Nephilim

It’s seven AM. I can tell by the incessant beeping of my alarm clock. I'm going to be late for work again, like they even care. Hell, like I even care. I used to have that thing set for an hour earlier, but then I'd just snooze-button my way to seven, so why not cut to the chase, right?

God I hate my life. Well, if there even is a God, then I hate him for my crappy life. I get up and go to the bathroom as I usually do. Everyday. Get up, go to the bathroom, get out, get dressed, go back in, and freshen up. As I wash my face and stare in the mirror, I give myself my daily pep talk to start the day:

“This robot is obsolete. When does the new model come in?”

--

I lock the door as I exit my apartment. “Third from the left,” I tell myself. I only have four keys, but saying that makes it feel like more, like I have other places I can run away to. I walk straight passed the mailbox; bad news can wait until I get home… tomorrow.

It’s a quick walk to the bus stop, not that I ever notice; it’s usually one blur to the next for me. I used to drive to work, but the state frowns upon five speeding tickets. I’m sure saying, “Hell yes those five seconds were worth it,” didn’t help matters either.

There’s already a guy sitting down as I approach. I don’t give him any notice as I sit down next to him. ‘Out of sight, out of mind’ is usually the best approach when riding the bus. As I slide my sleeve over to look at my watch, the man asks about the time. “Seven Thirty-six,” I tell him without looking, “Bus should be here in nine minutes.” The man shifts over and says his name’s Gregory, though for a second I could have sworn he pronounced it ‘grigori’. I can see out of the corner of my eye he has a hand out. I expect that he’s intending that I shake his hand, but I continue to stare at my watch as if it and I were holding an exclusive stare-down contest.

“Simon,” I say.

“Pleasure to meet you, Simon. Did you know your name means ‘he who hears’?”

“I had no idea,” I sarcastically reply. If I’m lucky, Gregory’ll pick up on that and go back to waiting for the bus. I can still see his outstretched hand, though. No such luck. This presents me with a dilemma: if I continue to ignore this man, it’s possible he’ll just continue to chip away, but if I talk to him and feed him the attention he craves, then it’s possible he won’t fill up on it and crave more.  Against my better judgment, I turn to face Gregory. “So what does your name mean?”

“Vigilant watch,” he says with a smirk. He’s an older looking guy with peppered, white hair in a brown overcoat and looks like he walked out of a pulp gumshoe story, but that’s not the first thing that hits me. The first thing that hits me are his eyes. He has these brown, almost amber eyes and they stare me down. He must be someone’s father because he gives me this look like my dad did when I used to tell him that I finished my homework when I really didn’t. They’re warm too, at the same time, if that makes any sense. Whether he’s trying to or not, this man’s laying the guilt trip on me, but I feel calm… damn near relaxed. Almost without notice I take his hand and shake it once. Then he pulls it away and I get this chill that runs up my spine. As I grunt and shake it off, Gregory asks, “So what do you do?”

“Just another rat running in that paycheck-to-paycheck wheel,” I tell him and he laughs. The rest of the time just passes by easily as the bus finally shows up. He lets me get in front of him and I pull out my wallet as the doors to the bus swing open. The driver, deadpan as you would expect her to sound, shouts out that the fare’s a buck twenty-five. Panic sets in the instant I look down into my wallet:

My money’s gone.

Immediately, I try to race through everything I did last night. What happened? I can’t remember. Did I get drunk? Did I spend it on a girl? Did I get laid? Did I enjoy it? Fuck, none of that shit happened; why would I be at home? Fuck. Okay, I got off work, took the bus, stopped at the gas station, bought some juice –

“Dollar Twenty-Five, please!”

“Yeah, hold on!” My eyes dart back and forth as if scanning through last night’s events in literary form. Fuck, did I walk out without getting the change? Dude, shit, did I even get juice? God I hate my life! Does it have to be this boring? I can’t even remember if I bought something?

“If you don’t have the money, you can wait for the next bus.”

“Wait, hold on!” I shout and throw my hand inside, hoping for the life of me that this lady won’t close the door on my arm and take off. At roughly the same moment, Gregory’s arm darts out from behind me holding two dollars. “Thanks, but I’m cool,” I tell him, twisting my head to look over my shoulder, but keeping my hopeful hand blocking the doors. He tells me it’s only a couple of bucks and isn’t going to break him and not to worry about it. I slip the bills from his hand and feed them in to the fare machine. I look back and say, “Thanks, I’ll pay you back tomorrow.”

He smiles and looks up. “Don’t worry about it. Do you believe in a higher power?”

“Oh God,” I say, “You’re not gonna bible thump me all the way to work, are you?” He laughs and tilts his head with a nod as the doors close.

“Not my bus.”

--

I get out for lunch a little after twelve. Not a minute too soon, I might add; Grant couldn’t stop talking about his body and his new personal trainer he’s been working with. I mean, it’s great he not a fucking lard ass anymore, but fuck! And it’s not even that he’s pulling that typical born-again mentality of telling everyone how much your life has changed for the better – which he does – but he’s trying to get us all to see this trainer, like he’s this guy’s recruiter, or something. I told him to fuck off, but as expected, he just waved me away thinking I’ll eventually come around. Seriously though, what the fuck? I’m sitting there with the largest container of soda I can buy and this guy really thinks I might consider seeing a trainer?

Lunch is nothing short of nauseous. I’ve eaten at every restaurant nearby so many times that it’s all just one large well of sick. I’m tired of it. I generally just stick with one restaurant for a week before going to another one. It’s to the point that if I show up on Monday, they generally know to have my order ready when I walk in for the rest of the week. It’s fucking repetitive. I really need to just get up and try something different.

Ehh, I already ordered, I’ll do it tomorrow.

I remind myself as I walk out to leave my greasy bag of fries on Grant’s desk.

--

If there’s ever one thing I can be happy about, it’s that work ends. Of course, that little moment of bliss subsides as soon as I realize what I’m heading home to: a bleak excuse for living. One foot in front of the other, I trace my way back to the bus stop. I should take up smoking; it would give my hands something to do. “Fuck it,” I tell myself as I sit on the bench; five bucks a day I don’t have anyway.

I close my eyes and rub the sides with my fingers. Fuck, what a day. Normally, that’s a good topic starter, said in such a way that it’s like sloughing some imaginary weight off your shoulders, but for me. I think that everyday. To me, ‘fuck, what a day’ carries the same detached emotion and significance that ‘nice to meet you’, or ‘hi, is this seat taken?’, or ‘that’ll be a buck twenty-five’…

Fuck. I just remembered –

“Hello. Is this seat taken?”

I look up and stare at him. I can’t believe it; those fucking brown eyes and that same fucking stare. If Gregory had gotten on the bus with me earlier, I wouldn’t really mind, but fuck that; I’m terrified. What’s he doing here? It’s coincidence that we end up at the same bus stop to go home? Fuck coincidence, this asshole’s stalking me. “What are you doing here?” I ask.

“I was in the neighborhood,” he looks off down the street, then back at me, “and I saw you sitting here and I wondered if you had the forethought to get some money for bus fare.” My heart beats harder and my palms start to sweat; I can feel my heartbeat so badly I’m sure you can see it in my temples. Those fucking eyes! If I say I got money, he’ll know I’m lying. Fuck! I shut my eyes and want to scream,

“What the fuck do you want from me?”

Silence. Nervousness. I just said that out loud. I look at Gregory. The stare is gone. I replaced it with confusion and hurt. He closes his eyes – slowly – then nods as he frowns, the gray stubble framing it, directing me to stare at what I created. I feel justified, but at the same time, I feel like shit. He stares to his lower left at nothing before looking at me again smiling.

“I get it. This is a little freaky and I’m sorry for that,” He reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out two dollars. He lays them next to me and continues, “All the same, here you go. Just do me a favor and the next time you have the choice of continuing as you normally do and doing the right thing, don’t let me down.” I try to thank him and explain myself, but it gets caught in my throat. I watch him walk as he turns the corner and the bus arrives.

--