Nano: Day 1

Already I'm making bad decisions - like going to see The Weather Man tonight instead of writing. Oh well, over the course of the day (and remember, I had work and school to contend with) I managed to get down a little over 1000 words. Now, I won't do this every day, but I thought I'd give you all a little sneak peak at what I'm writing. So, for your enjoyment, here are the first 1000 words of Mass Romantic. (Sorry in advance for the horrid formatting.)

She likes to play a game where I am the sheep. One where she is dressed in sheep’s clothing. She says baaa-aa and we both pretend.
But this is just an epigram. It has very little to do with the story.

----Chapter One----

A pregnant pause follows.
Let me freeze-frame things right here. Let me catch you up.
There are three of us seated around the table. It is an obscenely long table and so unmistakably phallic that Prentice and I have a running joke about the office manager’s need for overcompensation.
Prentice is sitting across from me, arms in the air, frozen in their last enthusiastic gesticulation. Downcast eyes, the hint of a slump in the shoulders – he has already guessed the outcome.
He’s young. Graduated three years ago and has been working here since. God knows how he came upon us out of school. We’re not exactly in the job placement program.
This is his pitch. His first stab at his own headline. Big letters across the monochrome newsprint beside a fuzzy picture of a UFO or the Abominable Snowman. His pitch is shaky. Too wordy. Too realistic. He knows it, I’m sure. You can already see the resignation in his eyes as they sweep the floor, too frightened to make contact.
All of this is because of Stephen’s glower. It’s hostile (unlike Stephen), it’s resentful (unlike Stephen), it’s overpowering (unlike Stephen).
Stephen is standing at the head of the table, Prentice and I to either side. His back is bent forward slightly, his arms straight with fists clenched and knuckles leaning into the table.
Clearly, he had been expecting more from Prentice. The glower makes that obvious enough, but even if that look hadn’t been in his repertoire, you would have been able to tell by the utter lack of emotion on his face during the pitch.
Meanwhile, I’m sitting back. I’m taking things in. I’m tilting back my chair, trying to strike a perfect balance between looking relaxed and looking totally attentive. I’m disappointed in Prentice. I’m wishing Stephen didn’t need to glower. I’m wondering if the pub we hit after work will be full of college girls.
This is the scene.
The pregnant pause continues. Prentice’s arms remain suspended for just a moment before crashing into his lap. Stephen continues to glower and rocks back and forth on his knuckles. I continue to pose.
This is how the scene continues for a few seconds. Stephen waits until the silence becomes audible. He straightens up. He straightens his tie. He straightens his shirtsleeves.
“Unacceptable,” he says. The rebuke doesn’t faze Prentice much. We are all aware that the glower is what does the talking. Stephen’s words merely present a finality to the meeting.
Stephen and I share a brief look. I want a few moments alone with Prentice. Stephen says nothing more and walks out of the boardroom.
I allow for another interval of silence. He needs to compose himself. I need to adopt a new pose. Caring. Fatherly. Interested, but not too interested. When the agreed upon amount of silence has passed, I begin:
“Come out tonight. After work.”
“I thought you were going out with Stephen.”
“I’ll ditch. He’ll understand.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah. We’ll go over some things.”
He nods and then I nod, as if something very important has passed between us. As if we are soldiers saying final goodbyes, preparing to charge. This is our inflated sense of importance. Prentice leaves.
I fold my hands and place them on my stomach. This is a brief moment to myself. I let my mind wander aimlessly, through a soup of convoluted images. Something occurs to me and I remove a pad of Post-It Notes from my pocket. I scribble down Investment banker covered in snakes. I hold up the note, look at it. A dream, maybe? Something metaphorical, surely. It probably won’t fit anywhere, but I return the note to my pocket all the same. Sometimes, you never know.

It is Friday. On Fridays I leave the office at five sharp no matter what. Of course, I’ve set my laptop’s clock four minutes fast, so that when it reads 5:00, it is really 4:56. I’m out the door by 4:58. This is my little act of rebellion.
I tell Stephen the bad news, that I want to help Prentice out a little. I tell him his presence would probably make Prentice nervous, that it’s best if Prentice and I go out alone. Stephen, of course, understands. Anything for the paper. This is not Stephen’s motto, because he would never say it. Even so, it is what he believes.
“You’re still coming tomorrow, right?”
Unfortunately. “Yeah. I’ll be there,” I answer. Stephen’s son, Nathan, has won the lead role in his high school’s production of Othello. It premieres tomorrow night. Stephen believes that Nathan is going to make it big as an actor. I believe that Nathan is the only black kid in his drama club.
“And you’ve set up the Blair interview, right?”
“Yeah. It’s done.” I have a Monday morning interview with Eric Blair, who always gives us good stories. Ones we can’t think up on our own. He wears aluminum foil deflector beanies to keep the government out of his head. Monday, he wants to talk to me about the microscopic black helicopters that Big Brother has inserted into his bloodstream.
“Good. I’ll see you tomorrow. Seven. You’ve got directions to the school?”
“Yeah.”
“And you’ll be there?”
Bye, Stephen. “Yeah.”
“Good. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Yeah.”
“Seven.”
Bye, Stephen. “Yeah.”
“Alright. You have a good night. Talk some sense into Prentice.”
“Yeah. Bye, Stephen.”
I turn briskly, walk away from the office. Sometimes, Stephen will call after me, try to continue the already dead conversation. Tonight I am lucky. I stop in front of Prentice’s office. He is sulking, staring at the wall. This is what he does when he is depressed and wants to talk about it, but wants someone else to initiate the conversation.
“Are you feeling depressed, Prentice?”
“No, I’m fine.”
“No, you’re not. You’re doing your depressed thing.”
Prentice frowns. “What? I don’t have a depressed thing.”
“Yes, you do. You were doing it. You were staring at your wall.”
“I was thinking.”
“About being depressed?”
“About a better headline.”
“What did you come up with?”
Prentice smiles. “Nothing. Too depressed.”
“I’ll meet you in three hours. The usual place?”
Prentice nods.
I am late. I don’t make it out of the office until 4:59.