The Piggy Bank
He considers what a dull and terribly common name John is as he wakes. Long blades of light cut across the studio floor to stab his eyes. He rises slowly, but shakes the bed anyway. A full pack lies securely on the nightstand while a single, long-extinguished cigarette tumbles out of an ash tray.
John puts one foot down, carefully avoiding a supine ukulele at his bedside. His other foot leads him through a wasteland of clothing, balled-up sheets of paper, playing cards, toward the bathroom. He stoops to pick up some of the paper on his way, drops it again before it reaches the waste basket.
In the shower, John thinks about his idea again. He does not cry this time. Today he is toweling off after only two minutes. He dresses and combs his hair carefully, very carefully. He brushes his teeth before he breakfasts; he is not thinking it will make his cereal taste funny.
The soccer ball just won’t stay in the corner of the studio. Angry, John picks it up and shoves it back behind his stage and screen magazines. He picks up an issue and starts to flip through it. He realizes he remembers every detail.
The wall clock ticks by his ear. He must have gotten up late – he must have forgotten about time again – he does not know. He meticulously cleans his bowl and spoon before he places them on the counter. It is just now that he thinks again about getting a cat. He feels tears coming on again and slaps himself. He has to go.
John stands. He notices two quarters he has left in the pocket of his pants. He jingles them in his hand, kisses them. He places them gently into a ceramic pig atop his television.
An enlarged poster of Uncle Sam points as John charges out his door. Every other stair creaks on his way to the bottom. His car is hot, and everything inside burns his fingers. He considers for a long moment going back to bed. Then, when a bird squawks overhead, he closes the door.
John speed-drives. His car passes through a blue fence and finds its parking spot far from the entrance. He speed-walks. His body lurches through a foyer, past a desk, into a waiting room. He doesn’t think to smooth out his uniform until the door opens and he is gestured inside.
His boss, Mr. Stanley, has just finished telling someone else’s joke and pretending it was his own on the telephone. He motions for John to sit, but John remains standing. Mr. Stanley allows his smile to fade slowly. He asks John why he requested a meeting.
John begins to remind Mr. Stanley about his idea, “To-to inc-crease efficiency; to imp-prove m-m-morale; to –“
Mr. Stanley nods. He looks at his watch. He does not have the time.
John fights sadness with anger, anger with sadness. “Mr. Stanley,” he says. He has rehearsed. “You try to r-rush me, Sir. But when you d-do, sometimes you m-miss something important.”
Mr. Stanley’s phone rings. He shows John his palm and points at the clock. John counts seconds as the hand moves; one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten.
John leaves Mr. Stanley’s office. He will not come back.
