The Park

A Short Story
By Lexie Sanders

The mug sits in the microwave, slowly spinning with the clear glass plate that has been coated in crumbs from everyone’s lunches, but no one has the courage to wipe it down. Earl watches the mug handle point to the left, then to the right, then point to him. He rocks himself in place, the pressure of his weight moving from the tips of his toes, to the balls of his heels, and back. Earl scrunches up his nose as he sniffles a little. His crooked mustache tickles the left side of his lip before he ultimately decides to wipe his nose on the sleeve of his jacket; clear mucus smears from his wrist to his elbow.

The microwave dings, and the mug stops spinning. Earl is taken aback, only slightly, before opening the microwave door, removing his mug of coffee that he warms up every half-hour or so. He gently rips open a paper packet of sugar and lets the contents of the packet pour into the cup. Then, he slips three fingers into the handle, because his hands are too thick to fit any more. He passes the coffee pot that he left empty, and he begins the journey back to his desk.

The office is rather boring, like he finds many of his co-workers. The walls are white, the floors are gray, and the windows are tinted so the sun can’t shine its wonderful honey-glow throughout the office. Earl passes his co-workers Susan and Anthony who are having a conversation about something lame—something about their children and the public school system. His other co-worker, Cathrine, sits with her face too close to the computer because she needs glasses; but she won’t get glasses because they would make her look “old.”

Earl places the mug of reheated coffee at the edge of his desk, carefully slipping all three fingers out of the handle. He cracks his knuckles, then his neck, and straightens his arms to his sides. He clenches his fists until his nails dig into his flesh; his hairy knuckles turn white before he straightens his fingers again. Then he sits down, feeling his somewhat tight dress pants growing slightly tighter.

He sniffles again, his crooked mustache still tickling the left side of his lip as he looks outside. His favorite part of his office location is the quaint little park across the street. From the fifth floor, Earl can see over the tops of the trees, their crowns looking less crown-like from above. Their foliage glows bright like fire, orange and proud, a sharp contrast to the hunter-green slides and swing sets that the children play on.

Earl swivels his chair to face the window as he watches small children go down the slides over and over again, while others walk to the small pond and throw pieces of bread at ducks. He watches the tired mothers, with their heads thrown in messy buns, showing their exhausted smiles as their small children shout, “Watch this, Mama!” only to do a jumping spin and land with their arms extended proudly. Earl breathes in, a long and deep breath, before exhaling hard as he wishes that his mother could have pretended to be happy for him in any capacity.

“Mama, are you alright?” Earl remembers asking when he was a child, as he stared up at his mother. Her curly red hair was matted to the top of her head, her mauve lipstick smeared from the center of her lip, to the end of her chin. She reeked of hard liquor and cheap cigarette smoke. “Why are you here? Why did you live?” She had asked with a slurring sneer. Then she rolled her eyes and slammed her bedroom door in Earl’s face.

“Hey, get back to work.” His boss slams a manilla envelope on Earl’s desk, rolls his eyes, and walks back into his gray and boring office. Earl sneers a little, feeling his heart pound harder than he wishes it was, and stares at the envelope with a heart full of misery.

Outside, a gust of wind blows and lifts some of the bright orange leaves all the way up to the fifth floor. The wind brings with it a feeling of promise, as it causes the pond by the park to shimmer in the sun and the hair of the tired mothers to grow messier. Earl sighs from his desk, his microwaved coffee growing colder as he twiddles his thumbs and scrunches his toes in his tight dress shoes.

Cars run around the park, driving to work, home from work, to school, home from school. Everyone is always in a rush to get somewhere, yet nowhere at all. A driver blares their horn at the red car in front of them, impatient that the light turned green three and a half seconds ago, but the red car still had not accelerated. He remembers for a moment, the accident that took his father’s life, the accident that made his mother despise him.

Earl curls his toes in his shoes again, stiff after focusing too much on the cars outside, and stands again. His gut spills over his waist-band a little. One of the buttons of his dress shirt sits unbuttoned, but the white undershirt keeps his stomach from showing. The mucus on his sleeve has dried white and starts to chip off a little. He clenches his fists, cracks his knuckles, gently loops his three fat fingers through the handle of his mug, and walks into the kitchenette to reheat his coffee again.

The mug spins, again and again. Earl catches a glimpse of his reflection in the microwave door. His hair is slicked to the side, not with hair-gel, but with the grease his hair has built up over time. The silver in his hair and mustache are shiny and growing whiter as he grows into his mid-forties. Susan leans against a cabinet by the door, playing with her curly black hair, telling Anthony about her pet hamster named Mr. Snuffles.

“Hamsters usually die under strange circumstances,” Earl chuckles while leaning against the doorframe. Susan’s eyes widen in horror, and Anthony blinks at him as if trying to decide whether or not he had heard Earl correctly.

“Why would you say that? What is wrong with you?” Susan shifts her weight off of the cabinet, lets go of her curly black hair, whips it over her shoulder, and storms off. Earl stands there, his posture deflated, his cheeks burning as he wonders, What Is Wrong With Me? The microwave dings, he startles for a moment, then pours another paper packet of sugar into the mug, before taking it back to his gray desk again.

The sun begins to set, and the sky glows brilliantly like a golden apricot. The park across the street falls into calm darkness, and the tired mothers have taken their children home to eat their dinner and watch their shows and play the little games that Earl wishes he had growing up.

Earl walks away from his desk; the office sits gray, dark, and empty. He has warmed his coffee so many times and added so many sugar packets that it tastes burnt and coats his tongue in gritty sugar. He works his way up the stairs, several flights, until his forehead begins to dampen with sweat. He steps out on the top of the building and walks to the edge. He slips his three fat fingers through the handle of his coffee mug and finishes the sip of gritty sugar, letting it melt on his tongue. He curls his toes within his shoes, then clenches his left hand. He sniffles, scrunches his nose, and feels his uneven mustache tickle the top of the left side of his lip. Earl then, rocks back on the balls of his heels, then forward on the tips of his toes, and closes his eyes and imagines what it would be like to fall off the ledge.

Earl opens his eyes. His vision is met by the hunter green slides and the swings that sit still. He admires the park, now empty, and the sky that is filled with stars whose light is muted by the looming glow of the streetlamps. In Earl’s left hand, he holds a steaming hot cup of coffee in a flimsy paper cup. In Earl’s right hand, he holds a small stuffed bear. The fur has been frayed, but its stitched mouth smiles at Earl. And Earl smiles back.