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        Ervin scraped the crud out of his feverish eyes. He rolled over and checked the clock. 4:30 a.m. Two hours before the alarm would sound. He was deathly sick. Throat felt like a clogged drain. Nose a leaky faucet. He decided to climb out of bed and disentangle his weak limbs from the sad knot of sheets. He looked through the window—pitch dark. He grabbed his glasses, shoved naked feet into a pair of shoes. No socks tonight. Tonight? Was it really? Or was it morning? Damn it—he couldn't tell. How long had he slept? He felt like a huge chunk of consciousness had been snatched from him. He felt like he was locked in a submarine several fathoms down—the blackness all-encompassing—day and night irrelevant.
        At the top of the stairs, he stood, hand on the rail, looking down at the unraveling steps. He painfully went through the calculations. He had to be at work by 7:00 a.m. Work would last eight hours. Those eight hours would feel like sixteen hours, considering the two-times multiplier for fatigue, illness, and annoying co-workers. Hmm... what other numbers were there? His rational thought complex was flickering on and off. Time spent vegetating in front of the television: anywhere between one hour and three.
        One foot, then the next. He still wondered how many precious, golden moments he had left in his day after so many slices were removed from the twenty-four hour pie. Thud! He had misjudged his steps. Twisted his ankle and banged his elbow on the railing. Started tumbling down the stairs. Thump thump thump. Shit! Shit! Oww... oww... owwwww. The world hammered down on him in waves. Pulsing, rhythmic aches. New muscles he never realized he had until they shrieked with pain.
        He stared helplessly up at the ceiling and listened to his heartbeat. Imagined that an ambulance was coming. Everything would be okay. He waited. The white speckles were fascinating. Perhaps there was no ambulance. Maybe there would be one of those policemen—the ones that draw the chalk outlines around dead people. Ervin's body certainly looked contorted enough.
        He had to get up. He needed to blow his nose. He'd have to walk off all this pain sooner or later. That was the only remedy his dad had taught him. There was no comprehensive medical coverage plan to cushion his falls with a soft pillow of money. He grabbed his wallet from the counter top. Flipped it open. Looked through all the old receipts. Wished they could resurrect the ghosts of soda pop, potato chips, burritos, and twinkies. Only a few scraggly dollar bills remained. Phone numbers were jotted in the margins, in his hand-writing. But he didn't remember why they worth keeping.
        He sauntered out the door in an uneven gate. The cold bit into him like a ravenous, howling demon. He rubbed his eyes, wishing he weren't so absent-minded. He rushed back into his house and grabbed the biggest, bulkiest, warmest, most ridiculous winter jacket he could find and threw it over his shoulders. He scrounged among a pile of mislaid articles of clothing for his tousle hat—a grimy, striped rag he'd been meaning to replace for a long time.

        The gas station was stark. Almost empty. The clerk leered at Ervin dully as he limped up to the automatic doors and waited for them to register his presence. His youthful eyes were half dead; they crawled out from under a bright red visor. Ervin didn't acknowledge his presence, just headed straight for the coffee machine. He plucked out the largest Styrofoam cup available and let the brown caffeinated potion drizzle down.
        "Ervin?"
        Voices were swirling in his head again. Bright, airy voices—entirely to cheery too be human. No one was really alive right now. He stood still, wondering if he would be spared. If he didn't make another move, he would be spared. Saved from harassment.
        "Ervin? Is that you?"
        He saw a sprightly girl standing, hands tucked deep inside the pockets of her tan jacket. Her eyes were large, soft brown. They had a way of looking at a person pleadingly. Her hair was a dirty blonde—a curly helmet. He couldn't immediately place her—would have to grope around in the dark, careful not to break any delicate vases.
        "Oh...uh...Yeah, that's me. Evenin'. How ya' doing?"
        "It's been ages!" she gushed, rushing forward to hug him.
        "Woah! Slow 'n' steady, there. No big moves now."
        "Oh my God! You don't recognize me, do you?"
        "No...Uh...See I'm a little under the weather, and...uh...not enough sleep either, so..."
        "It's okay, you don't have to explain. I'm Caroline," she paused to see if this made an impact, "from high school." Her face clicked in his mind. Her yearbook picture. Her quote—something about finding paths and roads and goals and keys and triumphing over mountains. And the mountains stood for adversity, obviously. That sort of thing.
        "Ahhh... Right, right... Carol... From Economics class, right?"
        She frowned. "Applied mathematics."
        He giggled in spite of himself. "That's, uh, that's what I meant. So what's new with you? What brings you to town? I thought everybody vowed never to come back."
        "Family obligations." She stopped abruptly. She must've not wanted to elaborate. "I take it you never left?" Her eyebrows punctuated her question.
        "Heh heh. Yeah, you could say that. Just couldn't leave all the familiar faces behind." Ervin decided he wasn't enjoying her company very much.
        "I know what you mean." She smiled. "Here, let me give you my contact info." She reached into her purse and pulled out a card, which she handed to him. He accepted, unenthusiastic. Her work number was listed. She worked at some graphics design firm. Exciting.
        "All right. Cool. We'll, uh, keep in touch then."
        "Great! Well, I have to get going. Have a nice day," she said.
        "Yeah. You too."
        Ervin moved to hide in a corner, hoping he was well-concealed behind the piled up cases of soda cans. His ankle was bothering him fierce. He pretended to inspect an array of peanut packets in case she looked back at him before she left. She was nice enough. She was beautiful, he guessed. He would try anyone. Even if they drove him crazy. If he weren't so tired and down in the dumps all the time, he'd be desperate.
        After the coast was clear, Ervin went up to pay for his coffee. The cashier smirked at him. He smirked back. At least he hadn't sunk this low, yet—to be on the other side of the counter—handing out lottery tickets, checking IDs and fetching cigarettes for young, snotty kids, bagging liquor for the homeless, taking food stamps from the impoverished. But there was always the possibility. In fact, he'd probably be in need of a new job soon enough. Some other day, when this smart aleck little bastard wasn't around, he'd maybe come in and pick up an application. But for now, he had to go home and get ready to go to the job he was barely hanging on to.

        Shuffle up. Punch in. Ervin felt the warm buzzing rush ooze out of his skin. The fixtures slowly fading. He needed another cup. Or a patch. Or a pill. Or an IV to wheel around with him.
        A maze of cubicles filled the room. He slowly limped to his own personal work station, now no longer a feeling individual. He was a productive, efficient team member. He threw his coat in the corner. Turned on the computer. Checked his company e-mail for the day's instructions:

        (1) 2003_budget.htm (09/16/2003)
             IE/NS comp. iss. rect. ASAP
        (2) visit_main.htm (09/12/2003)
             img src—incorrect rect.
        (3) empl_benefit.htm (08/16/2002)
             new doc. (x1) attached
             format, replace
        (4) plant_tour.htm (09/07/2003)
             new .gifs (x4) attached
             UL, del. old files

        more updates TBA

        Ervin was part of the "website maintenance and development department." He typed in strings of silly bracketed codes—day in, day out. The monitor felt like it was melting his face off. He cracked his knuckles. The whole office, the whole building, the whole company--an impersonal monolith. He opened the attachments, several all-American plant workers smiled at the camera while performing their menial tasks. At least at the local gas station he could look at real human faces, expressing a more complete range of emotions—loneliness, discontent, fatigue.
        Ervin settled into his task. Lost himself. Hunched over his desk. His manager approached his cubicle. Absolutely startled him. Something was up. The manager was a balding, corpse-skinny, wasted man. His cornflower blue tie swayed as he lurched up to Ervin and slapped him on the shoulder. A youth timidly followed him, wide-eyed and green. No doubt a recent college graduate—Ervin's replacement.
        "Ervin, m'boy! I know you've got things to do, but I want to introduce you to one of our new employees, Neil." Ervin wiped his palms on his pants and extended a hand.
        "Hello."
        "Hi, how d' you do?" He smiled awkwardly at Ervin. Did he know? The bastard. The scab.
        "I'm good, I'm good. Welcome aboard."
        "Ervin," the manager piped up, "We'll be taking Neil on as an HTML editor much like yourself. I want you to show him the ropes, give him the in's and out's of the job, all right?"

        Ervin washed his hands. The notice on the bathroom specified he must. The bathroom--last sanctuary from Neil. Neil, the vulture. Neil, circling overhead as Ervin entered the final stretch of his abbreviated career in the Internet communications industry--the fiberoptic gold mine. Neil, asking questions incessantly, pecking away. Ervin's life could be summarized in a Dilbert comic strip. He looked at himself in the mirror. A ghoul's face matched his gaze. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the familiar business card. Her last name was the same as he remembered it from the glory days. Birch.
        Neil was wandering around--a mouse lost in a maze. His face betrayed an inner sense of dejection and bewilderment. He lit up like a light bulb when Ervin stepped out of the bathroom and rushed over to his side. Neil's pressed pants, starched shirt, tall, confident stature, and sparkling new smile sickened Ervin. Ervin, short in stature, felt like the Sancho Panza to Neil's Don Quixote.
        "Hey. Guess I lost you for a second. Been lookin' all over."
        "Just went to the bathroom for a sec."
        "Boy, this sure is a nice office--great view 'n' everything--must be swell to work here."
        "Sure is."
        "So, how long do we get for a lunch break?"
        "Forty-five minutes, I think... I'm not sure. They probably want you back as soon as possible. I take an hour. No one notices."
        "Oh... You wanna' have lunch together? I bet you know where all the top eatin' spots are, huh?"
        "Hmm... Not really... I've got to meet someone for lunch, actually."
        "Wife?"
        "No... Car mechanic--only time he's available."
        "I see. I'm getting married myself--in April."
        "Congratulations."
        "Well, I'll catch you later. Have a good meal."
        "Yeah. You too."
        "Umm... do they have a vending machine around here?"
        "Down the hall, take a left, by the drinking fountain."
        "Thanks." Neil nodded with enthusiastic gratitude and walked briskly away. His left hand dipped into his pants pocket to scrounge for money. Ervin laughed to himself and pushed the round metal button to summon the elevator. On his way down, the elevator stopped on almost every floor of the building. Each additional passenger had glossy eyes and a ravenous look. Everyone knotted their hands in front of them, gazed down at the floor, listened to the elevator music. They looked up in unison, startled, when elevator stopped prematurely and another business suit stepped inside the cramped quarters.

        Two squad cars flanked the gas station. A flimsy strip of yellow ribbon stretched across the entrance and exit doors. Once door was punctured with a bullet hole. Ervin's curiosity peaked. The site was unpopulated, isolated in time and space. Ervin approached the doors and clenched the POLICE LINE: DO NOT ENTER ribbon in his hands to prevent it from flapping around in the wind. Inside, the worker from earlier in the morning lay spread out on the floor. A dried, rusty splotch of blood had crept out from beneath his body. Poor bastard. How long after Ervin left did this kid's smirk melt into an open hole of disbelief? Ervin shivered, disgusted. Disgusted, in part, at himself, for staring. Some turn-over rate. A job opening for sure. But at what cost? He might have to reconsider.
        "Hey buddy, what the hell do you think this is, a peep show?" An officer appeared beside Ervin, thumbs tucked behind his thick leather belt.
        "Uhh... I didn't know there was--I wanted to get some--"
        "Store's closed. Cantcha' see that? Now piss off." Ervin let go of the yellow ribbon and put his red, raw hands in his jacket pockets. He stumbled off to work. "...creep. Can't even wait for tomorrow's newspaper."
        There will be other gas stations. Other neighborhoods that toss restlessly within the confines of bed while a pimply faced punk points a gun at another pimply faced punk over a counter with a sticker on it that says UNDER 21: WE CARD.

        "You look like you've seen a ghost." Neil slapped Ervin on the back. "How's the car doing?"
        "Car?"
        "Yeah. Guy didn't charge you an arm and a leg, did he?"
        "Took me for everything I had."
        "Ouch." Neil exaggerated his pain. What a sympathetic guy. His baby-face wrinkled as though he'd snuffed milk up his nose. "That's rough. Hey, I know this once place in town--really reliable--I should hook you up." He winked.
        "Might as well." Ervin followed Neil back to his cubicle. Nauseating photographs were tacked up. Smiles full of teeth and eyes tucked inside crow's feet.
        "Actually, I had a question about how to fix this, too," Neil said, looking up from a scribble pad, telephone number half finished. "If you could help me out that'd be great." Ervin ceased to pay attention to Neil. He was distracted by the picture of a woman who looked remarkably familiar. Where? From when? Today, it must've been--felt like a million years in the past.
        "Who's this? Your sister?"
        "No. Fiancé." Neil turned around in his office chair; he bit the tip of his pen.
        "Oh."
        "Quite a looker, huh?" He waited for Ervin's approval. They might have been admiring a high school football trophy on the mantel. Carol. Caroline Birch.
        "...Sure, sure. You must feel very lucky."
        "Good lord, yes. Like a million bucks," he gushed. "My hands were shakin' so bad when I proposed... but I suppose you know all about that, huh?" From high school. From Econ class... or something like that.
        "No. Not really."
        "I had to go visit her parents for the first time last night, actually. They didn't know. Her father's a real hard-ass." Graphics design firm. Family obligations.
        "Hmm..."
        "So, anyway. About this table--I can't seem to get it aligned properly on the--Erv?" Ervin walked away. He crumpled the business card in his pocket, tossed it in an adjacent waste paper basket. The world was too small. Not enough steps available without falling off a cliff or bumping into a familiar face. Ervin was growing claustrophobic.

        "Is the manager busy?" His skeletal silhouette lurked and swayed behind the dimpled, cloudy window.
        "Yes. If you'd like to schedule an appointment--"
        "Just tell him I quit."

        "Erv, what's up? Where ya' headin'?"
        "See you 'round, Neil."
        "Erv?" Ervin checked his watch. 2:00 p.m. One extra hour. Not bad. Not bad.