The Office Worker

         He had walked the expanse of the earth for what seemed like days, yet only an hour had passed. From his abode in the deep crevasses of the downtown to the great building on the corner of Guadalupe and Angel Street, he had ventured. With his great cleft chin pressed firmly against his chest, he walked, all the while counting the cracks left in the concrete by ages and ages of quick, rapid steps. The eyes he had inherited from his father--the same father that had abandoned him and his mother before he was more than a preconceived notion—-were focused on nothing but the cracks. Three-hundred-and-fifty-six, three-hundred-and-fifty-seven. The crowd of people milling about the sidewalks split as he walked, not even aware of their doing so.

         And so he continued walking, undeterred by walking signals telling him firmly to STOP. He kept walking. With a flawless, black briefcase clenched in his right hand and his soft left hand, one of two hands that has touched nothing warmer than a keyboard and stationary for the past two-and-half years, placed carefully into his waist pocket. He reached the building he had been waiting for; he went into the elevator and climbed the fifteen stories; he sat down at his desk and began typing.