Wednesday, February 19, 2025
Time: 4:05 PM
Song: Under the Bridge
Artist: The Red Hot Chili Peppers
Mode of Consumption: Listening to my Liked tracks on shuffle on Spotify.
Link to song: https://open.spotify.com/track/3d9DChrdc6BOeFsbrZ3Is0?si=7b595e17ba344106
So, I am going to cheat. Below is what I wrote last night at
Write On. It’s a diary style story from the point of view of a fictional character.
This song was playing while I gave the piece a quick edit this afternoon, and it fits a little
bit. Although, I don’t think the story takes place in Los Angeles or involves heroin
addiction. There is an aura of isolation in the song and story. Also, I will
note that, Jodi and I saw the Chili Peppers last year in St. Paul, and we were literally
at a park under a bridge, and they didn’t sing this song. Maybe they thought it
would be too on the nose.
Enjoy the story! It doesn’t have an ending, this is just
what I had time to type. I might look to continue this to see where it goes.
Thursday, March 1, 202X
Dear Fictional Companion,
There are ninety-six steps from the eighth floor of the
Larson Building to the lobby. I learned that just today, even though I had
spent the last twelve years working on that eighth floor and thinking I should
scale them each morning, lunch and end of day to improve my fitness.
Well, today, I made the descent. Not because I finally was
tired of the little spare tire my ex-wife likes to tease me about when she
comes over once a month (more on that later, I promise), but because I didn’t
have a choice.
The elevator was broken.
And I had to leave.
To be more accurate, Larry Fowler told me at exactly 10:42
AM that I had to leave.
“Charles. Chuck. C-Diddy. I hate to be the bearer of bad
news. Dot. Dot. Dot.” Larry’s the same age as me but loves to read books about being
a better manager. Giving your employees silly nicknames must be one of the hints.
He also rattles off “Charles, Chuck, C-Diddy” whenever he addresses me. I want
to punch him in the C-Diddy.
I was laid off. Downsized. Shit-canned. Pick the term,
that’s what I was. He told me at 10:42 AM, and followed that with that I needed
to be out of the building by 11:30.
“Sorry about the elevator Charles. Chuck. C-Diddy,” Larry
said, as I was leaving carrying a box half-filled with things from my desk that
I didn’t really want. “No hard feelings.”
I counted stairs on the way down, each taking me closer to
being 47-years old and unemployed for the first time since I was twenty-one.
Yours truly,
Charles Lyndon
Friday, March 2, 202X
Dear Fictional Companion,
You’re the only one I’ve told so far about being jobless. I
worry once I breathe a word of it outside of the Larson Building it will grow
like Jack’s Beanstalk so that everyone can see. I believe the term is called
viral in internet speak.
I can see it now. Tweets from everyone from Elon Musk to
Suzie the captain of the local cheerleading squad spreading the news all with
the hashtag #ChucksABum.
I’ve kept my shade drawn today, the garage door closed, I
may not even venture to the mailbox. The neighborhood would just assume I was
sick or something. We live in a post-COVID world right, that thought should
keep nosy folks away for at least three years.
I had two text messages on my phone last night.
One from Erick Wylde. His desk was near mine. We liked to
murmur insignificant things to each other throughout the day about the weather,
about sports teams, about co-workers we liked or disliked. Erick has to be
twenty years younger than me. Safe from layoffs, downsizing, shitcanning
because he makes significantly less than me.
His message went like this:
“Hey Chuck, dude, man, sorry about the job. Hit me up if you
want to get a drink or something. E.”
We’ve never got a drink together before. I haven’t messaged
back yet.
The second was from my son, Jeremy.
“Hey, break starts the 22nd. Staying at moms for
a few days, maybe hit your place on the 27th or something.”
I replied, “K. Love you.” to that.
Yours truly,
Charles Lyndon
Saturday, March 3, 202X
Dear Fictional Companion,
Today was Saturday, so I decided I could open the shades,
pull the Mazda out of the garage, and check the mail.
I even went so far as to drive to the grocery store and buy
a gallon of milk, bread and two candy bars. I didn’t make a list before going,
and realized when I came home that there were probably an additional ten items
that I should have purchased. Like toilet paper. One roll left in the house.
Let the panic start!
So, I ate a candy bar and watched a college basketball game
between two teams I didn’t care about. I bet myself the team in the blue would
win by eight. They lost by twelve. I checked professional sports gambler off my
list of future professions.
Yours truly,
Charles Lyndon
Sunday, March 4, 202X
Dear Fictional Companion,
I texted Erick back at 10 AM.
“Yeah, you want to meet for lunch today. I’ll even pay.”
I showered. I combed my thinning hair. I picked out a
T-Shirt and jeans. Unemployed guys don’t have to wear khakis and collars, I told
myself. I paced around the house. I checked my phone’s charge and reception
probably two hundred times.
When noon came and passed, I made a frozen pizza and changed
into a pair of shorts. There was golf on the TV. I fell asleep.
My phone buzzed at 6:30 PM. A text from Erick.
“Sorry was on the road this weekend. Let’s shoot for another
time.”
He didn’t throw out a specific day, and I read that as much
as you are fictional, my dear companion, so is his interest in ever meeting
with me.
Yours truly,
Charles Lyndon.
Monday, March 5, 202X
Dear Fictional Companion,
My first boss out of college was named Hans. He was
Norwegian with a thick red mustache and barrel chest. The first time he shook
my hand, I knew that this was a man that could crush my skull with his fingers,
if he wanted, too.
You don’t do a shit job for a guy like Hans.
He was a sweet guy. He had like a half dozen red-headed kids
with a tall blonde woman I assumed he ordered from a Norwegian female factory
and he liked to lift heavy boxes over his head just for grins.
Hans would never have fired me. He would have taken me under
his arm, said, “Chucky, dis company’s struggling, but we figure out how ta keep
ya on. Don’tcha worry none.”
I should never have left that place.
I bought a newspaper today, only to find out that nobody
puts job ads in newspapers anymore. Apparently, you have to go online.
Great. Ten different job websites, each wanting different
usernames and different passwords with capital letters and numbers and icons. I
use the dollar sign in all of my passwords.
Positive thinking, right?
Yours truly,
Charles Lyndon.
Tuesday, March 6, 202X
Dear Fictional Companion,
I called my ex-wife today, and she became the first person I
told. Her name is Rena. She still laughs with no regard for who hears her, and
she has never lied to me. Even when she cheated on me, she didn’t lie about it.
More on that later, I promise.
So, I told her, and you know what she says?
“Well, good for you.”
That’s what she says, and she means it. She’s not being a
smartass, even though that’s one of her specialties.
“Good?” I guffawed.
She blitzed me then with more words and sentences than I
could track. I am the kind of guy that can get stuck on the premise of a story
and never get around to understanding the point.
Before we ended the call, I told her that I would call
Jeremy and let him know. I am going to wait a day on that call. She’ll tell him
before that, I am sure.
Yours truly,
Charles Lyndon.
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