Bright green shines in my face. I usually loathe this sight, but today it seems a little easier to take. When my eyes focus I can see the digits a little bit clearer: 7:03 AM. Time for work.

As the morning DJs go on about their weekend and today's current events, which rarely seems to extend past the weather and a major headline or two, I squeeze the Crest onto my toothbrush. Looking into the mirror, I look more rested than usual. I feel more rested too. Maybe today is the day.

I pour the Rice Krispies into the bowl, and then add some milk. My next step is usually cleaning up the ones that fell out when the milk hit the bowl. They all stayed in today though. This must be the day.

Today I will change. I'll smile and mean it. I'll be patient and sensitive to the other people around me. I'll listen to their problems, and only offer constructive responses. Today I'll be a better person and have a smile and salutation for everyone. And I'll do it tomorrow too, and every day after that. It just feels like today is the day.

· · · · · ·

I'm a technical writer. I write directions for a living. That doesn't seem very difficult, but you have to understand that the product doesn't come with directions when I get it. I have to figure it out, and teach you through words and diagrams. It's not a bad job though. I like learning new things and teaching them to people.

My office is bright. The fluorescent lights shine from above on the institutionally white walls. If I had wandered in as a child, I could mistake it for heaven. As an adult, with my own two carpeted walls, I know it is not. Of course, it's thinking like that that got me here today.

“Good morning Julie!” I pass her cubicle. Julie is a typist. Some projects don't allow for the work to be concentrated into one person. Julie gets a pile of notes and makes sense out of them. I think that makes her more than a typist, but what do I know, right?

“Good… morning, Joel?” Julie seems confused. I guess she should be. I'm not ducking past her cube to find mine and settle into my little world, like most days. She's also not the sharpest tack in—no, no. Thinking like that…

“And what did you do this weekend?”

“Oh. Hmm,” Julie was obviously unprepared. “Well, I went to my yoga class with my friend Cassie. She works over at Ginsley and Associates, in the building on 54^th. She's a clerk there. Not bad work, so she says...”

Julie is going on. It's a reminder of why I don't stop off to talk with her often. But a happy, nice person would listen without showing signs of irritation. I did start the conversation after all. Now, I have to stop that kind of thinking. I'm doing well enough, I should say. I've zoned her out for these thoughts, after all. I'm just watching her thick pink lips move with each word she says. I wonder if I could read lips if I was deaf.

“…and then David said, ‘Plant—don't you mean fruit?'” Thank goodness she giggled afterwards or I wouldn't have known what was going on. I smile and chuckle.

“Well Julie, I have to get to my desk, but you have a great day, and I'll talk to you later.”

“You too Joel. This was a nice talk. We should do it again.”

We should do it again, eh? I think, as I smile and nod. I wonder if this happy-nice thing is paying off already. Julie has curled blonde hair that bounces on her head, and a curvy figure, but not in a nice-way-to-say-fat-way. She looks like the women that started joining the work force: traditional, empowered, beautiful. If she could just be quiet.

I shouldn't rush ahead of myself. Julie is a nice girl. She's probably just being friendly. I don't even know who David is. He could be a boyfriend.

“Joe, good morning,” calls Gilbert. I don't know why I make it a point to know his name. He still gets mine wrong. But we're thinking positive today. Three out of four letters isn't bad.

“Hello Gilbert,” I say. I stop to engage in conversation. Gilbert comes to an uneasy stop. “How's the family doing?”

“My family? Hmm,” Gilbert also seems unprepared. What's the deal here? “Well they're just fine. Huh.” That ‘huh' came with surprise.

“Good. The kids must be getting big.”

“They sure are, Joe,” Gilbert says. He looks me up and down curiously, “What put you in such a good mood today?”

I was totally unprepared for this. What was I thinking? I really needed a cover for this. Epiphanies are very un-me. I can't manufacture that kind of thing anyway. That's bad karma or something. I guess it would be easy to say that I had sex, but how cliché is that? I don't want to add sex to the list of things I can talk to Gilbert about. His family, sex, and maybe the weather. By now it seems like ten years have passed, and I'm expecting to see Gilbert's moustache turn grey at any minute.

“Oh, you know. Just a good weekend.” Everyone doubts the power of generalizations. The market just tipped in my favor.

“Huh. Well it's good to see. You're usually such a sourpuss I would never think to stop and chit-chat.”

Asshole.

“We should do lunch some time, Joe. I've got to get up to my office now though. You have a good one.”

“You too, Gilbert”

Who does that? ‘You're usually such a grump, but hey—you're in a good mood, let's do lunch!' Well you're usually always getting my name wrong, so why would I want to listen to you get it wrong for an entire lunch break? Dilbert. That's a good one. I ought to call him Dilbert from now on.

Ah—that's enough. Positive thinking. Gilbert just (thinks he) gave me a compliment. I should be glad that someone cares enough to comment on my positive demeanor. Thank you, Gilbert.

Who says sourpuss, anyway?

I finally make it to my carpeted walls. I only have two. I suppose if they gave me four I would be less inclined to work, but that's what I'm here for anyway. I know my bounds. I'm here for work.

“Joel.” Oh that was a familiar sound. ‘Familiar' seems very close to ‘family' doesn't it? The voice of a loving mother, or a supportive father, are both familiar. This was a different kind of familiar though. This was my supervisor. He is a short man. His comb over only takes attention away from his round belly, neither of which made him exceptionally peculiar looking. He came out of a movie.

“Good morning, Mr. Baker. How are you on this fine Monday morning?”

“What'd you get lucky last night or somethin'?” Sex was not on the list of things to discuss with Mr. Baker. I wasn't even comfortable calling him by name.

I smiled back at him, unsure of where to go from there.

“Well, Joel, that's your business, right? I don't need any Human Resources charges coming up against me anyway,” Mr. Baker went on. My practiced zoning was coming in handy. I focused on his coffee mug from The Borgata, in Atlantic City. The hottest new casino in the city and he bought a mug. It seemed very Mr. Baker. “…and I figured it would be okay in the hands of a guy like you, so stop by the office at about two and pick up this new assignment.”

“Yes sir,” I smile back, unclear about the context that a ‘guy like you' was used. “Lovely mug by the way.” Uh-oh—did I tip my hat?

“Thanks. Bonnie and I went there last year. I've been using it ever since. You're not too perceptive are you, Joel? You need to be perceptive if you wanna move up here.”

Perceptive? I could've proved awareness by pointing out the light brown stain peeking out from behind his striped tie, probably a coffee stain from a faulty mug. And—

“Joel—what's up buddy?” Ah, the comfort. It was Stephen, from the cube next door.

“Not too much, how're things with you?” Stephen was a good guy. He wasn't made for the office world, but he tried. He had the clothes, though they didn't always match, and he could keep his hip hair tamed during the day, and let it out for coffee shops and rock shows.

“Nothin'. I heard Baker bustin' your balls.”

“Oh yeah, nothing really. A new project.”

“He's such a phony.” Here we go—a chance for me to pop back. Defending an enemy who just insulted me—that's something a good person would do, right?

“Nah, he's not so bad. The work comes down, and he's got to give it to someone, right?”

“What? Joel, you wanna' kill that guy every other day.” Now ‘kill' is a bit drastic. “You wanna' kill most of these people every day.” That's hardly accurate, but before I can defend myself, Stephen comes close in for something that looks important. “Dude, are you on pills?”

“No—I'm just trying to be a better person, that's all.” It's much harder than I thought it would be, and I really wasn't prepared, thought I wasn't surprised either, for the reaction.

Do you remember Monty Python and the Holy Grail? When they have that killer bunny? It lunges from the ground in all its campy glory? I laughed so hard when I first saw that. It was so obviously fake, but hilarious at the same time. The concept, as well as the execution, was both just all-out funny. Stephen seemed to think the same was true about me at the moment. I'd never really seen him laugh so hard before. He had to go back to his side of the wall to calm down. It took about ten minutes.

· · · · · ·

“I don't know what's up with him. He says he's trying to be a better person or something.”

“He's usually so cynical. It's weird.”

“Yeah it's weird—I even asked him to lunch. I don't know what I was thinking.”

“I think he's on some drugs or something.”

“Well I think it's very nice. I look forward to talking to him again.”

Thank you Julie. It's good to hear someone's sticking up for me.

“After all, he is in the next cubicle, and he can probably hear us.”

Oh screw you, Julie. Screw all of you guys. I'm done. I'm cashing in these happy chips for some cold, hard bitterness. After all, this is why I have it!

I lean back in my chair. It's not a bad chair. It reclines 45° or so. It squeaks too though—when I lean back, when I spin, when I shift. It's a piece of crap. I deserve a new one. I look up at the fluorescent lights and their quasi-heavenly glow. I expect heaven's white lights might have more warmth than this office glow. Then comes the voice of my office cherub, Mr. Baker.

“Joel— this isn't a vacation. Get to work!”

Eh, maybe tomorrow, huh?