bardictype

Short Story: The Suit

Added 2021-01-27 22:59:59 +0000 UTC

Before I became a teacher and realized that kids were way more fun to work with than adults because kids are still willing have pretend lightsaber battles, I spent a a year working HR (in Dublin, which was amazing, but still). A lot of my days were spent being bored out of my mind and chewing on pen tips, so I wrote short stories and poems that I would then save on the work computers under official-looking names.

Although the files were probably immediately deleted by the next user, it amused me to think of my writing being unearthed years later as someone freaked out: "What the hell is this file labeled FudgedProfitMargins_DestroyB4Audit??" (What can I say? I was always a troll.) At my mom's house over the holidays, I unearthed an old flash drive with a few of these ominously-titled stories saved on them.

I figured I'd post some of these works here. The Suit is stylistically very different from most my writing, written when I was still trying to find my voice as an author. But it very much encapsulates how I felt about adulthood right after graduating college (thus, my eventual migration to teaching, where lightsaber battles could still be part of my workday).

The Suit

His alarm goes off every morning at 6 am.

Then at 6:15 am.

And then again at 6:30, 6:40, and finally at 6:45 am, by which time Steven is annoyed enough to crumple out of bed and into the kitchen for coffee.

He doesn’t like coffee and he harbors vague suspicions towards adults who claim to be aficionados of concentrated bitterness, but he drinks it black because that’s the way hardboiled cops take it on his favorite crime shows. Steven is not a cop.

By 7 am, he’s convinced himself that the caffeine has made him alert and he returns to his bedroom to put on The Suit.

It’s an old garment, older than Steven himself, with traditional tailoring and an angled peak lapel that makes him look at least half an inch taller. The fit is stiff and the fabric itches, but he only has the one Suit so he brushes it out and cuts off a few stray threads, and is careful not to get shaving cream or toothpaste on it as he gets ready. He sticks his tongue out at the reflection of his father in the mirror.

7:25, he’s out the door and headed to work. The gray Camry he drives matches the color of The Suit. But in his mind, he commutes to work behind the wheel of a life-size 1982 Red Rider. He doesn’t know if that was ever a real car, but he got the Matchbox car from his uncle when he was younger and drove it around the living room coffee table until the plastic silver engine peeled and the black side pipes snapped off. If he could make money without the Suit, that’s the car he would buy. He’d blast music out of open windows and accelerate at yellow lights.

***

The Suit has a threadbare knee, so Steven routinely takes the elevator up to his office on the third floor. Rick and Dan are already waiting for it on the first floor when Steven arrives.

“Monday,” mutters Rick as a greeting. He takes a sip from his thermostat and winces.

“Monday, Steve,” echoes Dan.

“Morning,” says Steven, looking at the elevator button. It’s already glowing. He clenches his fist in order to resist the urge to push it another dozen times. Dan notices.

“Knee acting up again?”

“Better than yesterday.” Steven shrugs. “No real complaints.”

This is a lie. Steven has hundreds of complaints, and they’re certainly not imaginary ones. The fact that Dan always smells like blue cheese and rubbing alcohol. That Steven has a Camry instead of a Red Rider. Having to go an office every day instead of an arcade. The worn patch on the knee of the Suit.

I was supposed to be able to do whatever I wanted as an adult, Steven thinks as he edges away from Dan on the elevator. No one ever warned me that freedom was cost prohibitive.

No one ever warned him that adults weren't free.