“I’m gonna go out back and give myself cancer.  I’ll be back in a minute.”

    Brad walked down a sterile, lifeless hall to meet a heavy gun-metal door.  With the push of a trigger, the door released its safety bolt.  He was free.  Passing through the threshold, Brad stepped into trash paved across a dirty alley behind a semi-abandoned strip mall.  Smokes rose from the cigarette he lit.  The amber end glowed fiercely red.  Straight ahead a high, graffiti-covered wall kept him from seeing much of the immaculately groomed neighborhood next door.  No matter how far back he craned his neck, Brad could barely see the backs of the homes before he was seeing the shoddy retail center waiting for him to finish his cancer break. 

    The scene reminded Brad of something he couldn’t be bothered to remember.  He felt like he could search that something out, but it was too deep inside of him.  It was something important to living.  It was something like being aware but too magical for a five minute break.  Work awaited him inside.  He dragged the Marlboro Red to a bright glow.  Brad did something like thinking without the aid of real thought.

    Joe: “Where is the Tampei report and why wasn’t it on my desk two days ago?” 

    
    Dean: “How about last night’s numbers?  How do they look?” 

    
    Brad thought last night’s numbers looked a hell of a lot like the numbers from two weeks ago.  And the numbers from a week before that.  Except last nights numbers were worse. 

    Angela: “Why were the numbers worse Brad and what are ‘we’  doing about that?” 

    Brad wondered how the hell he should know?  They’re Dean’s numbers anyway.  Yet, somehow Brad was supposed to have a divine impact on Dean’s numbers.  Brad pulled the Marlboro Red to a fiery red ember.  He’s losing his impact on his kids let alone Dean’s numbers.  He walked his kids to school this morning but could hardly remember it, except, he was pissed.  Not mad at anything in particular.  Not even really angry with them.  In moments of honesty he knew though, his anger was kind of because of them.  Or just mad at them for being kids while he wasn’t. 

    They woke up tired but prepared for six hours of school.  Not eight hours plus of hell.  They don’t have to stress—as long as they get good grades and don’t get in trouble.  But even then they’re in trouble.  Because they’re kids and he’s not and all Brad can think about is work.  From the time he goes to bed until he rises.  Work warps his ways like a brackish bathtub bubble boiling below the surface.  He even concentrates on not thinking about work sometimes.  It’s an effort he seldom wins.  It’s a lot of work not thinking about work.

    Brad pulls more smoke into his lungs and the cigarette is gone.  A truck speeds by behind the store spewing more smoke to suck in.  Short and long term disability insurance springs to mind.  No more thinking about work after getting hit by a truck.  Simply collect insurance and why not?  If he never uses it, then he’s paid for a worthless service.  Brad turns to grab the gun metal door again.  Maybe not the truck then.  That may be a little too obvious.  But the door could smash some fingers if placed just right.  One good slam and the road to STD or LTD loams like a road to heaven.  Brad closes the door.  He pulls the trigger lock back toward safety.  These thoughts are saved to visit again another day.