Lowly Laurie

The daily grind is a merciless pattern of living that consumes the livelihood of many average souls. It consists of a monotonous minutia of mundane details that at the end of the day, leaves one feeling like all hope of living an exciting, adventure-packed life has been pummeled and stirred into a bland existential paste.

Laurie was one of many prisoners chained to this lifestyle. She began and ended each passing day with a series of routines that struck her with painful regularity and comfort. At forty-two, she was very much a stereotype being that she was a single woman living in a cramped (yet rent-controlled) one-bedroom apartment in Manhattan, complete with a cat, a freezer full of "Lean Cuisine" entrees, and a heart pumping nothing but bitterness. She often struggled with the conflict of fearing the unfamiliar yet loathed the suppressing familiarity that she had grown so accustomed to.

Wednesdays were the worst for Laurie because her week was at the peak of its banality. This particular Wednesday began like any other. At 7:30AM the alarm blared its siren next to her on the night-stand, harshly invading her last few moments of unconsciousness. She squinted her eyes in response to the streaks of sunlight crawling through her blinds and flared her nostrils in recognition of the unmistakable stench of cat piss.

"God-dammit Pickles, you have worse bladder control than my grandmother," she said while lovingly kicking the withered and relatively obese feline.

Pickles was the only living thing that had shared a mattress with Laurie in months and due to that pathetic fact, no amount of cat urea could sway her undying appreciation and attachment to the incontinent critter. She reminded herself of this every time she had to deposit urine-saturated bed sheets into her laundry basket. Note to self: Pick up bottle of Febreeze after work.

Before stumbling to the shower, she always made sure to engage in the self-destructive act of inspecting every inch of her naked flesh in the mirror. Some women prefer to write positive affirmations in lipstick on their bathroom mirrors, but Laurie would never be one of those women. She would rather scrutinize each varicose vein, dimple of cellulite, and stretch mark as a way to justify the unrelenting insecurity she grappled with day to day. After her shower, she would stuff her lower half into a constrictive pair of panty-hose and top it all off with an unimaginative professional ensemble. Today felt like a pin-stripe day.

Coffee was always made instantly then poured into a steel traveling mug. Breakfast usually consisted of a piece of fruit or a Krispy Kreme doughnut, depending on her level of dietary ambition for the week.

The walk to the subway was always a bit arduous, as Laurie had to shuffle through the hoards of humanity that pervaded East 86th Street. One of the toughest obstacles to overcome was pretending not to notice the poor saps handing out flyers advertising the latest deals at CVS Pharmacy. Despite the countless number of times she had made this trek, she would never fail to be slightly startled at the way those flyers were presented to all pedestrians. The distributors flashed them like switch-blades. If you want to live, take this sheet of coupons for "Bounty" toilet paper.

The subway always proved to be claustrophobic at this time of day, the dreaded commute hour. Laurie's one glint of hope on this expedition was that she would wind up magically immersed in a gaggle of dashing, single investment bankers. One of them would find her mousy hair and wide hips irresistable and eventually take her proudly as his bride. Alas, that was never (and probably never would be) the case. Today the tip of a toothless hispanic woman's umbrella was pressing into her spine. In front of her was a mammoth-sized man carrying a briefcase proportionate to his size. The briefcase protruded into her stomach, she could feel it poking at the exact spot where the glazed Krispy Kreme doughnut had nestled itself. Great, a briefcase is giving me grief about splurging on a doughnut. While doing her best to prevent spilling coffee all over herself and her fellow passengers, she finally reached her destination at 42nd Street/Grand Central and was freed from the frenzy of people traffic underground only to be reunited with it when she reached the street level. Faces fleeted past one another darting all eye and physical contact. How is it that in a sea of so many people I constantly feel so isolated?

Laurie reached her office building, stuffed herself amongst many in an elevator and finally arrived at her cubicle; her little cell of secretarial solitude. She had been working as an assistant for fifteen years at a professional ghostwriting company. She had originally aimed to become a writer fresh out of college, but seeing that she hadn't written or been inspired to write anything since the Reagan Era- she figured her career would be fruitless. Next to her computer laid a stack of contracts she was to distribute to a heap of recent college graduates who had obtained writer's grants. Ugh, nothing beats being a middle-aged woman with crow's feet and brow lines that is required to peddle out contracts to aspiring writers with fresh, youthful bounties of acne.

She did her best to avoid water-cooler conversations and obligatory small-talk in the office, but that was about as easy as shooing one dog away from sniffing another dog's ass. It was impossible to make it from her cubicle to the unisex bathroom without being regaled with updates on the latest HBO series from her coworkers. It's very reassuring to know that Tony Soprano had a breakthrough with his psychiatrist. The world is better for it.

She continued to whittle away at the tasks required of her, meanwhile keeping her peripheral vision focused on the clock. As the hours diminished eventually winding down to 5:00PM, she concluded the work day by entering the nearest Duane Reade and purchasing her much needed Febreeze. In a rare act of spontaneity, she threw in a People magazine. This particular issue included a distressed looking Katie Holmes that was supposedly being held captive by her whacky Scientologist hubby. I can take comfort in the fact that while I may be perpetually single and lead a sex-less existence, at least I'm not under Tom Cruise's tyrannical reign.

She was eager to devour her newly acquired magazine on the subway ride home. Fortunately, she had the rare luxury of finding an available seat. She was just delving into "Golden Globe Fashion Disasters" when someone stepped on her toe.

After looking up to confront this invasive stranger with a mean, menacing stare she was thoroughly suprised to see a gentle-featured man (probably in his late forties) who graced her with an effusive, "I'm so sorry, ma'am."

Laurie felt deeply touched, he had actually stopped to look her in the eye and acknowledge that she did indeed exist. She stared at the man who perpetrated her foot, devouring him with her eyes. While he wasn't outright attractive, she suddenly felt incredibly aroused.That was the closest I've come to real human connection all day.

Floating into her apartment, she fashioned herself a microwavable dinner and a glass of wine. Dessert included cuddling with Pickles and watching her most recent "Netflix" rental.

After the predictable romantic-comedy had been witnessed, she began her bedtime routine. Cleanse, brush, floss? Check. Inspect increasingly noticeable crow's feet? Check. Apply eye cream to reduce increasingly noticeable crow's feet? Check.

Lying in bed, she found it impossible to sleep. She suddenly found herself reminiscing about the toe-abusing gentlemen on the subway. She remembered the way his warm, green eyes stared into her hollow, brown ones. He had blessed her with a milli-second of connection to the world; she couldn't remember the last time that had occurred. The only remedy available to this restlessness was to honor the kind stranger with a fevered bout of masturbation. Laurie howled with sensual joy while swimming in fantasies of sexual trysts with the man. One image that kept orbiting her filthy mind included the two of them naked as the day they were born, alone, in a subway car. The vibrations and bumps of the route only adding to the glorious friction they were engaging in with one another. The man had an impressive ability to leave an impression, with his one minor gesture he had aroused a great passion from inside her; a yearning to seek out adventure, love, and wisdom.

Laurie's body quivered with orgasmic glee while sweat flooded out of every pore on her skin. Yes, yes, yes! I am going to celebrate life with every fiber of my being from this point on! Gone are the days of holding myself prisoner! I'm going to abandon my rigid daily structure and embrace risks and spontaneity! Ooohhhh, heaaavens yes!

She then came for about a minute.

After she climaxed, Laurie scoffed at herself for exaggerating the erotic and spiritual value of the brief encounter that had occurred earlier in the evening on the subway. She couldn't believe that all it took was someone stepping her cheap, Payless pumps to get her to stew in her own ejaculatory juices. She glanced across her bedroom only to discover Pickles staring at her with a seemingly smarmy expression. Well, fuck you. At least I'm potty-trained.