Fashionably Late

day one of absolute fuckery

One minute I was enjoying a cocktail by the beach with my CEO friends, making witty comments as I winked, looked out towards the ocean, and took a sip of a beverage I could only down because it was necessary for supporting my rising social status, and the next minute I am brought back to a loud reality of a no chill alarm clock resting on seven o'clock and the reminder that there is something I have to do today, something that I will ignore for a few more seconds as I close my eyes and return to that lovely dream. It can't hurt to rest for a little while longer.

Except that "a little while longer" actually means twenty minutes and multiple attacks on the snooze button to give myself more time, and all of the sudden I'm going to be late on the first day of my job.

I am made aware of this fact as my alarm clock yells at me to move my lazy sack of shit of a body, and all I do is stare up at the ceiling with eyes so wide that you would think I had just snorted some cocaine, which would not be at all professional for the job I'm supposed to be doing today, the job that I'm ignoring to instead think of similes in the comfort of my own bed.

I thrust the covers off of my legs in one perfectly executed swoop, swinging my legs out after the task has been completed, then revert back to my confused state in a deer in the headlights stance in the middle of my bedroom as I ponder where to start. I operate as if I am a human to do list. My father taught me to be like this so that I can stay organized, because normally I am not. I make eye contact with my reflection on the wall to my right, which is where I find that it would be wise to change into a dress shirt and tie so that I can at least partially look the part of a teaching assistant, because my disheveled nature would otherwise give me away. Being the unprepared dumbass that I am, I did not plan my outfit and set it on a chair somewhere last night, so I am forced to rummage through my closet, past all the t-shirts and jeans that have become a standard for my college life. I find my target all the way in the back, where I placed it in tandem with how often I would wear it, which is only once, when my mother took me back to Japan and wanted me to look nice to show her old friends how well she and her family were doing in America. After a week of tension and resurfaced grudges, maybe I put the shirt, pants, and tie in the back to escape the trauma. Merely touching the items drowns me in flashbacks.

I strip at the speed of lightning and replace my comfortable clothing with stiff professionalism. It is now time to deal with my face and hair. No amount of fancy clothing can hide bedhead. Padding to the bathroom, it becomes apparent that I am still in my socks, and I am then placed into a mental debate between loafers and tennis shoes, but it doesn't last for very long, as this is a clear choice. I have already sacrificed my sanity in order to let myself wear a dress shirt and a tie, but I am not going to be the teaching assistant who shows up on the first day wearing loafers. I'm a twenty three year-old man with some dignity, not a forty three year-old suburbia poster dad whose dignity lies in how many burgers he can make for the neighborhood kids. I feel much better as my soles meet the familiar padding of my sneakers, not the tasseled dungeon of the loafers.

When I reach the bathroom, it strikes me how dreadful I look. Were the twenty extra minutes actually helpful to the recommended sleep quota? My face suggests otherwise, so I attempt to silence its negativity by folding a single square of toilet paper into an even smaller square, running it under the water, rubbing my face with it, and being left with bits of white and water droplets on my face that I wipe off with the back of my hand. I'm not sure if that erased the product I was going for by washing my face, but I have no time to contemplate this, as my dumb ass doomed me to a rushed morning because I wanted to be a CEO instead of a struggling adult who still isn't very certain how taxes work. The next step is to brush my hair and remove the curse of my bedhead. When I wake up, it looks as though it's irreparable, but it's somehow surprisingly easy to resolve it, actually. I'm thankful for that this morning. I arrange my hair into something presentable, then move on to my teeth. I have no time for this, but I still perform my classic routine of clenching my teeth, flaring my nostrils, and staring at myself in the mirror with hollow eyes as I maneuver the toothbrush around my mouth. I have no idea how I was found mature enough to be allowed to teach at a legitimate school. I almost exit the bathroom before deciding to spritz some cologne on me for good measure. If my behavior deters my students, then hopefully they'll be persuaded in favor of me by my scent. I'm really just desperate here.

Next is a breakfast that I probably have no time for. Like every time I visit the pantry, all I do is stare at its limited contents with my hands resting on the double doors. Every morning my breakfast is a surprise, as my pantry is not properly stocked, so I have to take what I can find. I choose two granola bars this morning.

Eating after just brushing my teeth is a bit counterproductive, but I'll just rely on the mints in my pocket if I need them. There's no time to fix my mistakes, not when I'm heading towards a greater one. I just didn't want to go back upstairs to brush my teeth after going downstairs for breakfast, and also because I'm taking the granola bars in the car with me, this is my only option. I doubt I'll even get close enough to someone for my teeth or breath to be a problem, because Mr. Levi Webb, the teacher I'm assisting from now on, will have already taken command and formed a bond with the students, and I'll just be in the background, attracting the gazes of kids thinking about how embarrassing it would be to be late on the first day.

I snatch my car keys from the counter, shuffle towards the door I almost forget to lock in my haste, and walk out towards my rickety old car passed down from my mother. I balance the ends of the granola bar wrappers in between my teeth as I fumble with my keys to open the car door then fumble with them some more in an endeavor to start the engine. Looking at the wasteland of trash piled in my automobile while I wait for my car to come alive, my mind goes to a booklet my vegan, minimalist, life coach in training friend gave me in undergraduate school about how clean environments stimulate healthy and productive minds, and then I remember how annoying that girl was. The rock music spilling from the radio is an added "fuck you" to her and also a distraction from thinking about how shitty life was with her. I peel out of the driveway and begin my thirty minute drive to the only school in the area I was okay with working at. Sometimes we make sacrifices for the things we love, or the things we hate less than some other things, except now it's fucking me in the ass, because I'm already late enough. The clock on the car's digital screen reads 7:41. There's no way I'm going to be on time, so I might as well just accept my fate, yet I will still try to minimize how late I am as much as I can.

The traffic in my city is never too bad, but now that I'm late, it seems like every car is trying to make me crash and burn and get fired from my job. Frustration sits with me in the passenger seat like the devil on my shoulder. However, I manage to not lose my shit entirely, and I skid into the school's parking lot at 8:14 without making even the slightest of scenes on the road, and, although I'm not doing so well at life right now, I consider that an accomplishment to counteract the shortcoming of my lateness.

My next challenge arises when I have to dig through the shit in my bag to procure the sheet telling me where I'm supposed to go. I'd rather not wander around the school, peeking in through the window on the door until I find "a 26 six year-old bespectacled African-American". This, too, is frustrating and only serving to make me later. When I finally pull it out from underneath the pile of random, useless junk, I then have to decipher it. I look like a freshman on the first day at their new high school, completely and utterly lost, with their eyes turned towards their schedule as they power walk through the hallway, which I guess isn't so far off from the truth. It feels like a montage from a movie where I'm seen in every hallway in the school with a few cuts where I'm walking back down the same hallway I once came down. Having followed the advice of the plaques next to the doors, I think that I have reached my destination, and this belief is confirmed when I peer inside and see the 26 year-old bespectacled African-American talking to his students. I check my watch. He's been talking to them for nineteen minutes, all of which I missed.

I'm nervous to go in after reserving my spot as the visual dictionary's definition for faux pas, but I remind myself that deliberating will only prolong my absence, so I suck in a breath and open the door. I step in, and everyone's eyes are on me, and I immediately want to leave. They all have the "what the fuck, dude?" expression, but the students' version comes from a place of confusion, and the teacher's version comes from disappointment in my professionalism or obviously lack thereof.

As I slowly draw towards Mr. Webb's desk at the front of the classroom, I decide to offer everyone an explanation. "Hey, guys, I'm the new TA. My name's Jamie."

"Mr. Taylor," the man beside me corrects me.

"Oh, you did your research, huh?" I tease him, but he's not having it.

It's clear that I've fucked up.

~~~~~

A/N: this is gonna be a short story kind of thing so yeah

tell me if u liked the first chapter! :))))

~Dakota