. He cautiously made his way back to his room to get ready; soft light from the morning sun shone between the off-white curtains and the sheets on his bed. The sheets were wrapped on the bottom corners, while the top lay wrinkled, revealing underneath the old mattress he’s had since middle school.
Going to his closet to put on a shirt, one big enough not to seem obvious, but small enough to feel tidy in the choice. He chose jeans since today, he would be working on the sales floor at work; - he needed pants that didn’t slip but also didn’t require a belt. He showed himself in the mirror by his sock drawer, and thought harshly: this shouldn’t come as a surprise, Winston - some just naturally fit, and some don’t. And, in a rush, took off the shirt, putting on a different, less comfortable, shirt, accidentally ripping a thread under the arm socket.
Looking over at the spot on the floor where he sat, his wallet, which carried his bus card, he grabbed it at once, went to his closet again, grabbed his favorite blue jacket, and went out into the hall. He closed his bedroom door quietly, thinking of his mother, leaning her head close to listen while still washing the dishes.
His father, no longer sitting on the couch, could be heard starting the shower in their bathroom of his and his mother. Glancing at the table, Jeremy looked at him, smiled largely, as if making fun of him, then jumped off his chair, and carried his plate to his mother. He goes over, after Mrs. Sylvia said, “Thank you, sweetheart,” to the TV to watch cartoons; Winston remembers how he taught him to use the remote to change channels. Left on the table, however - Winston trying to gather the courage to say ‘bye’ to his mother before leaving - a plate with sausage and pancakes was left untouched; feeling the space to walk between the table to the kitchen, Winston marched himself forward. And, leaning half-tenderly on the stove (should I first say sorry?) He said, “I’m leaving now, mom. I get off at 3.”
“Okay,” Sylvia said flatly. She dried her hands and went, passing Winston, to the table to clear the cups. And before Winston can speed across the living room to the front door - “Bye, Jeremy,” he said - Mrs. Sylvia then, suddenly, said, “For now on, can you please not put the plates under your bed.” She drops the cups by the sink and leaves down the hall, as Winston, his motivation to head to work melting away, then closes the door and goes to the sidewalk. He sighs before starting his path towards the bus stop on the corner. Enjoy the life Jeremy, he thought, enjoy while it lasts.
He walked slowly, the sun shifting overhead as Winston recalled its light on his bedsheets.
Although he sat, at first, on the bench for the bus, a man and a woman looked up from their phones and back down. He decided to stand when, by impulse, he felt weak and wanted to show himself he wasn't gonna let his mother's voice irritate him. When the bus arrived, the doors squeaking open from old hinges, he stepped gently on the steps and awkwardly smiled at the bus driver. Then, with a slight miscalculation, he went to the first seat he spotted available and was stuck until they arrived, between a large woman and an old homeless man.
He’d gotten off, in mind the woman and the man were uncomfortable to sit with, for minutes, he positioned his pants and walked down the sidewalk, passing dozens of shops before arriving at his job. The passing clouds made the walking easier, but once inside the store, the clear sweat that developed on his back, caused his mind to become nervous and his body feeling plump. Aware he would have to wait for his body to adjust, glancing tiredly at his boss - “Good morning, Winston. How are you?” - he quickly smiled, and said, “Fine. You?” Since she couldn’t hear or didn’t bother to answer back, he turned and passed dozens of aisles; finally, going by kitchen tools and washing soaps, he reached the employee break room. The place entering, he could tell, had an air of weeks of work and activity passed, and definitely not painless; three employees on break in the break room were anticipating their time to be over. Some even, as Winston was sure, were proud to complete a full week of shifts, and be ready for the next four hours left of the day.
He entered his numbers to clock in and kept his stroll to grab his nametag steady. My name is Winston, he reminded himself, and walked over to the fountain, with a large jug on top, and poured some water. He takes a sip, hoping that, somehow, the fear of the day ahead would slip off. He took another sip for good measure, walked out, and made his way to the manager's office to grab a walkie and earpiece.
“Winston,” the boss said, sitting in a chair in front of a desktop computer and small post-notes scattered across the desk, binders, and papers - “Today, I decided to switch you to the fitting room - is that okay?”
“That’s fine,” Winston said deliberately; if he had known to be in the dressing room, he would've worn black sweatpants instead of the pants he wore now.
“Thank you, Winston,” the boss said, smiling, then turned around.
“No problem,” Winston said and walked out, remembering to close the office door for security reasons.
He walked, with a deep breath, and thought, if enough air could enter my lungs, the more energy my brain would have to despise craving it. Looking at the employee he was replacing in the dressing room, he wondered if he should grab a chair to sit on - unsure if the boss would even allow it.
“Have a good shift,” the employee said as she grabbed her book and sketchpad and walked around the corner.
“You too,” Winston managed to say, and prepared lazily to reorganize the rooms before his first customer. But before he could, two ladies, pushing a cart with dozens of clothes and hangers, already were coming near. Thus, the first sentences were always, with a slight soft-tone, “Hello. How many do you have? Please hang your clothes on a hanger for me.
At about one-thirty, the scene of shoppers died down. The onset of drowsiness settled itself, and Winston can only so far keep up his proper tone to customers. Passive as they were, he strongly despised their quick judgment, and when asked to hang their clothes for counting, a few would question, suddenly, as though they were caught red-handed being mild and average, why they needed counting. Winston, of course, can only give the on-paper answer: “For security reasons.” This, however, would prove little to some customers, and, to still keep their observation until another, maybe clearer flaw, can be found to complain about - it was always advised to get a manager in case tensions were rising.
Unless otherwise, standing throughout in one place proved to Winston, nearly every day, this was his natural routine. Everyone does this, he thought, it isn’t as if I would be here working forever. But once this thought of ‘work’ became clear, it caused him to become aware of how many years he had left, before, suddenly, the adult phase of life proved to make you smart in the worst way, and become the mark, within, that he was unaware of. And motioning himself with every customer - it was only a matter of time before he, as himself, was found waiting to find a flaw in a boy as young as him. Asking the same question: “Why am I being counted?”
But before this great weight, as with every other quick depression era that came, Winston, looking up, and many customers down the aisle, glanced as a little boy yelled, “No, I don’t want to go home!”
A man, maybe around forty, Winston thought, was pulling on the little boy's arm. “See here, Now,” the man tried saying. Many of the customers, especially a lady, who Winston was about to ask to hang her clothes, commented how hard it is today to raise kids right these days, and all the other ladies followed her example. “Please don’t make me go,” the little boy cried out, and sat, in protest, on the floor. The man tried leaning down to talk at the boy's level, but the little boy ignored his effort. “How awful,” one man said, who as well had his own son with him - “god, just slap the boy,” another customer said - “Wear is the mother?” one lady, in line for a dressing room, said to another lady, and shook her head in disapproval.
Oh god, just listen to your father, Winston thought angrily. One of the women turned around, waiting to be given a number for a room; Winston quickly grabbed the lady’s clothes, counted them, and gave them back for her to try on. “Go to any room,” he said.
He peered back and saw the little boy snatch his arm away from his father. The man then looked surprised. Then, taking a look around, catching Winston and other customers looking, as though he wanted everyone to know he was aware he wasn’t in his own house. He looked back down at the boy and grabbed him again, harshly. The boy then screamed.
Winston, with a strong impulse, put down his walkie and earpiece on the desk, went around, and started marching down the aisle towards the end where the boy sat and the man stood, still trying to get the boy to listen. Without thinking, busy worrying what he’ll do after he did, he took one gesture to the boy and slapped him across the cheek.
Winston watched as the boy went quiet and stared at him, frightened, as the man who was tucking on his forearm looked at Winston with astonishment, as did everybody. Customers and his co-workers stared and remained disbelieved.
Regaining courage Winston walked back to the dressing room to quickly grab his smartphone, march to the backroom, type in his number to clock-out, and took his blue jacket off the hanger, and silently walked towards the front of the store. Making it pass the registers and pass the line of customers and pass the doors. Once he was sure it was clear, he went around a corner to hide. He takes out his phone and texts his father he wants to be picked up and says he has developed a cold.
Winston peaks around the corner and sees the store and doesn’t see anything that suggests they were looking for him. He uses the hood of his blue jacket to cover his face, and makes his way on the sidewalk. Counting each step to silent his anxiety, he glances back and doesn’t see no one following him, he keeps going, thinking: I’ll go to the theater, where it's dark. And no one can find me.
