With as little pretentiousness as possible

Herein is born attempt at classic literature with a 21st century ambiance. One young writer's haphazard attempt at identifying his own shortcomings and missteps through the lens of human emotion, or even a lack thereof. It is a caustic, spiteful commentary on a generation 100 years in the making and a diatribe on the near inescapable and overwhelming onset of technology, a mollifying of the rabble, and the conglomeration of power even further into the hands of elite and unseen players. And we delve into all of this blinded by naïveté and utterly without an inkling.

The Thief pt. 1

Reeeehhh, reeeehhh, reeeh-- Shay's hand dropped down clumsily atop the bedside table, succinctly quieting the grating peal spat out by an alarm clock and toppling various bric-a-brac. They thudded dully on the dingy blue-brown carpet. Shay shuffled off the blanket and sheet cocoon, exposing a healthy, naked torso even as he drew two feet down to the floor. He rose, pulling back the curtains, ignoring the fallen knickknacks, and veritably cringed against the impaling sunbeams. He would adjust, though, as he did morning to morning.

Casually, the sun warming his caramel skin, the young man stretched. A gaping yawn accompanied the muscular accommodations, preserving an everyday ritual, one just before breakfast, which, in turn, preceded the morning hygiene before his commute to work. But Shay had not yet come to that point, and so he shuffled lethargically out from his room and into the hallway, feeling the chilly bite of linoleum tiles under his dragging soles.

First was breakfast.

And so it came, down from atop the refrigerator, packaged up in a tale-tell yellow box with its red trim and a glib cartoon bee, grain circles that tumbled over one another and pattered into an off-white ceramic bowl. Milk—whole--followed to top off the relatively plain meal. Of course, eggs, potatoes, and sausage were out of the question for someone like Shay, living as he was, on the brink of poverty. Regardless, he sat down with his food and swallowed it down in silence, changing pace every so often when he'd run the lengths of his fingers through the thickening, black curls on his head.

He coughed, reacting to swallowing too suddenly, and sprayed a mesh of oats and milk onto the table, “Shi-it.”

He walked to the sink, snagging the last two paper towels from the roll, and returned to clean the small mess. It didn't take long and Shay was soon in the bathroom, measuring the temperature of the shower's flow and stripping down to skivvies. He reached for the shower-head, feeling the stinging heat of the water and deemed it ready by simply climbing in, immediately starting to build a lather with a plain bar of soap. Steam rose from the porcelain tub and thickened throughout the small bathroom, fogging the mirrors, adding a slick sheen to the peeling, off-white paint and the unclean tiles and grout.

It did not take long until the trickling of water silenced in the squeak of closing pipes and Shay emerged to grab a towel hanging on the back of the bathroom door. He moved with a purpose, crossing the threshold into the hallway and again into his bedroom where he rifled through a few dresser drawers and exposed the livery of a typical Southern Californian: jeans, a faded t-shirt, and a thin, gray hooded sweatshirt. All of these he donned in preparation for his journey outside and onward to work.

Heat rose, flushing the young man's skin, probably some residual rise in temperature from the steamy shower, and beads of sweat gathered on his brow ever so as stepped into the almost tropical outside air. To dry, he dragged the sleeve of his sweatshirt across his tan forehead and then he began to walk, stepping down the path from his front door and out onto the sidewalk that stretched far into the northern reaches of the city, passing from one undernourished neighborhood to the next before finally reaching the warehouses of uptown Long Beach; before reaching the particular yellow-stucco warehouse that Shay called work.

But first he walked down the avenue some ways and sauntered to a concrete and fiber-glass bench that sat a few feet from the curbside, adjacent to a tall sign that heralded that particular bench as one of the various citywide bus stops. Silent, still collecting his thoughts even through his typical early morning routine, the man dropped down on the bench to wait, flipping up the gray cotton cowl of his hood. Then he leaned back, taking in the cacophony of the city streets around him—from the incessant rising and falling of sound from nearby and far-off cars to the drone of a jetliner charging into the vast openness of the pacific skies. He had no other solace save to tap a foot and wait, a patient resolve settling across his face as the minutes crawled by, the mill of people around grew to reflect the necessity of cheap, inner-city travel, and eventually the correct bus pulled up beside the curb and it's doors peeled back with a hiss of air, open to all the gathering travelers.

Shay remained seated as six or seven other bus patrons crowded ahead, nearly pushing onto the bus, but he still had no trouble getting inside and even finding an empty seat. And with a slight jolt of hesitation the metal behemoth crept forward, merging seamlessly into the flow of traffic, surrounded as it was by miniatures of itself.

Inside, head pressed against the tagged and dingy glass, Shay stared into the passing city. Short, middle-aged women strolled along, trailing behind tails of mop-headed kids. Vagrant teens mobbed down the blocks in cliques, in search of no particular mischief, but, doubtless, to find it. The nomadic routes of actual vagrants and wayfarers wound to and fro amidst the rest. And all of this was set onto a backdrop of walls in a chipped paint coat, liquor markets, convenience stores, ramshackle churches, four-tiered apartments, and alleyways fraught with disrepair. Steadily, the overlarge tenements were phased out, replaced by strip malls of low-roofed, contiguous shops, salons, and bistros, and banks. In the foreground, where the great unwashed had churned, now a bourgeois hodgepodge emerged, interspersed by the chic-dressed bohemian and sunbathing yuppies.

Shay suddenly felt hot again and decided to peel off his hooded sweatshirt. He dropped it into the seat beside him and regarded the bus' interior. Most of the people inside were headed, just as he was, beyond that surreal world of brunches, champagne, and yoga. Their destination soon opened before them—North Long Beach, the uptown. In fact, the beginning was signaled by a railroad stretching overhead, literally putting them all on the other side of the tracks.

Here, the décor reverted to the same state Shay had traversed from and soon enough the bus rolled to a stop at the cross street from where he'd walk the remaining distance. He and a few other passengers exited there and they each went on about their daily business, lost in individual worlds. Shay turned east and walked along, the rising heat of the sun pressing down with near physical force. Shay stopped, furrowing his brow.

 

“Damn, it's hotter than the devil's drawers out here.” Shay exclaimed loudly, wiping the sweat away with a long, exaggerated draw of his arm. “Horrible. Just horrible.”

He continued walking. Work was near at hand.

Shay arrived without incident, approaching the tall, yellow-stucco building with its metal mesh fencing on the outside perimeter. Flood lights hung along the lip of the roof, off in the daytime, but aimed true for the truckers in the evening. Harry, a middle-aged, Hispanic security guard stood at the only entrance—a slight opening in the fence guarded by a shack with one pane-less window and a tall stool that lacked any seat cushion. Harry stood up from his seat, stepped outside, and pulled at the wrinkled blue suit he wore in an effort to assume authority as Shay approached.

“'Sup, Shay. How you doing, man?” Harry questioned.

“I'm alright. How've you been, Harry?” Shay responded ceremonially, never really stopping or expecting a real response as he brushed past the other man.

“Been good, man, damn good. My lady is pregnant. Gonna be a dad, I just found out yesterday.”

Shay stopped and looked back. Harry beamed proudly and hooked his thumbs into the loops of his pants where a belt might have coiled

.

“Oh yeah? Uhm—that sounds pretty great...” Shay went quiet, feeling a bit out of place and not really knowing what else to say, but he found a voice as he peered into Harry's proud smile, “Congratulations.”

As if he had been waiting for that keyword, Harry shot forward with a gasping laugh and slapped Shay's shoulder heavily, “Thank you, man. I'm so damn happy.”

Shay smiled weakly and turned to leave, peering back as he crossed the courtyard and overhearing Harry greeting the next unsuspecting worker with a loud, “'Sup!” But soon enough he was safe inside the damp warehouse where he worked, his eyes acclimating to the low-light and his ears filling with the hum of active machinery.

He began to move among the high shelves, tiered boxes, and the metal poles barring pathways, all the way towards the back wall where the clock-in resided, a pallet jack and forklift rumbled past. Shay crossed the threshold into the small clock-in room, espying a balding, older gentleman with wide, gold-framed spectacles and a curly brown mustache, who wielded a thick, aluminum clipboard.

“Morning, Mr. Hanspepper.” Shay offered mechanically, squeezing into the cramped quarters, with most of the space greedily annexed by a table which Hanspepper sat behind. Shay scanned the metal slats suspended from the wall by rusty screws, shuffling his fingers up to near the top and unsheathing his particular punch-card.

As he started towards the clock-in to punch the correct chad, Hanspepper cleared his throat loudly, eliciting Shay's attention.

“Shay...” Hanspepper repeated, “Shay, Shay, Shay. How long've you been with us, Shay?” Here, Hanspepper pushed back in his seat and stood, reaching across the narrow table to pat Shay's nearest shoulder.

Shay inched, nearly imperceptibly so, away from his supervisor's unasked for advance, “Something like four years, I'm pretty sure.”

Hanspepper's face dried, shriveling into a distasteful and sorrowful facade, tinged slightly with humor by the irreversible curl of his mustache, “Shay, boy, I'm sorry but the company is going to be doing some layoffs. You know, with the recession and all, we just aren't selling the kind of stock we used to. Too many new homes out there or they're too damn expensive, so the demand for composite wood just isn't there right now, you know?”

“What? But, Mr. Hanspepper, I've been here for four years, man...Isn't there something you can do?” Shay asked, his face betraying his shock.

Hanspepper shrugged limply, “The higher-ups sent word down to me, 'Cut the people below five year seniority,'. If I had any control--”

“Mr. Hanspepper! C'mon, can't you talk to someone for me?” He lurched up to the table and pounded two fists down, “I'm never late, I do extra work and don't complain. I hardly even call in sick!”

The older man simply averted his eyes, adjusted those gold-rimmed glasses and coughed nervously, “They won't listen to me, Shay. It's already been decided.”

Shay, breath coming hard, his blood thudding painfully against the borders of his temples, pressed the palms of his hands to his face, and mumbled from behind them, “Jack, can't you help me? I need this job, please.”

“I really am sorry, Shay, but it's out of my hands.” He said, extending empty hands in striking symbolism.

Shay dropped his arms to either side, his body feeling weak, his stomach upset. The orchestra of the factory pressed in, drowning his mind in a flow of sounds. A far-off stinging shot through his heart and stabbed sharply with each palpitation, the undeniable feeling of betrayal. But, rather than break down, Shay controlled the emotional turmoil and hardened the lines of his brown face, “Fine. It's fine.”

Shay turned, shoulders slumped low as he trudged out into the expanse of the factory, and eventually to the courtyard, but Mr. Hanspepper called out one farewell, “Take care, Shay, and I'm sorry.”

But Shay hardly heard the condolence as he shuffled despairingly away, lost as he was in a mire of dark, harsh, and worried thoughts. He could feel the heat welling behind the eyes, the dryness of his mouth, the clammy sweat of the palms as he exited, dejected.

He crossed through the factory, unaware of the traffic bustling on his peripherals, his only focus on the exit into the glaring sun, past the press of incoming bodies, those later to work than he, and many unaware of the similar fate to his own which awaited them at that dreaded clock-in. But Shay said nothing, offered no inkling of consternation to his ex-coworkers, merely assumed a dwindling smirk and the commonplace head nod, until finally breaking out of the stifling factory and into the hot air outside.

As he moved dazedly along the blacktop he stared down, noting the variations of heat rising from the ground and he became conscious of the unbearable force overhead. Shay approached the guard shack, not really seeing Harry there, but the Hispanic fellow perused him with kind, intuitive brown eyes and got near to the problem, “Shay, are you okay? You don't look too good. Going home sick...Or did something else happen, hombre? Shay?”

Stricken from a dream, Shay's attention focused on the security guard on queue with his name being vocalized, “I got laid off.”