Peasant - Chapter 1

I'm just going to go out on a limb here- I had completely forgotten how long each of the chapters are for this manuscript. Granted it's only 70,000 words long, but it's 10 chapters roughly, and some of the chapters are twice if not three times as long as this one. There is a specific reason for this, and I'm hoping for many of you as time goes on will see what this story is an allegory of.

I greatly enjoyed writing this story when I worked at a grocery store myself, it helped me vent about the crap I was going through then, and dissatisfaction I had in my own life. In a way, it was like being trapped in my own personal hell, and this is a huge theme of the story. In all honesty Paul is based on me- but also exaggerated. I can't remember any time in my life being as pessimistically cynical as his character is, but there's a reason that will become apparent the more you read.

I realize it doesn't seem like the story has much of a direction- that is deliberate. This is a story of a guy who comes to term with his situation, through cynicism and pity for himself, and then realizes what he has to do to break out of that cycle.

I bet a lot of us can honestly say we've been there in life at some point. This story is also a huge commentary on various aspects of life. So this is more a book of philosophy than it is on satire, though that is certainly present.

Anyway, I hope you guys enjoy.

Peasant

By: Eric Nowell

“Gather round to hear a story of days long past, when the sun's shinen' rays still meant warmth, and though little was to be had much was to be gotten. Now, then, the land was in strife, and in more wars than even the lord Ares might think appropriate, let alone its peoples. The winters grew colder, year by year, and the heat and humidity of the summer sun slowly became unbearable as well. Food grew scarce as the economy fell, and where could be found ‘twas far overpriced. And many, even in their own former neighborhoods were destitute; their homes taken by poverty and debt, through the subtle form of indebted slavery known as loans. Little hope was to be found while in this land's depression long, long ago.”

Chapter 1

The Descent

Small flakes of snow fluttered and danced slowly in the chill air, tumbling peacefully down over themselves from the ominous clouds above. He, Anvindr, was a warrior of the North, dressed in both the rugged furs of animals and heavy chain mail. He exhaled deeply; a cloud of grey and white appearing that matched the color of the snow that lightly covered the hard frozen ground, pine trees, and dark green grass around him.

            Anvindr swung his sword, the blade cutting through the air with a sharp singing noise, the mirage of peaceful serenity shattered as the metal blade clashed harshly against his adversary’s. With both hands still tightly clasping the hilt of his longsword, Anvindr determinately met the other again, the power of the enemy’s blows reverberating through his wrists and upper arms, forcing him to grit his teeth. They separated from each other, their blades parting in the smooth manner only sharpened iron can. He parried another blow from the enemy and then lunged, extending his right arm; the point of his blade passed within inches of the enemy warrior's chest, licking the air before it.

            His left hand met his right again as he raised his sword horizontally over his head, blocking the overhead strike he had anticipated from his opponent. The two half-stepped, and then half-leapt from one another after the blow, not out of cowardice or caution on either’s part, but rather of tact and strategy. From the short distance between them they studied one another, each weighing the 'what if's and 'then's of their struggle. The sounds of the battle around them could be heard almost distantly even as it raged intensely around them, so focused were they on one another.  

            It was a tension filled moment, and the beads of sweat that tinged their foreheads grew despite the cold air. Anvindr calmed his breathing, the cloud of mist that accompanied each breath grew and then slowed while the other ignored his own entirely.

            He locked his gaze with his enemy and stared into yellow and brown eyes, ones which were almost wild with ferocity, a stark contrast to his own which were sharp, pale blue, and focused. His adversary was, like himself, Norse and powerfully built and tall; however, unlike him, was an Ulfsark: a warrior who wore only light armor - leather, if any - and covered himself in the skins and fur of a wolf, fighting in an aggressive style akin to the animal’s.

            The battle had already raged for nearly half a day, and the bodies of thousands of Anvindr’s kinsmen lay on the ground, surrounded by even more of their foul enemy of Senjetland, a nearby town that bordered the hero’s own Norse one of Varolso, whose strength lied in their numbers. Just a winter before, their two towns had been allies; but the priest had changed all that. Because of him, Anvindr stood to lose everything and everyone he loved.

Already his father had fallen to the foul being and his serpentine ways.

           At the thought of the cursed man, Anvindr let forth a terrible battle roar and rushed forward, his enemy lunging forward as well. Anvindr could never know that the fury and hatred, while focused on his enemy, was not concerned with him. Their battle resumed, and the harsh noises caused by their reverberating strikes began again. Back and forth they traded blows, Anvindr perfectly weighing each one he dealt, always at the right opportunity and with perfect timing. Never for a moment did he give ground either, instead forcing his enemy to take step after step backward. 

            With no other recourse, there came a sudden wide, abrupt and desperate swing from the enemy Ulfsark. Anvindr stepped back, and it was then, scarcely after he had been attacked, when he sensed the Ulfsark’s weakness; that of poor stance and balance. Controlling his movements exactly and with incredible speed, he parried his adversary’s every attack, reversing each. His blade struck as if from several angles at once, moving so quickly it made the air sing like a choir as he turned his adversary’s blows back upon him, overwhelming and overpowering his enemy.

            But still he did not cease, and struck again and again, the other barely able to hold him back. With further agility, he spun around the man, and stopped as Varolso suddenly came into his field of vision. The entirety of his city was aflame, and as he listened, the screams of the dying could be heard, carried to him by the wind. Even from where he stood, the expanse of a valley and miles away, he could see the blood that stained the ground and walls of his beloved his city, a brutal crimson picture that painted the morality of man.

            “No...” Anvindr heard himself whisper, horrified as he thought of his love, Freyja, who was trapped in the city. Before his eyes, the fires spread and one building collapsed. He knew all was lost, and felt as if his heart were burning away from the sorrow he felt.

          Poised against the horizon, the archer, in his drab colors of Senjetland, stood at the top of a particularly raised hill, a silhouette against the dark evening sky. He raised his bow, the yew arrow aimed at the warrior who stood, briefly paused, as he looked to his dying city. The Ulfsark the warrior had been fighting, also of Senjetland, was bent over, dazed. The archer had but a second to act, and he knew that if left alone, his ally would not survive.

            He pulled the taut string back, and then released, the arrow shooting forward at a speed too quick to follow. It pierced the warrior of Varolso’s back as easily as if the armor were not there..."

          

          There was a sudden, rapt knocking on the door to the small bedroom, bringing the young man's attention sharply from the vivid story he had been working on to it. Paul paused, poised over his desk. His pen was set a millimeter above the beige-colored paper he had been writing on in the black covered notebook. He was seated at the brown desk that sat beneath the only window in his room. It gave him a wide view of the world outside, then brightly lit by the morning sun, though he rarely went out into it for personal interest. The ink on the page was still wet, yet to be absorbed by the paper. He said nothing, and after several seconds there again came another sharp knocking as somebody, he was certain he knew who, pounded on his bedroom door.

            "Paul!" a somewhat shrill sounding and distinctly mother voice squawked from behind the closed door; "I know you're in there; you could at least answer. You're going to be late for work; it's almost nine." And with that, Paul heard receding footsteps as his mother returned to her own devices. He blinked, looked at the clock set in his cell-phone, and knew that she was right.

          He swore, stretched, and hastily threw on the rest of his clothing he would need. It was with great care however that he placed the small, black notebook he had been writing in within his pack. It was bound by a thin black cover, and a twine of thread to keep it closed. It had once been brown but Paul had taken meticulous effort to draw over it with a felt pen to change it’s color. It had taken him awhile to do so. Within a minute of having been informed, Paul was ready, and rushed from his room to leave. He was already dressed in the meager uniform he wore to work, though before exiting the house donned his jacket.

            In the small, gray-skied and normally quiet cul de sac surrounded by thick forest, the small whispering of a door could be heard as it creaked opened. From the comfortable yet nevertheless humble house composed of red brick and white mortar, the small figure of Paul emerged from the open door. The white color of the door matched the surface of the ground around it for miles, regardless what the snow covered.

            The young man was fair-skinned and clad almost entirely in dark grey; the tea-coat jacket he wore a darkest shade of the color. A faded brown satchel was slung across his left shoulder, kept beneath his jacket and shielded from the elements. The contents within were precious to Paul: various thick tomes from years past of History, Philosophy, and English. The bag itself was the only contrasting color to what he was otherwise wearing. His hair was a dirty blond, almost brown but not quite, and his eyes were a deep green, at least then, and soulful. They could, and often did, change from blue to green depending on the degree of light.

            He was but a scarce few months older than twenty, though looked anywhere from a year older to five years younger. It was one of the reasons Paul thought little of the relevance of age; the indeterminacy of it made making any specific number seem almost hollow to him... meaningless. Had he died that moment, he would have lived, at least experience-wise in his own opinion, more than most living, no matter what their age. That said to him that it was not the amount of time spent, but rather what the time was spent doing. 

            At five feet and five inches, it could not be denied by any that he was short, at least compared to the rest of his people. Nevermind that in his opinion; had he lived anywhere else in the world a thousand years before and more, he would have been three inches above the average. Paul was almost exactly between his parents' height; his father had been five foot ten, while his mother four foot eleven. His face was small, his nose narrow and pointed. Thin lines adorned his cheeks near his mouth from a lifetime of smiling and laughing too much, while the creases that perpetual frowning brought had only begun to touch his forehead.  It had been a long time, though, since the former had been given exercise, while the latter, with the dour times stretching before the cold winter, had been given too much. After a decade of worry – not just for he, but the entire land – signs of the stress such existence wrought had only begun to show. He was only twenty, but already it felt more akin to the weight of a fifth of a century instead.

He was not unattractive, and somehow, even to his own surprise, had managed to gain the attention of more than one of the local lasses,though he had yet to chose one for his own. The girls he had entertained were either dates or flings, and the one time he had known the closest approximation to true love had ended disastrously, though he did not wear the experience heavily on his shoulders. He had learned from it, and eventually moved on. He was like this in all things.

             Paul Payne was the young man's name, and he pulled the wooden door shut behind himself as he exited his parent's abode. It was over seventy years old, but hardly a sign of age showed upon it, unlike those houses neighboring it which had been through Virginia blizzard and hurricane, decade after decade, and were worse for wear. They had seen Earth shake and tremble, and trees thrown by wind when a hurricane per-chanced its way, but the houses had survived. These were sturdier structures than they appeared or anyone could guess, hailing from a different time and age where it was not speed that was focused on, but efficiency, and even more than that, quality. The last, quality, more and more of late in Paul's world had been absent from the country he called his own.

            He twisted the brass knob to ensure it was locked, and, once satisfied that no intruder could enter, turned from it and began to walk. It was halfway down the narrow stone path when he remembered, and frantically began to check his pockets for his keys. A moment later, and accompanied by an exasperated sigh of relief, Paul pulled the jangling, miscellaneous assortment of keys from his pocket. He pushed the thin glasses he wore higher up on the bridge of his nose. On the right side of it was a blemish noticed only by himself and those who had been most intimate to him.

                As he neared the mailbox set close to their front door, Paul drew from his satchel an orange envelope. On it were several generic stamps that reflected the wintry season they were in, and beneath those the address to a location three-thousand miles away, across leagues of distance, forests, rivers, lakes, and mountains; on the other side of the country along the West Coast. All for a job: Paul's perceived salvation if he were accepted, as he was sure he would be.

                He pulled the hinged metal door open with a shrill creak, and then pushed the thick envelope inside. It just barely fit. He closed the lid again and stepped back, a worried look crossing his face as he studied the mailbox and his decision to leave such an important document within, vulnerable to all the elements, weather, and world. It is in the hands of God and FedEx now, he thought, giving the small box one last, backward glance as he began to walk away; though I do not believe in the former, and do not have much faith in the latter.

                In the recent years, the once great American Republic's golden age had come to a close as the country floundered in economic ruin. The national express, too, felt the deep depression that had onset the land, and because of this had been forced to make many cutbacks, chief amongst these: its quality of service. Handing one's mail to the Federal Postal Service had become tantamount to flipping a coin to see if the intended recipient would receive it, and though it cost more, many used private services that had become equivalent to and often even more preferable than the government's. Paul, however, in his poverty could not afford such prompt, prestigious services.              

                The matter, being what it was and that he could do little else, Paul turned from the mailbox and continued down the lawn toward his silver steed that was parked by the edge closest his home. The effects of winter still raged and lingered, the coldest war possible, and snow still covered most of everything, though patches of grass had begun to poke intermittently through. The sky was dreary and grey, clouds filling the expanse, and casting a dark, off-color shade of light across everything, making the shadows seemingly sharper, longer, and more sinister than they normally were.

                His mount was a Toyota Corolla and not at all too old at a scarcely fourteen years of age and use, but it may as well have been. In more skillful hands the car would have fared better, and certainly a dent and several series of scratches and marks would have been absent from its front bumper and sides. Instead, Paul had received it shortly after stumbling into the age and realization that he not only would be mobile, but that the two-ton chariot and ephemeral engine was his. It was a pity his only previous automotive experience had been either as a passenger, go-cart driving, and once when he had been the user of a remote-controlled car. But apart from those few experiences long in the past, he had had no other auto-mechanical knowledge or skill when he first seated himself behind the wheel.

                Despite the occasional and subtle wisps of idle, bored grass, mounds of snow still dotted the ground, some nearly as tall as Paul, and many that were even more so. These mounds would last for months after the rest had gone, and from personal experience Paul knew that the largest could last through spring and even until summer. The hems of his time-worn dark-blue jeans, of which were nearly black and flecked with icy frost as he stepped inside the vehicle, and his feet were already cold. The shoes he wore were little better than rags and were in a state of tatters. No form of water wasn’t absorbed by the worn, shabby cloth when Paul stepped upon or nearby it, and for this reason he always wore two pairs of socks, none of which ever matched. Because of this, his feet were almost always damp, at least during the winter and certainly during the wetter spring months when the heavy rains returned in April as they did every year.

                The car creaked in the frigid air as he climbed inside despite his relatively small size. Once he had settled in his seat, Paul placed his belongings securely in the backseat. From his pocket he pulled a silver colored pipe. It was metal, though Paul was unsure what kind, and so he assumed it was steel or some other alloy akin to it. Near the end of the pipe that was the bowl was a carved wooden hand piece, the head of a cougar abutting from the side of it. Truthfully, when he had bought it Paul had thought the effigy from a distance a fearsome bear instead. He had only later realized his err when an acquaintance had recognized the animal for what it really was, and tactfully brought to Paul’s attention that the effigy on the carved handle made the pipe decidedly feminine in nature, and more specifically, an item for middle-aged and older women.

                Now Paul considered himself a fairly humble man, proud both of what he should be and had earned, and not of that which he hadn't, and took the matter lightheartedly. Rather than get embarrassed, Paul had curtly replied in kind that at least he got to suck on a cougar every night, so to speak. The jest aside, he hadn't actually cared. A pipe was a pipe, and whether a cougar, bear, or even butterfly, as long as it kept his hand and fingers from getting burned when he smoked, his soul was at peace with the piece.

                It took Paul a moment to fill the pipe with the greenish-brown and flake-like substrate in the early morning, and once finished he pressed his index finger into it, packing the material further down, compressing it. He placed the metal pipe in his mouth, his thin, red lips hold it in place. The pipe firmly held in his mouth, Paul turned the key, and his car rumbled to life. He slowly backed the vehicle out of its spot, looking over his shoulder all the while, studying the empty street. The pipe hung loosely from his mouth, though was still present.

                As Paul drove down his street (very slowly, for even he was concerned with safety, a rather sizable dent on the hood on his car having recently made him so). He raised his lighter; the plastic casing on this one, for he had many, was green. He flicked it; a bright yellow and orange flame emerging after several sparks, and he inhaled, pulling the flame into the pipe as he began to smoke. It was harsh as it hit his throat, and as always and as he had expected, once he had waited long enough, counting in increasing doubles each second, the discomfort and mild pain suddenly passed. He would never deny this was one of his personal characteristics of OCD; he always counted in twos.

                As he held his breath for a time, Paul had kept his left hand on the wheel, and turned left at the stop sign at the end of the street, three houses down from his. When he finally exhaled half a moment later, there was almost no smoke at all, and a feeling of lightheadedness slowly began to grow. His fingertips tingled, even, and he knew it was taking effect. 

                 Paul repeated this again and again until the pipe had become too hot for him to use, and once it had, he held it in his lap as he waited for it to cool off. In the frigid air where he could still see his breath as if it were smoke itself, it would not take long for the pipe to cool, especially in the chill air. It was physics, merely, and therefore only a matter of time. Had he looked closer, he would have seen the small wisps the heated pipe gave off in the chill air. But as it was, Paul's attention was firmly fixed on the road, at least while he actively driving.

                The houses he passed were not unlike his own: each stood upon a fair sized plot of an acre, accompanied by a garden and a verdant (always neatly kept), and obviously suburban lawn. Occasionally one of the other residencies was either abandoned or unkempt, but these were relatively few and far in-between. Paul only encountered twenty along his route, though the number was far greater than it had been in seasons or even years past. Paul, considering this, realized as he had so often before that the times were not as easy as they once had been. The many trees that stood on either the lawns, roadside, or forest were bare, a testament to that view, their branches reaching like skeletal fingers toward the sun, desperate for warmth, for life, and for energy.

                Not unlike a nation I can think of, he thought pessimistically to himself as he passed under them, the barren trees leaving thin, tangled shadows across the ground.

Despite the yellow maintenance light in his car being on, Paul ignored it. It had been that way for over a year, and despite several vehicle repairs and various inspections and check-ups, he had optioned to leave it on. Paul well understood the irrelevance that relegated the maintenance light to being, but then again its uselessness was intrinsic, and to Paul at least, obviously so to begin with. The small symbol was the rear end of a car, not even in the shape of his car specifically, and no larger than the end segment of his index finger. What good is something if it tells you something’s wrong, but not what? he asked himself. I won’t find out what went wrong until after the wreck it’d cause, when I’m probably dead and the information will be useless anyway to me.

                It was for this reason Paul kept the small light on while at the same time paying it little attention: a reminder to him that anything could go wrong at any time, something that was a good enough impetus for Paul to get his car repaired, even if he couldn’t possibly afford it any longer. He often asked himself what the value of health was when beyond the means of possible payment. Paul understood that the breakthrough and miracle cure for cancer, should it occur, would be meaningless to those unable to provide means of accessing it. Health had ultimately become a word of relativity, meaning different things to people from different parts of the world, and ultimately economic means. It was no different pertaining to cars, either; to Paul at least.

                The small dingy car followed the winding and wooded suburban street, eventually emerging and turning right onto Rolling Road, the largest such for some miles that surrounded. It was remarkable for two reasons; one holding a world record for the most churches along its stretch, and its nearly four hundred years of age when the country still had slaves who would roll barrels down it. He pressed a button on his grey colored dashboard, and the radio turned on. Paul began to cycle through the various stations he had preset of rock, symphonic and orchestral classical, and a station that claimed to focus on recent hit music when really it was music from several years before, and hardly anything that could be considered contemporary comparatively. Paul eventually settled on the conservative Christian radio channel, the last of his preset stations. The shows on it, and their messages and conservatism, raised Paul’s ire in the early morning hours, making his blood hot. In his own odd way waking him up mentally in the morning. But then again, that was the point and a part of his disagreement and contention with the religion. So he listened anyway, and got annoyed, imagining debating the things he heard as he drove.

                The clock set in Paul's car's radio was ten minutes fast, and only served to get him to and from his destination with a semblance of timeliness, though rarely so as it was the only clock Paul had ever bothered to set in such a way apart from a wristwatch long ago. And like so many other things, due to his disorganization, Paul had misplaced it. He rarely lost anything for long; somehow the wandering objects always managed to return to him one way or the other. The digital display read 10:09, and though no seconds were shown, he could feel them as they itchingly passed with every tree and shrub he motored by.

                Of the many trees he drove by, the only exception and green came from the occasional Evergreen. And even those trees’ trunks were smattered with white.  At the second stoplight, Paul paused briefly, coming to a stop before it turned green, and he turned another left. The street he had turned onto was narrow, and to a degree even older than the four-hundred year old town it both neighbored and passed through. There was nothing to protect the cars from the open woods, and there would have been no way to, either. There were just so many, the great multitude of trees that composed the expansive forest, making each neighborhood he drove by seem as if its own separate hamlet. 

                Moments later, the black road, ever cold and ice-encrusted with half-frozen slush and dirt as the season demanded, brought him to the outskirts of the almost ancient and quiet town of Springfield and all the land west of it. Despite the early morning hour, some were even out and already shopping.

                He passed the first of the local mercantile stores, coming to a stop at an intersection that composed the core of three separate shopping centers and residential area that surrounded Springfield. In a sense it was the heart of the surrounding land, and one that he passed through without notice, like cholesteral might. But like all cars, he only added to the build-up of the inevitable heart-attack of a traffic jam that would come to be in the next few hours.

                 Idly he waited as the traffic passed, just two cars, and drummed his fingers on the wheel and then dashboard. It was only long after both cars had passed and it was obvious no others were coming when the light changed green and he could finally move again. Paul steadily drove forward, a second later turning into the expansive parking lot facing the shopping center that the grocery store he worked at was in.  

                The silver Corolla pulled to a stop beneath a large lamp post that extended some twenty feet or so above, some ways from the entrance of the grocery store as well. Laboriously, Paul exited the car and began his trudge through the thick snow up the slightly slanted lot toward Big People, the grocery store. It was large as far as such stores like it went, and above the entrance stood large letters B and P, visible from far away. At night it would be lit, even when the store was closed. The walls and face of the store were painted white, and its roof a rich hue of blue. It had been re-painted two winters prior, and had yet to dull. Frost and ample amounts of snow covered the roof. The steel carts that customers used to transfer the wares they bought lined the front, and Paul knew they were icy cold to the touch. He knew that from experience, and on occasion would have to push them. A job he firmly felt sucked. People steadily made their way inside as cars deposited more by the entrance before pulling away or parking. The air was frigid, and few preferred to walk in it when anything else would suffice.

                Mike the official cart pusher of the store they worked at was across the lot from Paul. He looked as if he could have been anywhere from thirty to fifty years of age, and any number in-between wouldn't have surprised Paul. The man was stocky, looking rather hefty from a distance, but it was the kind of fat that may as well have been muscle, and years of pushing the steel aparati had conditioned the man's strength considerably. Mike was busy pulling and pushing the carts into each other from the storage docks they were kept in, collecting them so he could replace the ever-diminishing supply at the front. God forbid the customers push their own carts up the hill that comprised the parking lot, their laziness the foundation of the man's career.

                Paul continued to walk, passing much of the store's front. The glass windows that revealed the interior of the store became brick, and Paul stopped at a small metal bench that, though situated in front the store, was also tucked away in a small corner by a small trash can and iron urn for smokers to put their cigarettes. It was the smoking corner, and obviously so. Most would have thought little of it, but not Paul. No, far too many a break had been taken there for him not to think considerably of it. He noted how the bench was a dark green, the former color of the company from days long past, when once the color had been Big People's thematic, iconoclastic one. It had changed since, but not everything.

                As he reflected on this, Paul sat and from his pocket drew the pipe, and with it the lighter as well. Again Paul brought sudden flame to the metal bowl, smoking. And as he did, in those few idle moments, he watched the various cars go past and people walk both to and from the store, though there were not that many at that early time of day, and none who noticed him.

            Paul had expected this, and in fact counted on it. Long ago he had realized that unless a person made a scene, most were so focused on their own lives that they did not notice what went around them, be that good or bad, right or wrong, lawful or not. Perhaps that was why so many who broke the law in those days went free. Paul figured that as long as one did as little as possible to draw attention to him- or herself, and did not act in a fashion that aroused suspicion, such as looking guilty; if guised properly, a person could get away with murder, even. It was not a comforting thought to him, even as he abused the process as readily as far more unbecoming individuals might. It also helped that what he was doing was technically not illegal, at least then.

            This consideration, though, was far from his mind as he sat on the bench on that cold winter morning. It focused elsewhere.

               For you, Nick, he thought as he exhaled, marking the anniversary of the day's date as he did every year.

            He took another sharp, stinging breath in before releasing the thick smoke in the chill air, a fog and cloud that lingered overhead before dissipating entirely with a strong, almost pungent, earthy smell. Several breaths later, and relieved none had seen him, Paul placed the pipe back within the confines of his pocket and then quickly left the spot. He hurried as he went, for he knew he had been late even when first approaching the store, and, for that matter, probably even when leaving his home. He walked past bright displays of flowers and shaggy plants in front of the store that forced Paul to step around them into the busy street and then the callous, gum- and grime-stained sidewalk as he made his way inside.

                It was true that few would find Paul's reason for why he was late little excuse, at least at first glance, even if to him he had been mourning his friend and once fellow co-worker. But Paul knew that if he explained in full – how his co-worker, his best friend had passed, and why Paul remembered him in that fashion – well, it was inconceivable to him how anyone's heart could be so cold not to excuse him, even if they did so grudgingly. It was a cop-out at the same time, and he knew it. Despite knowing this Paul forgave and excused himself. People, for the most part, were predictable to Paul, falling readily into patterns. It was true each person was unique in their own way, but that did nothing to deter most from conforming.

                No, Paul was at peace with being late; there was nothing anyone could say or do concerning the matter that Paul had not absolved himself of already, and as such could do nothing to mar his conscience. For it was a tenet of his that the most important amongst those who will forgive oneself is... one's self. He never once realized the cynicism in that, so used to it.

                These thoughts and more steeped in his mind like a tea bag in a black-brass kettle as the automatic doors swung open, the floor a dark shade of carpet to mask the dirt that was surely on it from those who dragged it in. A thin mother with two small children were pushing their almost barren cart outside. The economic downturn had grown so severe that not just local mom and pop stores were closing, but major chain stores, too. They walked in the lane opposite his that was meant for exiting only as Paul sidled into line behind an extremely elderly man, and his calm demeanor grew agitated and impatient as the figure almost painfully, slowly ventured his way inward.

                You'd think with such limited time left he'd be in more of a hurry, Paul callously thought, and eyes wide, then reprimanded himself for it. He reminded himself of the inevitability that someday, somehow he would be there himself, and if lucky when that day came that he would not be worse for wear.

             Eventually they were inside, a sea of white tiles that composed the floor of the store greeting them. The ceiling sprawled slightly lower than the sky outside had above them. Numerous lights hung in the great space, every thirty feet or so. Beneath those lights hung additional ones, though these were elongated, and the light both cast across the store made it almost appear white with incandescence, leaving a dull glow upon the white tile surface, and shelves that stock was piled upon.

            To the immediate right of the doors was the beginning of a set of large windows that displayed the parking lot, and the hill that Big People had been built upon. None of this was on Paul's mind as he entered the store, though; they were a part of the environment, and he had long ago grown accustomed to their presence.

               Paul stepped past the basket holder, an oddly shaped, large, and plastic-covered apparatus that was filled with thin, plastic purple and green hand-baskets. Above the two multicolored purple and green hand-baskets was a map of the store, almost crude in its simplicity. Before it and held in a skeletal wire basket not unlike the style of the carts outside, were magazines listing the store's sale items for anyone interested in saving money. It always surprised Paul how few ever took them, despite the thousands of customers who walked past each day. Openly, when commenting on the matter, he offered the view that it was from mass illiteracy, when he knew that in truth it was rather from mass laziness. The former was infinite preferable to the latter, for it was based on ignorance, and could be easily cured with simple educating. The other however... a malaise that could not be roused by another until by oneself, and the fact that so few did brought considerable concern to Paul. A testament to this: both of the baskets that held the magazines were still full despite the store having been open since before the sun had even risen.

               Set above the entrance, and facing the inside of the store was a large clock. Like many clocks then, it followed the traditional pattern of being round; the face of it beige, almost matching the color of the walls, but differed just enough in contrast to be noticeable. Numbers traced the edge of the clock, and the minute hand was sufficiently longer than the hour hand that it was obvious which was which. The narrow hands of time obediently followed the numbers around, the hour hand resting partly past the eight, while the larger minute hand pointed firmly between the two and three. It was largely aesthetic.

            Damn, Paul swore to himself, and once he had seen that, doubled his pace. He strode around the elderly figure who made no reaction; the turtle ignoring the hare. The speed of the other, and younger one, would not affect his own, so why concern himself, concerning it?

            Hanging below the entrance, Paul noted a new but familiar sign (really more of a banner) that had been hung. He recognized it from each year past.

            "Buy Triple Winner Tickets!" it ordered, careful also to note that all the funds accrued went to a generic, and of course, honorable cancer research center. The goal for the fundraising was one-and-a-half million, but in the process Big People seemed to spend in an excessive frenzy well over that sum. Paul always wondered why his company didn't just do what he considered the practical thing and donate the money they would spend directly to the foundation; that is, until one day, a customer had declined to donate. The customer informed Paul how they had just done so for a similar charity, in this case supporting AIDs Research for Africa at a nearby rival grocery store. It was then Paul had understood that the companies were using the charities as a means to make money; under the perception that whichever company looked better, or raised more, or helped best, or some absurd quality that depended entirely on the individual to decide, and to a degree the grocery store did, would receive the most customers and thus intake. What scared the hell out of Paul was that it seemed to work.

                That had been one year before, and to Paul, time had passed too quickly since. He found these contests disdainful- as he did many thing, and it would be months before it terminated. He did not at all look forward to the start of the new fundraising scheme. He did his best to put it from mind; he was not interested in a repeat of the prior year, even though he was sure it would be.

                Paul passed an aged ATM machine just a few yards beyond the basket-holder. Because of great use, the machine and money dispenser were dusty and dirty; coffee stains from a myriad of many patrons who had rested their cups there dotted the top of the surface. Paul made a mental reminder it was a task he would need to do in cleaning it.

                He sidled up soon after to the small, same color as the wall, punch-in machine that was set at his neck and chest height in the wall. On either side of it was a door, one for where they counted and kept the money, and the other room reserved for the store's small staff of security. Neither was hardly larger than a closet, and the latter had almost never been used and was surely empty then, as it would be the rest of the day and perhaps time of the company.

                At the machine, Paul punched in his Social Security Number using the small number pad. Despite both the large hanging clock and smaller reading fifteen minutes past eight, Paul breathed a small sigh of relief. He had forgotten that for whatever reason the store's main clock was seven minutes fast. He was still late, to be certain, but it was better than what he had believed it be before.

                He punched his number in and then pressed enter, but rather than the words he had expected to see, 'Late, but Okay', instead a different message appeared, accompanied by a low toned sound that sounded vaguely familiar to Paul, as if he had heard it long before, but until that moment could not have placed where from. In that moment he could, thenceforth. Next to the display screen a small dot that should have flashed green instead flashed red.

                "Not scheduled?" Paul read confusedly aloud in his light, and somewhat soft–toned, voice. "What on Earth...?" he asked and then blinked. A happy thought crossed his mind, maybe I’m not scheduled… but he remembered clearly the posted schedule in the break room stating he was to be there. His thoughts turned pessimistic; maybe I've been fired, he wondered, and though found it unlikely, there was reason to think it. To be certain, and save himself from embarrassment if the err turned out to be his own by having miss-punched his number in, he reiterated the sequence. The same words flashed across the ancient, faded screen as soon as he pressed enter, his worried frown increasing with it.