"Horace, what do you mean there is no way for me to get back to Florence?"
"I did not say there was 'no way.' I said the possibilities of an office pencil being removed from its post and taken to a classroom is highly rare."
"Well, there must be some way. Children come in here all the time--I've seen them. Band-Aids, notes from the teacher, picking up copies for the teacher, leaving early cuz they're sick. Surely at some point they'd, oh I don't know, accidentally take a pencil with them? Don't kids do that?"
"Ms. Mackelheim would not permit it."
Ms. Mackelheim. Right. The head of the office.
That stunt I pulled to get me out of the classroom was a piece of cake compared to this situation. Ms. Mackelheim was like duct tape. Nothing moved unless she declared it should. And then it flew to get out of here.
Oh that Ms. Mackelheim would ordain that I should fly--I'd fly right back to--
What am I talking about?
I don't want to go back to the classroom.
Ok, no, you're not losing your mind. You just want to go grab Florence and get out of here. I'm not forsaking my dream. I just know I can't do it without Florence.
I can still write the next Ivanhoe. Or the next Emma. I am not biased to one great work over another.
I only ever wanted to make a difference. That's a good thing, right?
So why does everything seem to be going against me?
Let's review the facts, shall we? First, I was stuck in an office supply store. Then, I was used to write "My brthday is Decembr 3." Yes, that is the spelling that was used with my graphite. I escaped the suffocation of the classroom only to discover that I was not meant to spend days and nights in the fresh air either. I wasn't meant to only see children's feet kicking me across very hard, very bumpy asphalt. And, I'll admit it, I may have re-lived those few moments of writing, even if by a child's hand.
Glorious, glorious moments.
Even now I can recall the feeling of exhilaration at writing for the very first time.
Florence would be pleased that I'm looking back with rose-colored glasses. She'd say school isn't that bad.
She hasn't been to the office yet.
If I thought child's scrawl was a waste of my life, filling out forms is worse. Infinitely worse.
Horace thrives on it. I don't understand. He thrives on the swift "$12.00 hot lunch" or "10:30am sick" memos that seem to be the lot of office life. He actually is satisfied here. No, he even thinks it is an honor. A solemn duty.
He accepts office life as his destiny and, get this, he enjoys it.
He reminds me a lot of Florence.
Ok, Florence doesn't feel the need to talk in complete sentences. Or use "nevertheless" and "heretofore." Florence is okay with splitting an infinitive. It's called real life.
But Horace is content. And optimistic. And he supports my dreams even though he has, like, no sympathy at all for them.
Honestly, I think he was pretty disappointed that I didn't want to join forces with him and take on the office world like two twin pencils crossing blades. We could have been the team of No. 2 HB.
Because that's not been done before.
I feel for the man, really. I know what it's like to be alone. I was alone for so long before Florence interrupted my melodramatic thoughts. Everyone needs a good friend.
Which is why I have to get back to Room 9.
I need my friend. And I need to find my destiny before all my graphite is used up in writing, "Bug man called. 10:05am. Will call back."
Seriously.
So how can I take on Ms. Mackelheim?
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