Satire by Matt Harrison

7 AM Wake up in my bed.

What the hell is that? What's wrong? Someone is calling me. No. Cell phone alarm. Snooze or dismiss. One of these means leave me alone.

"Laura, get up."

7:45 AM Wake up in my bed.

"Laura, get up. I'm turning off my phone. If we're late it's your fault."

8 AM Wake up in my bed.

"Matt, get up. It's your turn to take a shower."

I need to take a piss. I've needed to all morning, but once I'm on my feet it's harder to pretend it's not there.

Why do they call it taking a piss? I'm not taking it, I'm leaving it behind. It means the opposite of what it sounds like. Language. Somewhere in time, this must be Shakespeare's fault.

Wash my hands. This seems redundant, moments before my shower, but I need a buffer between touching the toilet lid and my toothbrush.

Shower. This part goes as expected.

8:15 AM Get dressed. Yesterday's jeans are on the floor. Now yesterday's jeans are on my legs. Shirt. Shoes. Who gives a shit?

Wait for Laura to get dressed. Check my email. Someone wants to collaborate on a freelance project; Someone has an idea to boost traffic to my website; Someone thinks my penis could be thicker. Wait, this is my spam box. No new messages.

Check facebook. A friend has shared a thoughtful, concise witticism regarding the tense political landscape. Commenters helpfully propose various implements with which to consider violating himself.

Someone invites me to an online game. Points, tokens, chips. Would I like to allow access? I pay it forward and propose an implement of my own.

8:30 AM Work starts.

8:35 AM I leave for work.

I recently donated my car to charity, so Laura drives me to work, which is pretty close to on her way. We'd already been carpooling, and with most of our favorite Norfolk destinations within walking distance from our house, it seemed the leaking roof and monthly parking tickets were no longer worth the trouble. Plus, since she's driving, I can read on the way to work.

"Don't read your book while I'm driving."

"Sorry."

She asks if I'd like to listen to NPR. That sounds pretty good, a little taste of news and intrigue from that familiar palette of pleasant voices, and their adorably sincere attempts to compensate for the liberal slant we share.

I bump the knob with my knuckle.

"What is soul cancer, and what are some ways to prevent it? Some answers on today's edition of Family Health. Here's Dr. Harold C. Thompson, osteopathic family physician."

"Soul cancer is relatively common disease that affects about one in four men. It typically starts in the testicles, and can spread quickly, depending on the degree to which the patient is wasting his life. But with a healthy diet and regular exercise..."

I bump the knob with my knuckle.

I get my iPod out, check Words With Friends. There's no internet connection, duh, but maybe I can plan my moves. A prompt appears.

"Network required. Words With Friends requires an active internet connection to play. Consult your grandson for help purchasing an iPhone."

Try the radio again.

"Herman Miller Aeron Chair, now available in True Black."

8:45 AM Work.

One of the security guards greets me by name as I pass the desk in the lobby, wishes me a good day.

"Y'all take it easy," I say, including his partner in my reply so I don't have to say his name, and so I can sound casual.

There are a half dozen employees waiting for the elevator. I hit the button for sixteen on the way through the door and move aside. Someone enthusiastically stations himself at the console and asks people what floor they need. We skate past the parking garage floors without stopping for more passengers.

"Looks like we got the express today!" Laughter. I stare at the floor.

Check my work email. Someone's hacked the system. I pull on my VR gauntlets and visor, swim through the code. There is a hidden layer. Almost missed it at this frequency. It's written in Lorem Ipsum syntax. Piece of cake.

My coworkers are having a chat at the water cooler. No, we don't have a water cooler, so they gather opposite my cubicle wall. Nice of them to include me, especially over the sound coming through my headphones. They have very interesting thoughts on all matter of important subjects, they insist. I switch to something harder, louder. Painboat or Heartgrind or Ugly Sword. Or something really obscure, you've probably never heard of them. They're not into labels and they only release albums on wax cylinder. It will give me a headache, but maybe that will distract me, too.

9:30 AM Morning meeting. The project manager treats everybody like shit, but in a cute way. I'm happy to spend a little time, standing, away from my desk (where the internet offers me access to an inconceivable wealth of cultural and historic knowledge to keep me occupied), to spend time listening to progress updates on trouble tickets, littered with snappy references to long-forgotten obscurities like Monty Python and Spinal Tap. Knowing smiles light in pockets across the room. Here and there, an eyebrow subtly twitches with recognition. Then they all start explaining why their jokes are funny. We're all really good friends.

9:45 AM Back at my desk. My cubicle neighbor asks how my weekend was. It's a polite gesture, and I remind myself not to indulge. No one really wants to know about the minutia of my leisure time (dear reader). It's not relevant to our interactions, and with no shared interests, no bond, never even having exchanged basic biographical data, it will mean little, sound boring.

"Fine, thanks."

He drapes his arms into my cubicle and begins his monologue. His cats woke him up at 5:30 am. How odd and delightful!

10:30 AM My neighbors in three cardinal directions have a conversation about Star Wars. Common interests, after all. They recycle intermediate trivia, passing common arguments off as unique insight. They repeat themselves. They make these same points to each other every few days, but no one seems to notice. Each acts impressed while waiting for his turn to speak.

Someone mentions a vaguely sexual theme. "That one's just too easy." Alternatively, "I'm definitely clever enough to make a joke here, but let's just skip to the part where you fake laugh to show us all you caught it." The high road.

11 AM I look for something to read. It has to be something special, something that addresses the elements of life and culture that speak to my unique perspective, but also manages to make me feel like a member of a community. A place that encourages young people to make an impact on society, while challenging their notions of just what that means. Oh right, Alt Daily, the local online newspaper. I've been meaning to give that a try. On the front page, a headline promotes Norfology, the science of getting Norfolk residents to be more pretentious. I read a Garfield cartoon instead. Lasagna again?!

12:30 PM Lunch. I would have liked to wait a little longer, come back to less than half the day, but someone is bringing a new employee around to each cubicle for introductions, so now's the time to sneak away.

Just around the corner there is a nice little diner called d'Egg. I pronounce it in my head, never aloud, as "dee egg." I am alone, so I seat myself at a rear counter. I don't need a menu, the specials are on the board, and I've learned that they're reliable. The waitress comes by and I order my drink and my meal in one go. She brings it out quickly and leaves the check so we don't have to bother each other, which I appreciate. I read from my Kindle. I acknowledge that bringing it out in public convinces some strangers that I'm a just another yuppie showing off his gadgets, the way I see people riding the elevator with earbuds in (you'll be there in a minute, can you turn down your techno/nü metal/lady gaga?), but I live with it. I can lay it flat on the counter, leaving me with both hands free to enjoy my lunch. I eat. I read. I tune out the noise. This is actually really nice.

I overhear another patron asking if the name of the restaurant is pronounced "duh egg." The waitress smiles and says that's right. Somehow, I'm still not confident either way.

1:30 PM Back to work. I pass through the lobby unacknowledged by the security guard, who's checking someone in. Several people board the elevator, but we're all headed to the sixteenth floor.

"Looks like we got the express today!"

1:33 PM I read some pop culture articles, watch a trailer for an upcoming blockbuster, spend minutes here and there trying to escalate a facebook comment thread in a clever way.

2:30 PM The executives at Five Hour Energy would like me to feel exhausted by now, but I'm fine.

Nor is drinking coffee nearly as difficult as they want me to believe.

Coffee break. There are two places to get coffee within about two blocks of my building, a Starbucks and an independent shop. The local place is called Bean There, and it is pretty decent, although they only offer regular and large. I'd prefer a small. I'm really only buying coffee to get out of the office for a minute, and I don't need the extra calories.

At Bean There, I'd be supporting a local business, which is something I'm supposed to care about. Supporting Starbucks, meanwhile, would aid in spreading its evil corporate agenda of serving more people, streamlining transactions, and offering a wider selection.

I have the same dilemma about buying books. Should I abandon my ten percent Barnes and Noble discount to help a business where I can't get what I want anyway? Oh, you can order it for me? OK great, so it will arrive at the store about nine days after Amazon could have gotten it to my house. And I can pay list price.

At least at Local Heroes, where I buy comics, I can go in and browse, maybe find something I didn't know existed, something quiet and original, something Barnes and Noble neglected in favor of another twelve copies of a Green Lantern paperback (Local Heroes has those, too). I benefit from Local Heroes continuing to exist, so they've earned my loyalty even if it costs a touch more. That's symbiosis. Does that make the local bookstore a parasite?

If I go to Starbucks, the barista will be playfully teasing the customers. I won't be offended, but I'll miss the volley, force her to resort to a patronizing smile. The Bean There clerk will be friendly in a more genuine and casual way, though my social ineptitude will make that a challenge, too.

Bean There has a debit card minimum. Starbucks will be crowded. A latte will cost me four dollars either way.

I choose the local shop. Just cuz.

3:30 PM Take a window break (from my internet break). A couple hundred feet below, construction continues. Old walls come down, new walls go up. An excavator drags dirt into a pile. At least the train tracks are done. "The Tide" rumbles in and out, though nowhere near its namesake. Until the local governments agree on the specifics of extending the line, the moniker is a non sequitur, another triumph of market branding that outsmarted itself.

The train announces its arrival with four slow tones, audible even up here on the sixteenth floor. Yes, I am here a fourth time this hour, as promised. Help me not to cripple you. I'm pretty sure the warning is excessive at this elevation, but better to be cautious.

5:30 PM Laura calls my cell phone to let me know she'll be there to pick me up in a minute. I wait for the elevator with a handful of others. I pretend to check my text messages. We board, and I hit the button for the first floor. Someone asks for number two. It's another quick trip.

"Looks like we got the express today!"

In the lobby, the security guard chats amiably with other employees on their way out. Your favorite sports team is not performing at a professional level. No one gets to those elevators until he knows them by name, and he clearly takes pride in having accrued some detail about each person, something he can mention offhandedly in order to gauge the likelihood that he or she is here on this particular day to exact vengeance. He is the first line of defense between twenty floors of oblivious employees covertly checking Facebook and the unfathomable danger of pizza delivery.

My own relationship with this person has never managed to congeal. He says my name and I hesitate. I know his name but it would be too embarrassing to start using it after all this time. Failing to conjure that small detail about me, he reverts to an old favorite. He calls me "Matt Attack," and solicits a fist bump. I oblige, at the cost of some dignity, then shuffle to the revolving door, work it into motion, more with weight than strength, and proceed into the city.

There is traffic and Laura is a little late. Something about the tall buildings makes the wind whip hard, spiteful, only here. An acquaintance comes out, says goodnight, though he remains in the area for several more silent minutes. I pretend to check a text message. There is a hideously sculpted mermaid posted across the street, decorated with haphazard squiggles of paint and chunks of debris by a local freelance artist or a hospital staff or some homeless dog. A police officer rides down the sidewalk on a segway.

5:45 PM We walk to Ten Top for a quick dinner. I could make my own club sandwich on cinnamon raisin bread but they thought of it first, so I lay the money down. Something cool is playing over the speakers, but not so cool that you hate the cooks. They seem OK. There's a doodle and a funny gag on the chalkboard.

I play a round of pinball. They keep switching the machine out as the paddles break. Now it's Dr Who. The old one. I've never seen it (get off my back) but I like all the curly english afros. Ramps, dings, lights. It doesn't last long enough, but whose fault is that?

I single-handedly resurrect the pinball industry. Soon, manufacturing will begin again and introduce new machines based on modern properties like Lost, The Dark Knight, and the Star Trek reboot.

The estate of David Gottlieb will call to thank me personally.

Laura wants dessert. Dairy Queen? The Skinny Dip? Swirls? Rita's? The cupcake place? A living mountain of soft, dripping ice cream lumbers toward us over the horizon, engulfing a pair of bikers. It's OK, the monster is gluten-free.

7:08 PM I arrive at class two minutes early. A small crowd is forming outside a locked door.

"I'm pretty sure if she's not here in 5 minutes we can leave."

I check my student handbook. I keep it with me. I sleep with it under my pillow.

Surprisingly, the policy not only allows us to leave without penalty, but affords us a small recompense to offset the cost of gas, based on mileage. Even more surprising, should we elect to file the proper paperwork, we are each entitled to full credit for the course, graduation equivalency (though the diploma bears an asterisk), and an unpaid internship at the department of our choosing.

I opt for a career in the advising office, as I generally agree with their principles of apathy and mischief-making. Once inside, I will learn that nearly two thirds of all internet trolls are either ODU advisors or among their vast legion of dark apprentices.

8 PM Out early, I pick up coffee on the drive home. Dunkin' Donuts has a drive through, but I stop and go into Fairgrounds. Some guy is reading The Virginian-Pilot in my favorite blue chair. I order a small butterscotch thing. Across the street at Starbucks, they are ordering in italian. The girl lets me use my card since the ATM is down.

I check out the book exchange while I wait. Among the third tier genre fiction, I find a haggard mass market paperback of Le Morte d'Arthur. I read it last year, after having bought it in the fourth or fifth store I tried. Now it falls in my lap for free. I will probably never revisit it, but I take it anyway. It has a cool cover. Someday I will remember to drop off some comics I don't like.

When I go, I grab the daily break from the blue chair, leave the rest. It's Monday. Maybe I will do the crossword puzzle.

8:15 PM Two episodes of Frasier on Instant Netflix. Laura reads the Huffington Post app on her iPod.

10 PM Two chapters of Game of Thrones in my recliner. Laura reads something more important.

11 PM Brush my teeth. The cats nuzzle the can of food right out of my hand. Get in bed. I cram in another chapter, neck wrenched where the wall starts to slant in. The cat pins the blanket down, keeping me slightly uncovered.

"Goodnight, sweetheart."

Laura hums back in her sleep. Good enough. This was today, and it will last until tomorrow.