Chapter 2: The more official start of chapter one (Seriously? Well, I hope you read the warning)
The feeling one has when they wake up usually depends on the dream they had when they slept. For example, say that I had had a lovely dream about flying, and when I woke up, I felt that beautiful uplifting feeling of joy. The swirls of white and blue that make up the sky, still fresh in my mind. It's not hard to make the connection in that one. And oh how I wish that I dreamt of flying, rather than that recurring nightmare about- oh I really am getting off track. I am pretty certain that you don't want to learn about the demons that lurk in my dreams just yet. And frankly, I don't really want to talk about them. But anyway, about the flying dream, if you or I were to wake up with that glorious feeling, one might say that we had woken up to a good day. For even if the sky was cloudy and miserable, and you couldn't actually fly, you would still be able to hold that gorgeous feeling close to you, and almost relive it. I am sorry to say, that the same thing goes for bad dreams as well. You wake up from the dream in which you walk into school without your pants on, and for the rest of the day you find yourself looking down, expecting to see your bare legs and people pointing and laughing at your underwear. I wish Smith Jackson would wake up in the morning just like I do: Covered in sweat and throat sore from screaming.
But the moment Smith Jackson opened his deep blue eyes in the morning, He felt nothing but the deepest satisfaction. The dream had been so vivid. If only it had been true. Slowly, he climbed out of his bed, the feelings of satisfaction slipping away. The reality of it all was cold, colder than the tile floor the moment his feet touched it. He wasn't a billionaire, he was almost broke. He didn't own his own multi-billion-dollar company, no, he worked at Malmart. Based on these sad snippets about Smith Jackson's reality, one might feel sorry for him. I mean, don't we all want to be billionaires? I have no problem with his typical dreams, the only problem I have with this is about something that happens later in the story. The terrible action he took to serve nothing but his own undeserving, selfish, self.
It is a tiring job to work in customer services. You have no idea the sort of customers they get, pretty stupid ones, and difficult ones to. The only way you could know this is if someone has told you about the pains of this job, or if it is, in fact, your job. So it is not hard to relate with the way Smith Jackson's day went. You might even feel empathy with him. But just remember, as I assume that you are not a horrible, sickly, demented creature, you are very different from him. Of course, based on the fact that you are reading a book called Utter Loathing, I shouldn't really be assuming anything. After all, assumptions are often wrong, as I have learned the hard way. But anyway, back to the story.
The lock clicked as Smith left his apartment to head to work, swinging his backpack onto his shoulders. A swift glance down at his watch told him that he had forgotten his watch in his apartment. He hissed a curse under his wretched breath as he turned around and frustratedly jammed his key back into the lock and wrenched open the door. Grabbing his watch off the counter he struggled to put it on his wrist. He held the key for a minute, before setting it down with a little sigh of annoyance at his own stupidity. Then with his watch set on his right hand (what does he think he's doing! Doesn't this guy know that the watch is supposed to go on the non-dominant hand?), he stepped out the door with his keys, slamming it behind him and locking it with a click. Zipping up his coat as he walked down the stairs, he stepped outside into the brisk air of New York City.
His breath billowed in clouds around his face,(kind of like the last time I laid eyes on him, except it was smoke that time). With brisk strides he started on his way to work, though honestly he almost prayed that his feet take him anywhere else, he hated his job. He hated Malmart, and he utterly loathed the clashing bright red and green uniform he had to wear. Of course, every day went by like this. So it didn't really matter how he felt, the previous days, today, or any day yet to come. With a light sigh, he picked up his pace as he turned the corner, but then, he came to an abrupt stop.
It is typical, when one comes to an abrupt stop, to assume that something or someone has startled them. This is one of those few times that assuming something is alright in this book, as often it is not. For example earlier when our loathsome protagonist looked at his watch, you most likely assumed that he would find the time, or that he was late. Of course, however, you were wrong, for at that moment the very story you are reading felt as though it needed to prove a point. That is one of the most subtle examples of the element of surprise in this book, for, in this story, almost nothing can be assumed, for almost nothing, turns out the way it should, or would, in any normal story. Like, you wouldn't expect the very person who is writing this to want to torture you, yet here I am right now, delaying my continuation into the story, and telling you about what happens after Smith Jackson turns that corner.
Smith Jackson's eyes widened as he came face to face with another person. She was obviously not a local New Yorker. Dressed in a tank top and shorts and having a slightly lost look about her, her face twisted with a rather desperate expression. Stumbling a step back, our hated main character asked the first dialogue that will take place in this horrendous book. "Excuse me? D-do you need any help Ms.?" he asked, tripping over his words, having just been rather surprised.
"No-I mean yes," said the woman in a first dreamy but then startled voice. "Where am I?" she said, her voice sounding urgent.
Rather taken aback by this weird question, our sorry excuse for the main character almost held it back upon looking into the person's desperate face. Rather frightened he said "Oh, y-you don't know? We are in New York City."
"Oh shoot," she responded and without even acknowledging the person she had just bumped into, she roughly shoved him out of the way, turning to run down the block in a panic, attracting a lot of weird glances.
Speechless, Smith stood there for a minute or so glancing around as if expecting more strange people to come running up to him, on this chilly winters day, in a tank top and shorts. On the rest of his way to work, Smith Jackson pondered and pondered, his strange, and rather sudden, interaction with the even more strange and out of the ordinary person. In fact, his thoughts only drifted back when he walked through the automatic doors of Malmart. And as he put on the terrible uniform, his mind finally came back to the pains of his job.
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