NervousMan and the Trip to the Bank Part 1

"Forgiveness" thought NervousMan, for reasons he could not even fathom.

NervousMan sat in the darkness of his room and regarded the unseen walls around him. It was daytime, but he had the blinds drawn. He was distant and away from all the noises of the day. The garish noon-day sun did not bother his eyes and the sound of screams and laughter outside did not reach his ears.

NervousMan sighed.

Getting up from his bed, head bowed, he looked on the floor for his shirt. Maybe there was another day's wear from it. It seemed as if the activity of laundry was forever, thought NervousMan. Where was that shirt, he thought.

Turning on a light, NervousMan spied a piece of paper on the carpet, next to the light stand.

Pick it up and put it in the trash, he thought. But what was it?

NervousMan unfolded the piece of paper.

Oh, this was the check that he had gotten from The 59 Club contest that he had won. But it had been so long ago. Was it still good?

NervousMan squinted and looked at the fine print.

The date read: August 21st, 2007

and underneath this - This check is payable up to 20 months from date of issuance.

Let's see, thought NervousMan. April, May, June, July, August.... in 4 months it would have been 2 years! That's 24 months. So minus 4 months, cuz it's 4 months away... that's ... TODAY!

NervousMan looked around for his pants. He had to get to the bank before it closed. He had one hour to cash this check!

He looked again at the amount the money was for.

$59,000.00

NervousMan thought that must be a lot of money. It seemed like it was.

NervousMan felt nervous.

Quickly, he pulled on his shirt and pants, not even bothering to locate his underwear. I can bathe later, he thought. NervousMan hadn't bathed in two days.

Locking the door to his room, NervousMan walked as briskly as he could down the hall. His eyes squinted involuntarily at the lights in the hallway. His teeth felt on edge. NervousMan could feel the sock bunched up under his foot from his mismatched sock, but he did not stop to fix it. The bank was only 3 blocks away.

As NervousMan rode the elevator down, he was glad he was in it by himself. He probably didn't smell very good.

"I have my wallet?" NervousMan thought. He felt his back pocket again and pulled it out, making sure the check was still within.

Good, NervousMan thought, his thumb feeling the edge of the soft paper. Good.

The doors to the elevator opened with a sharp ding.

NervousMan saw a dour-faced lady standing by the door, waiting to use the car. Her right arm propping herself up with the use of a crutch, the kind that goes around the forearm.

"I'm sorry" NervousMan said at once. The woman scowled at him as he brushed past her and made his way outside.

The sun assaulted NervousMan's eyes, practically blinding him. He could feel a sneeze welling up inside.

Which way was the bank? From behind him, NervousMan heard laughter erupt and he felt momentarily a laughingstock. Which way was the bank?

NervousMan padded his way along the hard cement almost tripping over the curb. A car honked and NervousMan held up his hand as if to say 'thank you for stopping'. Still, NervousMan couldn't really see.

He walked on.

NervousMan and the TV That Wasn't There

NervousMan woke up in the morning, at least that's what time he thought it was.

The sunlight cascaded through the window into his bedroom brightening the white walls that surrounded him. He breathed the first awakened breath of the day.

He could vaguely remember his dreams. In them, he seemed to remember, he was searching for something. Slogging through mud puddles somewhere out in the badlands. Searching.

Badlands, thought NervousMan. What were badlands? Lands that were bad? Why had he thought of that?

Motes of dust drifted through the sunbeams. NervousMan blinked at them, and sighed.

NervousMan could hear the sound of cars passing by outside his window, somewhere beyond the trees. A steady woosh woosh like the sound of an ocean. An ocean of tires. A tired ocean. NervousMan felt like a tired ocean. Or a lazy wave thrown finally onto the shore of a new day.

He longed for the world of dreams from which he had just emerged. He wanted to return to them. Anything but facing this nervous day.

NervousMan looked over at the desk in the corner. Years ago someone had given him that desk, but he had forgotten who. On it had set a television set and NervousMan used to watch it. A lot.

But a few years ago he had gotten rid of the TV set, resigning to just be alone with his thoughts. He had just unplugged it, lifted it up and put it out by the trash for someone else to find. The things it showed, the garish parade of atrocities which it offered forth each day at regular feeding hours, made NervousMan's head hurt. So out it went.

NervousMan glanced at the clock radio on the desk, but it's electronic face was dark. He had unplugged it. The sounds that came out of it made NervousMan nervous. But someday, maybe, he would plug it back in. It would be nice to know what time it is.

NervousMan didn't know if it was morning or just past noon. In fact, he was not sure what day it was. Sometime in January, NervousMan thought. Or February. Yes, February that's it. NervousMan had read the headlines about a new president now when he walked passed newspaper kiosks on the street, although NervousMan did not read newspapers.

Sometime, NervousMan would sit in the McDonald's, down the block, eating. Sometimes, out of curiousity, he would watch the TV they had there, just to see what was going on in the world. Often, they would show cartoons. But other times, they showed news.

One time, they were showing something on the news about the war that was going on overseas. On the screen, NervousMan remembered, a man who looked Arabic picked up half of somebody's severed hand out of a dirty gutter and showed it to the news camera. Just, a dirty filth- covered half of a hand. The index finger and the thumb were gone. Blown away.

NervousMan remembered feeling nervous when he saw that, and remembering this, he felt nervous now. He remembered  that at the time, he had looked about at his dining companions who watched the horrific display in dispassionate silence, chewing on their burgers and whatnot.

It was a while before he went back to that McDonald's.

Television is the great 'rhythm-setter' of our nation, thought NervousMan. You're supposed to watch it to get a certain rhythm. You're supposed to listen to the radio too. To get the rhythms. They are the beat that everyone dances to, thinks to, acts to. At work, at play. You can rest on those rhythms, thought NervousMan.

The TV tells us how long to pause before we answer. It tells us what to say. It tells us what's on everyone else's minds. The catch-phrases, the issues of the day. It presents the stories we are all supposed to be thinking about. It's like the guy on the slave ship beating the drum so everyone is synced up in what they are doing, rowing their way through life. 

One of the questions they ask you is 'do you watch TV?' thought NervousMan. But who are 'they'? 'They' are the ones who ask if the TV talks to you. Then, they put you in a room with a TV. To wait. And wait.

NervousMan sighed again and sat on the side of the bed and stared at the floor. He needed to vacuum. Silence.

NervousMan breathed again and looked out the window, his eyes adjusting to the light. His stomach growled.

When you utterly don't watch TV, NervousMan reflected, when you are out of tune with what is going on in the world, and then you go out there, you're just terribly out of sync with everybody around you. People can see it. People can tell. In the way you walk, the way you talk, the way you breathe, the way your eyes go, what you do with your hands. Because you're moving with your own rhythm, your own sync, your own vibration, your own... reality. Which is different from those around you.

After a while, you find yourself trembling and shaking while waiting in a line, or waiting for a light to change, or waiting for your food to arrive. Idle times. Times when you're nervous. And in those idle times, which make up the bulk of your day, or indeed all of it, even while negotiating the purchase of a sandwich, the other people around sense there is 'something wrong with you'. And depending on your size, NervousMan thought, you become either a target, or something to avoid. 

The phone rang.

NervousMan came out of his reverie with a sharp intake of breath.

Who could be calling? Another obscene phone call thought NervousMan, or a telemarketer again. Maybe a wrong number. Those were the only kind of calls NervousMan got.

The phone rang.

Who could be calling? NervousMan was not expecting a call. NervousMan didn't know anybody. Maybe I should answer it, NervousMan thought to himself. After all, people don't 'book' phone calls. They just call.

The phone rang.

NervousMan reached over to his nightstand and lifted the receiver before the answering machine kicked in. He put it to his ear but did not say anything.

"James?" a voice said on the other end of the line. The voice sounded familiar. "James Christansen?"

NervousMan didn't speak.

"Are you there?" the voice said.

NervousMan knew the voice. Nasal. New York. Jewish sounding. Accent, thought NervousMan. He knew the voice from somewhere.

And somehow, he felt that the voice knew him too.

"James, this is Doctor Shelby. Can you hear me?" the voice said.

Instinctively, NervousMan hung up the phone.

NervousMan felt nervous. Somehow, they had found him. The same people who had asked him about the television set. Wasn't it? Could he remember? He had just been thinking about them.

Maybe, thought NervousMan, they had sensed his thoughts about the TV and found him that way.

But NervousMan felt like this idea was, ear... ear rational. Irrational. Isn't that what they told him? He was 'irrational'.

NervousMan considered this for a few seconds, and then pushed such thoughts out of his mind. He got out of bed.

The phone rang again.

NervousMan Sits Quietly by Himself and Watches the People go By

NervousMan sat quietly at the tea bar, sipping a Taro Milk tea, watching the people go by.

He felt dazed by his experience in the Cosmos room. But that Molly woman had let him out so he could go to the bathroom before the show had ended. She seemed concerned and scowled as NervousMan ran past her.

Molly seemed like a nice person. NervousMan wondered what her life was like, working at the library all day long.

Cotton, NervousMan thought. His head felt like it was full of the sort of cotton you pull out of a medicine bottle. That, and coffee grounds. NervousMan pictured a sea full of coffee grounds.

Perhaps he was drowning in this sea, he thought.

Back and forth the people walked, in both directions.

NervousMan saw a nice looking couple walk into the tea bar. A young Asian man who had a sparse goatee and a girl who looked to be around his age. Ever so briefly, they glanced at NervousMan as they entered and then looked away.

"Perhaps I should say hi," thought NervousMan.

But the thought of doing so made NervousMan nervous.

What would they say to him? What if they started asking questions. Or what if they did not say hi back to NervousMan. Then, NervousMan would feel rejected, as well as nervous.

As the young Asian man opened the door, NervousMan could see that he had some sort of device on his belt, in a dark carrying case.

"How many of them have some sort of device?" NervousMan thought to himself. Perhaps he could play a little game and see.

Here was a woman in flip-flops, and a pair of cut off jeans walking away. She was wearing a white tank top. She was wearing one of the pod things, the long white cords trailing from her ears to somewhere in her pocket.

Here, was another man, very tall and young standing by the sandwich shop talking into his cellphone.

For a moment, the young man glanced at NervousMan and frowned, then he looked away and continued talking.

Nearby another woman was walking away, her hand holding a device which was pressed to the side of her face. Another man walked by her and this man had black cords trailing to his side.

For a moment NervousMan thought that perhaps these were all robots and the devices were their power supply. The thing that 'kept them going'. They had to have these devices he thought. Or else they might become nervous.

NervousMan looked across the street and saw a man waiting for the light to change. He too, had a device which was plugged into his left ear. It was purple,

NervousMan could see, even from that distance. He seemed to be talking into the device. NervousMan could see that he was carrying a notebook. Papers were stuffed into the notebook and were poking out of it.

The man continued talking.

After a moment, NervousMan could see one of the papers fall from the man's notebook to the ground. NervousMan looked at the paper, so far away. He wondered if it were something important.

More people came by the man and stood near him, but no one noticed the paper lying on the ground. Another young man, a young asian man talked on a cellphone. He too did not notice the paper lying on the ground.

After a few seconds, the light did change and the group of people came walking across, toward where NervousMan was. The man, who had lost his paper came not 20 feet away from NervousMan. He could hear the conversation.

"Well, why don't you have it delivered to your home?" said the man, talking into the open air. "I mean, why do you have to go to the post office to pick it up?"

NervousMan wondered if he should tell the man that he had dropped his paper before he crossed the street. Perhaps that would be a good deed to do.

But, NervousMan was too nervous. And after a few moments, the man wandered away and passed from NervousMan's sight.

After a few minutes NervousMan found himself getting up to leave and go back to his place. He wasn't as nervous in his place. But he couldn't stay in there all the time.

Perhaps a little bit of nervousness was good, thought NervousMan. But not too much.

Too much nervousness is not a good thing, thought NervousMan, as he walked back home.

NervousMan wondered who he was and why he was here, walking to his place once more. Who am I, he thought. And why is everything I see from my point of view?

Who had made the decision to sit at the tea bar and watch people go by? Who had made the decision to get up and leave? Who made the decision to step now, one foot in front of the other? Was it automatic? Did NervousMan have to think about walking?

No. Perhaps NervousMan was a robot too. A robot without a power supply. Maybe that was why he was so nervous.

Who am I? thought NervousMan again, peering into the darkness of the parking garage he would have to walk through in order to get to the elevator that led up to his place.

I am me. NervousMan answered himself, internally.

I am me. I am me. I am me.

NervousMan, In the Cosmos Exhibit

"Welcome," said the voice.

The voice came from somewhere in the darkness, and yet it seemed to come from all around NervousMan too. There were probably speakers built into the place, hidden from view.

NervousMan could feel cool sweat on his forehead, beading up.

"Where was that Molly person?" he thought suddenly.

NervousMan started to turn around, as if anticipating that she would walk in again, then thought better of it, and resumed his stance on the 'X'.

NervousMan's shoulders slumped. He was resigned to going through with this thing, whatever it was. It would be rude to have Molly stop it at this point.

NervousMan didn't want to be rude.

"Why am I even here, in this thing?" thought NervousMan. "What am I doing here?"

NervousMan blinked, scratched his head and sniffed. He glanced around nervously. He could not tell how big the room was. But it seemed to be a fair size.

"Since ever there have been humans, we have looked to the skies."

NervousMan noticed that the voice was deep and resonant. Pleasant in sound quality, but slightly menacing in tone.

NervousMan felt small.

For a moment, he could see the movie, or room, or movie projected onto the room, or whatever it was. It was large and circular. He was in some sort of 'observatarium' perhaps they were called.

The scene faded, and changed.

NervousMan looked up. Now it was a sunrise he was beholding. Perhaps he was supposed to be now on some African plain. He could even feel a breeze, slightly, blow against his forehead. As if it were coming from a vent somewhere.

NervousMan shivered.

At one end of the round room, NervousMan could see the 'sun' projected in the 'distance' of its forced perspective. It burned and flickered slightly, like fire, and seemed to be miles away.

NervousMan squinted at the makeshift sun.

Birds, projected on the wall, flew by. From somewhere, flutes played, and below, in the music, the infrequent yet sharp timpani of a small drum.

NervousMan felt dreamy. His eye followed one of the birds, down, down, down the sky, flying away from him, until it's merest wingtip was silhouetted by the projected sun.

Then, the scene faded and changed.

"...as the modern age approached, through the middle ages and the Renaissance, we continued to watch the skies".

NervousMan saw now a projected jet airplane cross the dusky 'sky' around him. It disappeared somewhere above his head. A rumbling engine sound followed it. He breathed.

NervousMan's eyes focused on the middle of the room again. Something resembling a satellite faded into view, drifting through the inky blackness. Almost the shape of an energy drink can, with an elaborate series of antenna about it, and a dish, the satellite loomed closer. It almost seemed to be really there.

NervousMan was starting to feel nervous. He should have asked the woman out there what this was all about. But he had been too nervous to even broach the subject. She might have thought him strange.

"...what you are about to see, are the greatest views of the sky that have ever been taken. From views of Mars... to the horsehead nebula... to the farthest reaches of our universe".

The looming satellite faded, and now it was all stars again.

Why am I here? thought NervousMan again.

And from deep within him, came another thought to counter this:

Why is anything here?

The 'satellite' faded, the music taking on a more ominous and bassy tone. The light of the stars grew together quickly as if all expanding at once, until all the corners touched and the room was bathed in light.

The music swelled, reaching a dramatic climax. NervousMan winced.

Before he knew it, the room again plunged into darkness.

Now it seemed like NervousMan was falling through space itself. He could see little pieces of space debree rushing past him. His point of view was being swept through all manner of cosmic structures now, both dark and illuminated.

Light and shadow danced before NervousMan wildly.

For a moment, he really had the sense of flying through space. Towering nebulae loomed and then he passed through them.

"Mercury," thought NervousMan, almost non-sensically.

Spiral galaxies passed overhead. Ringed planets passed on his left and right, accompanied by electronic 'wooshes' from the soundtrack. He felt like he was falling into the stars. Falling into darkness. An endless abyss. Would it crush him? Would it destroy him?

NervousMan looked at his feet, to the X beneath his feet.

No, this is just a simulation, remembered NervousMan. A simulation. Not real.

"I am standing in a room," he thought. He shifted his feet.

A planet was looming up ahead on the invisible wall, growing to envelope NervousMan's field of vision.

Blue and green, it now dwarfed the sky.

NervousMan could not tell now if he was falling up into its heavens, or plummeting toward its surface. He shifted his feet, again, and bit his lip. He glanced behind him but could see nothing. NervousMan nervously rubbed the back of his neck. The soundtrack thrummed.

The planet became everything now. And even though NervousMan was looking up at it, he had the sense of looking down on it. He was looking down on clouds which were usually in the sky. And now he saw canyons and rivers. Far off in the distance he could see a large body of water rapidly approaching. The projected sun glinting off of its surface.


NervousMan started to realize that he really needed to go to the bathroom.

NervousMan in the Darkness

NervousMan turned to see the an older woman standing to his left, smiling.

He could smell her perfume. It had the faintest tinge of talcum powder in it, NervousMan recognized. A gray perm wreathed the woman's lined face, its frizzy dominance offset by her large turtle shell glasses.

The woman blinked at NervousMan.

NerouvsMan blinked back.

NervousMan looked down. He could see the woman holding a number of books against her chest. One of them was something about an 'Anne Frank,' NervousMan could see.

Dangling in front of the book, was what looked to be a badge with the name 'Molly Ingrams' around her neck and the words 'Library Staff'.

"Did you want to see The Cosmos Exhibit?" the woman asked NervousMan.

"Is this it?" he said. NervousMan felt dazed.

The woman smiled warmly and cocked her head.

"I'll show you," she said. "If you'll follow me?"

The nice lady turned and began to walk, and NervousMan walked softly behind wondering where they were going.

The room they walked into was dark as midnight at the bottom of a well. As NervousMan's eyes adjusted to the light, he began to see a field of small points of light slowly coming lighter and brighter before and all around him.

NervousMan's eyes widened, but he did not feel nervous.

"Stand right here on this X," the lady said nicely, pointing down to the floor.

NervousMan looked down and could make out a dark gray 'X' on the floor in front of him. The X seemed to swim in the darkness around his feet.

"Around my feet? Darkness..." thought NervousMan.

"Why..." he whispered, almost mindlessly, his lips slipped slightly apart without a sound.

"I'll start the show in 30 seconds," the woman told NervousMan. He could hear the smile in her voice, and could hear her feet stepping over the hard floor and exit the door behind him.

NervousMan heard a sharp clack, and for a few timeless moments he stood alone in the darkness, softly illuminated by the points of light around him.

The lights seemed to be moving. Or was it NervousMan who was moving?

A voice come out of the darkness.

"Welcome," it said.

NervousMan stops and thinks for just a moment...

Life had outpaced NervousMan
it had gotten far ahead

NervousMan felt that somehow
he needed to catch up to it

Was there a way,
NervousMan thought,
to slow down life
long enough for him
to catch up?

NervousMan didn't know.

And while he was thinking
this:

Life inched forward
just a little bit more.

NervousMan had a feeling
vague as it was
that he was looking
for something
except
he couldn't remember
what he had in mind

If only I could remember
what it is I am looking
for


thought NervousMan


Maybe I would stand a
better chance
of finding it

Perhaps
he was looking for
the ocean
with its waves
of salty brine
and gulls
and sunshine

He could almost
feel the cool
water running
over his naked
body
the wet sand
underneath his
back

But there is
no ocean in this
place
NervousMan saw

only sidewalks
and ambulances
and people
who look away
at the last
moment

NervousMan
remembered
someone
somewhere
who was weeping
he couldn't
remember who
exactly

Perhaps it was
him
he thought
to himself

But this was
a strange
thought
which he pushed
from his mind

NervousMan hadn't
cried in a long
long time
longer than he
could remember

Wearily, he walked
on past displays
of astronomy
and cosmology
and pictures
of starfields
and galaxies

For some reason
he began to feel
very very small
as if
in some sense
just beyond his
grasp
he did not even
exist
at all.

It is strange to
think this way

thought NervousMan

and yet
he didn't mind

NervousMan stopped

in front of a picture
of an old lithograph
showing a man poking
his head through
the dome of a fake sky
and looking around

NervousMan could not
see
the cartoon's man's
face
which was in a half
profile

but it must have
been
one of astonishment
and wonder

NervousMan breathed

He is looking for
something
thought NervousMan
this cartoon man
who did not exist


He is looking for
something



And then
from somewhere
very far away
he heard the words

"May I help you?"

'Roger the Rager' and Mr. Weepy

Roger was pissed. As usual.

Just that morning he got another telemarketing call, waking him up half an hour before the alarm.

He had been in the middle of a great fucking dream where he was riding Jennifer Lopez doggie style, his strong musclebound hands pulling her hair back like the reins of a bucking bronco and giving it to her good.

"Fuck me! Fuck me harder!" the dream-Jennifer screamed.

"Ride me, you HARD STUD!!!"

And then.... BBBRRRRRRRRING!!!!!

Roger was awake, instantly, muttering curse words under his breath and rubbing his eyes.

Before the phone had rung a second time, Roger, snapped it up quickly.

Roger heard, "Hello," from an automated voice.

"YOU have just won a free all-expense paid trip to Las Vegas. Press one now to claim your prize!".

Roger pressed the number one. Hard.

After a few seconds, the operator answered.

"Hello. Can I have your first name please?" a bright and happy voice said on the other end of the line.

"Yes my first name is Stick-It-Up-Your-Ass," said Roger bright and with mock enthusiasm.

"Oh, very good sir," the operator said, the professional tone a little more dark.

"I thought you'd like it, you cunt," Roger spat into the receiver before slamming the phone down in its cradle.

Roger hated his job, which was actually that of a telemarketer as well. But then, Roger hated everything. And everyone. And he made no exception to himself, either. Roger hated himself too.

There were times, oh yes, that Roger even hated the fucking sun for shining.

Roger had what might be called an 'anger problem' by people of a more professional bent.

Over the course of his life he had had 3 ulcers and he was nursing a fourth. One of them was when he was a kid, two more in his twenties. He had been in jail more times than he could remember, and less times than he probably deserved to be.

Roger was a 34 year old white man standing a modest 5'10, had a dark unkempt beard, and was built like a linebacker. He almost never smiled. When he walked down the street, people instinctively got out of his way. Roger almost hoped that they didn't so that he would have an excuse to beat the living hell out of them.

In elementary school, before he was sent to the 'special school', he was called 'Roger the Rager', or sometimes just 'Rager'. But not many kids called him that more than once and kept all their teeth.

Today, Roger felt just like he had on the day of his last anger management group that he went to, by court order. It just hadn't worked out.

He had 'threatened' someone, they said.

NO he hadn't!

He was in denial they said!

No he wasn't!

Roger disagreed with their assessment of him. And he told them so in no uncertain terms, throwing one of their chairs through one of the stucco walls of the meeting room in the process.

"Assessment," Roger thought, rolling it over in his mind like a piece of bitter candy.

Yes, ASSSSS-essment.

How many 'assssessments' had there been in his life? How many ASS-essor ASS-hole ASSistants had ASSESSED him half-ASSedly, sitting across from them on their ASSES in their immaculate ASS offices; their polished, manicured nails held together oh-so-sagely with their goddamn stupid smug and condescending professional smirks?

Roger’s jaw tightened at the thought.

Roger's only goddamn wish was that all of them had one goddamn neck. And that his hands were around it.

On his way to work that morning, someone in a Toyota had cut him off in traffic and Roger quashed the sharp impulse to ram his car into the stupid asshole's back-end, gripping the wheel tightly with white knuckles and gritting his teeth hard as he stomped the brake like killing a giant bug.

'COCKSUCCCKERRRRR!!!!' Roger fumed.

"It's okay," thought Roger. "Today I'll treat myself to a good lunch. As a reward for not going on a shooting rampage. I'll get Marian Berry Creme Cheese at the library cafe. I like that".

But then, at lunch, the sandwich lady at the counter screwed up his order.

Roger had come all the way down to the library cafe specifically so he could enjoy one of their Washington Square sandwiches on sourdough bread with a simple fucking substitution of Marian Berry Creme Cheese (instead of chipotle like it came with) like he usually has on Thursdays.

Lifting the bread he looked again at the wet beige sauce of the chipotle.

"I fucking knew it," he muttered under his breath. "I specifically asked for Marian Berry Creme cheese!"

SON OF A BITCH!!

Roger could feel his jaw tighten and ache now as he closed his eyes in frustration.

"FUUU-UHCK" he said softly.

He could feel the anger starting to rise inside like a venom-filled spider coming out of its hole. He had been waiting for the taste of that Marian Berry Creme Cheese all day long and now it was spicy chipotle he found instead on his sandwich.

"Am I going to kill someone?" he thought to himself opening his eyes.

Roger felt almost giddy, lightheaded.

"Am I going to kill someone today?" he thought again.

Another part of him said "count to ten". Because that's what he was always taught.

'Count to 10'

Roger sighed.

"1---2---3---"

Roger took a sip of the strawberry milk. It would calm his stomach. It almost tasted like the Marion Berry creme cheese.

Suddenly a gnat flew in Roger's face.

Jesus Christ!

Roger batted it away. He could sense someone out of the corner of his eye glancing at him, warily.

Roger ignored the look and closed his eyes.

"Okay, 1--2--3---"

"Okay take a deep breath now"

"4---5---6".

Gradually, Roger felt himself start to calm down a little. Maybe things weren't so bad.

Later, he could go home and jerk off or something. Maybe punch the punching bag at the gym. Or walk. Those were 'positive' outlets, he thought.

"7--8--9--"

That's when the man who looked like an overgrown twit started blubbering like some kind of simpering girl over some sodden newspaper article he was holding.

"AAAAAAAAAAAHHHH HAH HAH HAH HAH!" the man wailed.

"Jesus fucking feathery Christ on 10 rubber crutches!! Can't I just enjoy one goddamn SANDWICH in my LIFE??" Roger thought to himself, almost saying it out loud.

He had lost count. Where was he? 6 or 7. 8?

GODDAMMIT!!!!!

Roger watched the crying man, his face a twisted mask of contempt and disdain and almost disbelief that any 'MAN' could be such a fucking WIMP.

Madly, suddenly, he despised the man. He despised his weakness. He despised any world that would create such a fucking sobbing little pussy of an excuse for a human being.

Roger hated the crying man with every molecule of his being. Whoever he was. Whatever he was crying about. He didn't care. Roger hated him. And the hate felt... good. Very very good. Cleansing really.

"That man should be dead," Roger thought suddenly. "Fucking DEAD".

NO ONE should cry and carry on like that in a public place. No one! Unless they were some kind of goddamn coward. Some kind of twisted fucking retarded pussified freak!

The man sobbed even louder. Now Roger could see somebody asking the man if he were allright.

Roger heard the word 'ambulance' being used.

"He's not going to be all right," said Roger under his breath, and frowned.

And then it hit him like a monster of energy exploding in his mind.

Roger was going to kill that crying man. If it was the last fucking thing he ever did.

Whoever he was, whatever it was about. The crying man had laid down the last straw on Roger's back, and this was it.

Roger's mouth gaped and his eyes were wide with the stark realization of the sudden epiphany.

I. Am. Going. To. Kill. Him.

Wow.

Kill. As in, not as a metaphor not as an idle threat or a fantasy. This time Roger, somehow, was going to commit murder. Maybe it wouldn't be today, or tomorrow. He didn't know how. But eventually, their paths would cross. He would find a way.

Even if he got caught, even if he went to jail, he would be comforted for the rest of his life by the memory of looking into that sobbing idiotic twit's dying eyes, and that the last thing that sobbering cretin would see would be the look of satisfaction on his face. .

He could see it, he knew it, he could visualize it taking place. He knew it with absolute hundred percent certainty.

In fact, he could even taste it.

Roger took a bite of his sandwich, tasting the sharp tanginess of the hot chipotle spill pour over his tastebuds, mixed in with the sprouts and cucumbers. His nostrils flared.

"Yeah motherfucker, keep crying. Keep crying. Cuz I'm gonna give you something to cry about, allright. Something you will cry about for the rest of your miserable days", Roger thought.

"No doubt".

Roger took another bite of his sandwich feeling the slight burn of the chipotle as he swallowed.

He watched the man cry and whimper and sniff and sob.

Gingerly, almost dapperly, Roger dabbed his napkin against the side of his mouth.

And then slowly, and very very wrongly, Roger began to smile.