The First Day

By Paul Roman

A man wakes up one day and decides to change his life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Apr 12, 2011
• ISBN: 9781257602162

Book preview

Roman

The First Day

This is a day that needs to be described to be believed. A day unlike any other day in my life, a day like nothing I could ever have imagined, the one day in a lifetime that really matters, a day that knows no equal. If you had told me yesterday that this is the day I would have today, I would not have believed you. If you had told me, in fact, that today would be any different from every other working day in my life, I would have laughed at you. I would have dismissed any suggestion of excitement, of anomaly or novelty, I would have said that any uniqueness or even variation was an impossibility. And yet it happened. And yet I lived it. Hard to believe.

I woke up, as usual, at 6:05 am. The alarm woke me with unusual loudness and I realized that this was only because the music that happened to be playing this morning was a rather loud orchestral piece by one of those pompous composers of marches. It reminded me of Pomp and Circumstance but it was much faster and louder, a little like some sort of trumpet fanfare. I turned off the alarm with much more vigour than usually precisely because the music was so loud. This was not unusual in itself however, because on other days I have also been awakened by very loud orchestral music and have had to turn it off with a more vigorous motion than other days when the music that wakes me is the gentle strains of a Mozart concerto or a nocturne by Chopin. Nevertheless the music was off and I was awake.

I got out of bed the same way I always do - swinging my right leg over my left leg and onto the floor, flipping over onto my front in effect, in order for my right foot to be the first foot to hit the floor, the habit developed due to a superstition of some sort, I imagine. I stood myself up, all six tall and lanky feet of my gangly frame, and ambled towards the door, my hair a tangle of straw and my eyes still sleepy from the night.

It’s only a short brisk walk to the little bathroom from my spacious bedroom, but it always takes me a long time. I drag myself each step of the way resisting the idea of being awake and up so much that by the time I have made it to the little sink in the bathroom the small digital clock by the bathroom mirror says 6:10. I don’t know why it takes me five minutes to get from waking to washing my face, but it always does. Perhaps the clocks aren’t perfectly synchronized. I always make a mental note to double check that, but I never get around to it.

This morning it was a little different, though. For some reason when I got to the bathroom and I looked at the little digital clock in the wall by the mirror it was flashing 12:00 instead of showing the usual 6:10. I couldn’t understand this. The clock is batterypowered so it’s not like the power going off in the night would have done this to it, and besides, if the power had gone out in the night, my alarm clock in my room would not have gone off. Something very odd was happening, but I only made a mental note of it and washed my face over the tiny sink, the cold water shocking me awake as it always does.

I looked at myself in the mirror. Sad grey eyes and a thin long face with a big Roman nose looked back at me through some overnight stubble. My hair was a disaster - it looked like a nest that about thirty birds had tried to sleep in at once, every strand going a different way. I was annoyed and tried my best to smooth it down with some water, but this was ineffective as usually. I made a mental note to go to the barbershop today. I shaved quickly with the little electric razor that my dad had bought me for my birthday eight years ago, then I turned on the shower and waited for the water to get warm before I took off my underwear and stepped inside.

My shower is reliable at least. It is the best part of my little apartment. The jets of water are strong and hard, but not so hard as some hotel jets that sting you painfully. I washed myself vigorously and this woke me up completely just like it always does. I felt rejuvenated and refreshed and when I stepped out of the shower stall and grabbed the big towel off the rack I knew I was now ready to face the world and the day. All I needed now was some clothing and I could go.

My closet is arranged by colour and clothing type so that it ranges from dark suits on the left to a few colourful summer shirts, left over from my Florida trip back in university on the far right. I picked out a white shirt as usual, only fitting for an account executive, and a nice simple striped tie from the tie rack on the side wall of the closet. The shirt was starched exactly the way I liked it. I was glad that three years ago I had found the drycleaners around the corner. They were much better than the ones I had used before. The old ones never got all the creases right in the pants or the starching on the shirts. Some days they got the sleeves as hard as the collars, but not the cuffs, and other days only one cuff was hard and its mate and the collar were as soft as the rest of the shirt. I did not understand how that was possible and even up to this day the thought of those incompetent Busy Bee drycleaners amuses me and makes me chuckle out loud. This morning I laughed at the thought and shook my head, just like I always do.

I picked a smart navy suit to go with my white shirt and dark tie and I got dressed quickly. My clock radio was showing 6:32 now and I knew I would have to hurry a bit. I was already two minutes behind and I would have to watch it or else I would be late. Late for me is still earlier than everyone else at the office, but I like to be on my time anyway. The office opens at 9:00 and the staff is supposed to be there by 8:30, but I like to be there by 8:00 sharp because that’s when I like to do a lot of my preparation work for the day. I like to have my cup of coffee with my breakfast and I like to sit and go through the day’s files before the others get there and before we have to open to the public. It’s all a little routine that I have, but it’s a necessary and pleasant part of my day. I like it just the way it is.

At exactly 6:45 I left the apartment, having first brushed my hair so that it would look normal and presentable at the office. I was back on track. On the way down the stairwell in the building the second unusual thing of the day happened. I was walking along the right hand side of the stairs, as always, hanging on to the handrail as I walked down the five flights, when suddenly, between the third and second floors, I saw someone coming towards me on my side of the stairs. It was a woman, very slight and almost hunched over, in a dark coat and a hood over her head.

Excuse me, I said softly just as I was about to run into her, and then she looked up at me.

It was a most unusual sight, for, clad in that dark coat and covered by the hood, was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. Well, almost. She had beautiful blue eyes, thin eyebrows, long auburn hair and the features of Mona Lisa. The only thing that was missing was that little smile because on the face of this woman was the saddest look I had ever seen on the face of another human being. She didn’t say a word to me, she just stepped aside and let me pass, but I hesitated. I had been impeded in my journey down the stairs and I was curious now about this woman - what was she doing in my building, who was she, why hadn’t I seen her before and why on earth was she so sad - but before I could say anything she started walking up the stairs again, around and past me. By the time I turned to look up the stairs after her, she was gone around the corner. I almost ran after her to ask the questions that went through my mind, but I stopped myself and only hoped that I would see her again.

I continued the rest of the way downstairs without further impediments. I pushed the big doors wide open and was struck by the chilly April morning wind. The city wasn’t usually very cold in April, but this had been an unusual year with a colder winter than ever and all forecasts were saying that the spring would also be the coldest yet. Meteorologists, those dubious scientists whose science I had always found questionable at best, were predicting a very cold summer as well, followed by a mild autumn and a milder but more snowy winter. I don’t really pay much attention to them, but one hears all sorts of things on the radio.

I walked up my quiet residential street to the busy Main Street two blocks away. In the distance I could already see the busyness of the bigger street. I dreaded the presence of all those cars and trucks rushing somewhere, and all the people going to work like me, pushing and shoving almost in their hurry to get there. I took a deep breath and walked briskly to the lights, I crossed the street and turned left to walk east on Main. I passed by all kinds of sad and dark-looking people and for the first time in a long time I started noticing their faces. I hadn’t really looked at the people of the city for a very long time and the faces I saw saddened me deeply for they were mostly as miserable looking as my face had been in the mirror this morning. I stopped watching because it made me too depressed to look at them all.

On the corner of Vine I dropped a quarter into the jar of a war veteran. He was on the corner every morning and I always dropped a quarter into his jar. I wondered how much money he had received from me in the last five years and I made a quick calculation in my head and figured that it was about three hundred dollars. Then I thought that if that was true that he was not doing too badly for himself because whenever I walked by I observed that at least three other people would deposit money in his jar. It took me perhaps a minute at most to walk past his street corner and if in that time he got fifty cents (I figured the other passersby might not be as generous as I am) then he was making thirty dollars an hour. That was most likely a very generous estimate, but even