A Disposable Tool

 

            Wilfred had just descended the seven floors of his office building to enjoy a warm, peaceful, and slightly windy afternoon, to eat his lunch in the park alone. He paused at the main entrance to his building, looking out across the sea of people, all of whom seemed to be walking in pairs and distracted in conversation, while he argued with himself inside of his own mind about whether to eat fish and chips or bangers and mash.

              He descended the fourteen steps to the main sidewalk and ended the argument in his head by deciding on fish and chips, a meal he would enjoy in the park, alone, while people watching. Walking three blocks south to the traditional public house he only occasionally visited, he placed his order to go, waited fifteen minutes for the waitress to appear with a hot and greasy paper sack, accompanied by a twenty-four-ounce oatmeal stout.

              He retraced his steps to the small park that fronted his office building, found an empty table, placed his still cold and foamy drink immediately to his right, popped open the Styrofoam container that held his fish and chips and savored every bite, stirring up memories of the many identical meals that he enjoyed with his parents as a child.

              The combination of hot fish, vinegar laden chips and the strong oatmeal stout brought great joy to his heart, something he had not felt in far too long. He sat in silence, enjoyed his meal, and people watched for the next thirty minutes, wondering what had happened that he was now almost always alone. He ate with his fingers, occasionally looking at the plastic fork that sat alone in the bottom of the greasy paper bag. “Heh, that’s me,” he thought. “There’s a tool that really serves no purpose. It’s plastic, it’s flimsy, and would only break if I tried to cut into this meal.”

              He finished his lunch, wiped the excess grease and salt from his fingers, and swallowed his last very large mouthful of stout. As he stood to dispose of his garbage, an abrupt jackhammering jarred him from his introspection, followed by a string of expletives from the man operating the offensive tool. He glanced at his watch and realized that he still had fifteen minutes of lunch break to burn through before returning to his windowless office.

              A large, sweaty man in an orange safety jacket dropped the jackhammer on the ground and began to dissemble the tool. Wilfred presumed the tool was broken and needed to be repaired or replaced. “Heh, it’s me again,” he thought. “Use the tool until it no longer has value and then replace it.” He returned to the sidewalk and began walking in the opposite direction to enjoy the fresh air, the sunshine, and continued to watch people, hoping to distract himself away from his feelings of rejection and emptiness.

              He had left his jacket on the back of his chair at his desk, which allowed him to roll up his sleeves, which brought attention to his now ringless left hand finger, a slight pale space with no hair, having been previously occupied by a wedding ring. When he reached the end of the street, he sat down at the bus stop, watched a bus arrive to be boarded by several people and spew forth several people, most of whom were accompanied by a significant other.

              He continued to people watch for another five minutes, to then rise to his feet and return to his office. A slight breeze blew an empty paper cup past his feet as he slowly returned to work. “Heh, there’s me again,” he thought. “A cup that temporarily served its purpose until it no longer was useful, disposed of and forgotten. That makes me think of that comedian I heard the other night at the club, remind the audience that the employer they currently serve will replace them when they no longer fulfill their purpose.”

              He ascended the fourteen steps, re-entered the building, paused at the elevator door but then chose to take the steps up all seven floors, feeling the need to burn off some of the calories he had just consumed. He dropped his now slightly sweaty frame into his office chair to look up at the back of the heads of his co-workers, wondering if anyone else had the same kind of thoughts that he did.

              “No, they don’t,” he reminded himself. “Listening to these knuckleheads talk all day makes it obvious that they have nothing of depth taking place in between their ears. No one is original, no one is creative, no one is thoughtful, and no one seems to offer anything of value to us, to me, or to the company. What a ridiculous waste of life and energy.”

              The next several hours passed and he watched the clock tick to five, prompting him to cleanse his hands with several drops of hand cleanser, put on his jacket and take the elevator to the main floor. He blended into the crowd of people as they vomited forth onto the sidewalk. He and they continued for several blocks to descend further into the London Underground, which resulted in a fifteen-minute ride on the tube, being constantly reminded to mind the gap.

              His stop came up and he squeezed through the crowd to ascend once again to the street above and enter his small, somewhat cold and empty flat. This glorious space had once been filled with antiques, books, fine art, a wife and two happy children. Most of which was now gone, as she had filed for divorce, taking most everything of value, leaving him feeling unloved, unwanted, and disposable.

              He sat down at this veneered aluminum table, not quite hungry for dinner but settled to pull a Guinness from the fridge to hold him over until the hunger pains for dinner arrived. He swallowed the last of the Guinness, looked at the mostly empty shelves in the fridge and in the cupboards, wondering if a grocery store run would be the wisest response, or another trip to a local pub for a nice shepherd’s pie.

              With a barely audible groan, he lay down on the floor, and slowly relaxed each muscle, starting with his toes, his legs, his hands, his arms, his torso, and finally released the tension in his neck. He watched the random patterns on the ceiling shift about as his mind looked for patterns, hating the idea of randomness.

              “Ugh, I need to take a shower,” he thought. “Way too much sweating today and way too much introspection. Like the fork, like jackhammer, and like the paper cup, I’m just another disposable tool for which no one has a use.” He slowly sat up, undressed, took a cold shower, and found a fresh set of clothing, committed to enjoying a savory shepherd’s pie from the local pub.

              “Maybe I can connect with someone tonight during dinner,” he thought. “There is that one waitress that is always so friendly. If I go late enough, I can wait for her shift to finish and maybe we can enjoy a night at the edge of the lake. A little pointless conversation would be enjoyable. There is nothing better than listening to someone else talk, to ask questions, to answer questions, and to trade some empty banter.”

              After a cool shower, a quick shave, and a new set of clothes, he moved some product through his hair, grabbed his wallet and keys and walked the few blocks to the local pub. Offering a small wave and smile to the waitress, he took a booth, ordered his dinner and suggested taking her for a quiet chat after her shift to the edge of the lake. She touched his arm, returned the smile, and accepted his offer. He finished his dinner, ordered a second Guinness and waited for Margery to finish her shift, meeting her on the sidewalk as the restaurant closed.

              The evening transpired exactly as he had hoped, slowly walking with Margery to the lake, to engage in small, pointless conversation, which was a lovely reprieve from his days, weeks, and months of introspective conversation. “This is really nice, Margery,” he said. “I spend so much of my time alone. It’s really good to have a conversation with someone else besides the monolog in my head. I so often feel like a disposable tool with no real purpose.”

              “Oh, Wilfred,” she said. “Don’t talk like that. We really should spend more time together. I find your company quite lovely and enjoyable. You are not disposable, you have so much to offer to me and so many others. There are so many who would miss you if you were suddenly gone. That would be terrible. It’s getting kind of late; will you walk me home?”

              “Yes, of course,” Wilfred answered. “I’ll make sure you get home safe.”

              “Thank you so much, my love,” she said. “We should go out for breakfast some morning on some weekend. That way we don’t have to sneak around in the dark and we can enjoy a sunny morning and afternoon together. That would be so lovely.”

              “I love that idea,” Wilfred said. “Let’s do that Sunday morning. I’ll be at your door at nine o’clock Sunday morning, if that works for you.”

              “Yes, that sounds perfect,” Margery answered. “This will be a perfect Sunday morning. See you then.”

              He walked her to her door, watched her walk in, he scanned the neighborhood and returned home, feeling happy, satisfied and useful, thrilled at the prospect of this new developing friendship.