Eric Stucki Stories
This is the first chapter of "The Loom". I've written 2 chapters and considered just making this first chapter a self-contained short story.
Chapter 1
The sun came up over the horizon, crawled slowly across the dew-wet asphalt, climbed up the white-washed brick wall, through the faded curtains and into his eyes.
The familiar shock caused the normal reaction of looking at the clock to see what time it was. His immediate guess was that is was about 6:10. But upon focus of the glowing red numbers he saw he was off by seven minutes. It was 6:03. His miscalculation must have been due to the fact that it was getting closer to the summer solstice, and daylight was now coming earlier.
Grabbing his pillow with both hands, he covered his head in an attempt to avoid the un-avoidable. Thinking about the things that were left undone the day before, he only became more irritated.
What else could he do but get up. Rolling out of bed it was now 6:12. He had an hour and eighteen minutes to catch the express train.
A quick, turning stretch and an audible moan helped motivate him.
He grabbed the towel off of the hook on the back of his bedroom door, and walked out of his room down the hall towards the bathroom.
Thinking, “Should I shave today?”, he figured he should.
It wasn’t that his face was grossly layered with a shabby beard — there was only a light, light shadow.
But by shaving he could give the impression that he was semi-normal.
Stepping into the bathroom, he was now almost awake. Brushing his teeth was a quick, but laborious process. He turned the cold water off, and the hot water on, keeping his fingers under it so he could determine the precise moment when it was ready. It was ready.
He patted his face with the hot water, then added shaving cream, making sure to cover all of the soon to be brazen surfaces. Picking up the disposable razor, he started the same way he always started. Reaching across with his left hand, he gently pulled the skin on the right side of his chin, so that he could smooth out his face for a close shave.
The side burn area was to receive the first, slow downward drag. This was followed by a couple of quick rakings, and then another slow upward drag to catch any whiskers that had escaped.
Shaving was one of the only times he fully focused on what he was doing. Everything else seemed to be gone from his mind.
When he was finished, he turned on the water in the shower, this time testing the temperature with his whole hand instead of just the fingers. It was ready.
This was another process that had become methodical. First the shampoo, then the conditioner, and then the soap while the conditioner was doing its job.
While he was rinsing the shampoo out of his hair, he began to think about work again.
“I’ve got to call Mr. Sturgess and let him know that the revised copy is going to be late... then I have to call Tom and find out when the brochure layout is going to be finished... then I’ll probably have to call Sturgess again and tell him the brochure is going to be late... I hope I have enough money for coffee... I need to hurry to catch the train... this sucks.”
He never thought he would ever be so wrapped up in a job like he was, just as he never thought he would be drinking coffee every day. But it had somehow happened.
Done with his shower he was soon dressed in the typical office garb, and driving toward the coffee shop. It was now 7:10, and he was right on schedule. At the coffee shop he saw the same people he always saw — the same employees and the same customers. It was a ritual that rarely changed unless he or some of the other customers was a bit early or a bit late. Everyone was usually right on time.
“What a funny thing,” he thought standing in line, “we all see each other Monday through Friday, yet we never speak, except to order.”
It did not really bother him, it was just another one of those things that crossed his mind.
“Next,” said the girl behind the counter.
Stepping up, he then got a “Good morning, can I help you?”
“Yes, I’ll have a large light and sweet.”
Counting the spoonfuls of sugar, he knew this particular girl would always put in five. And she did. Some of the others would only put in four. There was a big difference between five and four spoonfuls of sugar. Five spoonfuls of sugar meant that the coffee would have a more of a syrupy taste, and that he would not be able to drink the very bottom of the cup because it would be too sweet. He would then be left holding the almost empty cup about half way through his train ride to work.
Four spoonfuls of sugar was somehow much less sweet, and meant he could finish the whole cup of coffee and then put the empty cup on the floor of the train without having to worry about it tipping over and spilling.
Whether having to hold the cup or not bothered him depended on the day of the week. Since it was Friday, it didn’t not really bother him. If it were Monday or Tuesday, he would always specify four spoonfuls of sugar. Not only because he would get annoyed by holding the cup, but because the less sugar, the stronger the coffee. Any other day it didn’t really matter. He paid for his coffee with exact change, said, “Thank you.”, and left.
Parking his car in the parking lot of the train station he looked at his watch and saw it was 7:25. Perfect. By the time he walked to the platform it would be 7:28, and he would only have to wait a minute or two before leaving.
Arriving at the platform, he was greeted by the same eyes that greeted him every other morning. It was just like the coffee shop. The same people, with nothing to say to each other. There were, in fact, some of the same people that were in the coffee shop.
This meant that he would confront some of the same people, up to ten times a week, some of them up to fifteen times a week if they were on the same train home, and not speak a word.
There were always a lot of people waiting. And when the train pulled in there would be a quiet rustling of people positioning for a place to get on board. No one knew exactly where the train door would stop, so there were several little groups of people waiting in about the same spot they had waited the day before hoping they would be first in line. The sooner they got on, the better chance they had of finding a seat.
As he stood waiting, he thought, “Wouldn’t it be weird to fall onto the tracks just as the train was coming, or to see someone else fall on the tracks.”
As soon as he got this thought out, he heard the train whistle blow. The little groups formed. Today, he was among the lucky. The train door opened right in front of him, and he was first in line.
Entering the train, he noticed like every other day most of the sitting passengers were looking into space or out of the window, hoping that no one would sit by them. People had their coats and newspapers lying across seats as if that was a protection for their private space. This was a futile thought combined with a futile effort, because by the time the train reached the station, every seat would be taken by a human. Seeing an empty seat he sat down thinking, “Thank God.” When the train pulled away, eventually everyone was sitting.
At the next stop he stared out of the window. “Excuse me, can I sit down?” said a slightly obese woman as she nudged her way into the seat. “Sure,” he said. Then the train pulled away again.
The game was over now, because all of the seats around him were taken, so he nor his seated comrades would have to pretend to be doing something else at the next stop.
They could look at on coming passengers straight in the eyes without any guilt of possessing an empty seat. Eventually the train made all of the pickups before beginning its non-stop depository mission into New York.
The express train would arrive in one hour and five minutes from the time he boarded. About a half an hour into the ride there would be a slumbering silence that would put some of the passengers to sleep.
He would always stay awake the whole way through, sipping his coffee, and watching the cars on the parallel highway or the buildings blur by. When the outside view became boring, he would look around at the other passengers. Men and women dressed for work. Some with tired faces, and others poised as if they were going to a holy war completely willing and ready. Some read the paper either to make them look important, or because they actually were important. It was hard to tell.
Every so often the train would shift from side to side causing a humorous, synchronized swaying of the passengers. Nobody would laugh out loud, but Dunlap always chuckled inside.
“Next stop, 125th street,” said the conductor through the microphone, “careful as you leave the train.” The train stopped. Only a few passengers exited here, but everyone woke up.
“Grand Central Station is next, Grand Central next.” The ride to Grand Central from 125th would be about 10 minutes. Dunlap again began thinking about work.
“Would Sturgess be pissed about the delay... maybe there won’t be a delay and I’m worrying over nothing... we’re almost there... now I can get rid of this coffee cup.”
The speaker sounded again, “Grand Central Station. Make sure you have all of your belongings before you exit the train. Grand Central Station.”
Though the train had not yet come to a complete stop, most of the passengers were standing and waiting as close as they could to the doors to exit.
Dunlap had to wait to stand because he was in a window seat and couldn’t get up because of the fat lady beside him.
After a couple of heavy breaths, she finally gained the courage to stand, and now he was free.
Leaving the train only meant leaving the train. The platform at Grand Central was always packed, and it usually took a couple of seconds to start moving. Then it was a harmonious march to the main concourse.
By the time he reached the main concourse, the coffee cup had been dropped in the same trash can that it had been dropped in many times before.
He looked up at the big words stating “42nd Street”. This was his favorite exit. Even though he would have to turn left when he exited the station and head toward Lexington Avenue, he still preferred to exit on 42nd.
There was a direct exit to Lexington that was actually quicker, but he liked walking through the station and seeing all of the different people. One never could tell if something exciting was going on in the main concourse. Plus, it was the exit he used his first time in Grand Central as a tourist, and for some strange reason he was happily addicted.
Everyone walking through the station looked as if they were going somewhere. To work, shopping, or nowhere. You could always tell which one it was. The suits to work, the make-up to shop, the book bags to nowhere.
Pushing through the door he exited the station to the smell of the food vendor that was always there. A small line of people waited.
He blended in with the eastern flow of pedestrians and headed to work.
Looking at this watch, it was now 8:45. The walk would take about 10 minutes, and after the elevator ride up to the 23rd floor, he would usually be at his cubicle about 8:57.
He walked at the same rate he always walked, took a left on Lexington, went down two blocks and entered the building.
Getting on the elevator, nobody said a word. Everyone looked ahead with their heads at about a 45 degree angle looking up at the floor indicator.
Dunlap always stood in the back of the elevator so he would not have to look up like the others. Looking up at the 45 degree angle caused an ache in his neck.
He thought, “Don’t these people get neck aches too?”
After a couple of stops, he was at his floor. The speed of the elevator sometimes made his stomach queasy, especially when there were five spoonfuls of sugar in the coffee.
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