Mush

Gray

That sound was so… gray. Maybe a hint of green in there. Is there even such a thing as a… grayish green? It's not odd to associate sounds with colors- is it?

My thoughts were sort of foggy in the morning, and I tended to actually think more when my thoughts were foggy.

I usually liked to think less, or nothing at all. Sometimes, if I'd wake up too early like this, before I mentally prepared myself not to think, I could feel the thoughts coming in.

Sometimes they made me angry, sometimes sad, but usually just bitter. Not like, angry, bitter. More like -a nasty taste in your mouth that you can't get out. Except in this case, your mouth is your brain, and the taste is your thoughts.

I got up and turned off the gray, or green, or whatever sound it was coming from my alarm clock. I must have hit it a bit too hard because Maxi's head perked up from in between the coil that was her furry body.

As I made my way through my little box room to the kitchen (which also serves as the living room), the thoughts that had formed a cyst bubble in my head from the infectious dream seemed to have popped, and the thoughts were starting to leak, and the importance of it being a shitty room, or a small room, or a mansion, faded. The importance of- really just about everything- would fade pretty early in the day. Kind of like if I forgot to plug my ears and every fuck I could ever give just slipped out.

Mhm yeah. Now it was feeling alright.

Auto pilot was back on.

My vision zoomed out, like a camera out of focus. The sound of the sink opening up and water passing through the rusty nozzle-faded into the zipping of my pants, and that sound faded into the swinging of my front door, the springs of which the landlord still hadn't fixed, and then that sound morphed into the sliding doors of the train, and the announcers "Stand clear of the closing doors."

That one was my favorite. It was like a checkpoint in one of those decision based video games. Making sure you're still there, you know? A little notification in the corner, just to make sure you're still playing the game.

But as special as it was, it was still part of that long, panoramic sound.

The homeless man snoring loudly next to me, the little kid whos phone kept making candy crush noises, the turning of the page of the book coming from the gringa all the way on the other side of the train, who very clearly was not from the city and just moved here to write a screenplay or hook up with a rich dude.

Forty five minutes had passed. I could only tell because I listened to the same, like, 12 songs every day, and I knew once I'd finished all of them and I passed the New York lottery billboard, that it was about that time.

I got off. I made my way down 10th, way down to that big golden castle.

Haymill Hotel.

When I first got the job at this place, they'd told me it would be impossible to miss. I'm pretty stupid but I didn't miss it. I must have seen it at least two blocks down.

I stepped through the revolving door, which funny enough is going to be taken down because some poche little shit got his finger stuck in it, and made my way to the employees office.

The sound was different now. It wasn't the morning sound. It wasn't the low rumbling of the train or the gray sound of metal doors scraping on their frames or alarm clocks. This was a golden sound. It was the sound of stilettos clicking on marble, men speaking in their comradic and boasting voice to other men, or mumbling cautiously to their wives, and leather luggage rubbing against each other, and all of it bouncing off the tall walls, caging me in a chamber of noise.

The days had three parts. The morning sound, the golden sound, and the little after hours sound, which sounded sort of like the buzzing of a neon sign.

I didn't really hear those after hours sounds as often at this point. Just not enough time.

Just at the side of the entrance was the little red door, probably the only thing in the whole building in subpar condition. It was employees only, though some little fat kid was almost always in there trying to get something from the kitchen.

When you open the door, the smell is the first thing that hits you. No fancy perfume, just metal and sweat. You'd think we had a factory or something.

Sally, the night shift lady, came right out the servers lounge as soon as she saw I arrived. I was there to relieve her.

"Hey Martin."

She got up and put her little server's coat back on the hook, just as I was taking off mine.

"Hey Sally"

I had the ugliest voice crack when I said that. It was the first thing I said that day, my throat wasn't really lathered up yet.

"You gotta shave Martin," she said, as she opened the door to leave. "Daniels already pissed off because of Tito, he'll yell at you for anything. Asshole told me to get a tighter bra. What the hell is he looking for there anyways?"

She left and slammed the door before I could respond. Not like I was gonna say anything anyways.

Daniel's an ass regardless, and my skin gets irritated when I shave without this stupid fancy shaving cream I found in a garbage can from one of the rooms once. So no, screw Daniel.

I buttoned up the little red vest, and made sure I got all the little golden buttons in their little slits, and threw the overcoat and pants on. I was here, and I was going to work, and I was going to get paid, and I was going to go home and sleep next to Maxi. I was not going to shave.

Too much thinking. My head was pounding. I had to see if there was something in the kitchen for that.