Just Thinking about My Day

Music Plays behind us. The bass upon the speaker fill the room. Kai and I wait, silence between us but music fills the air around. The room, a little messy, dribbled paint on the floor, and the smell of Acrylic and pencil shavings linger. The bell for lunch breaks both the music barrier and silence. Kai and I are awakened from out daydream.

On September 12, 2008, I observed two people; Person A and Person B. The observation took place at Applebee’s, a local restaurant, beginning at 7:21 p.m. and ending observation at 8:06 p.m. I was serving their table for the evening, enabling myself to observe them closely. The restaurant had died down from the dinner rush, leaving them one of three tables in the smoking section, normally filled with eight. Along with the outside light fading, the lighting indoors was dim, making the dining experience feel more quiet and intimate. The background noise was filled with a light roar of other group’s conversations, and a jazz station played quietly from the speakers overhead.

As I sit and wait for a hint of inspiration from the sounds in my ear piece to give line with the bottomless void of hope. Finally, someone familiar walks through the door at Panera Bread. My past walks through the front door.

“Madeline,” I hear through my endless solitude. It was quiet enough that I could have imagined it. I must have wanted to hear it so bad that I thought it was there. Thwarted by my realization, I close my eyes and try to fall asleep. “Madeline” it says again. I open my eyes to find that same sunny ceiling, in an entirely empty room. “Madeline.” It

Her eyes fixed on the deadly scene. A dead man, dressed in a tucked button-down shirt and khakis lied dazed on the kitchen tile. She noticed the two clean plates left on the table as the half-eaten cherry pie stood still on the counter. All of the kitchen’s vibrant colors were now as shallow as gray clouds. Coldly, the tiles froze. Her brain blurred in bending circles against the light.

I look upon the grey clock, hanging on the white wall. The burning ember lit upon the five candles above us, suspended in a gold-plated chandelier. Never having been in such an opulent restaurant, I didn’t know what to expect. The grey clock was abnormal, almost paranormal. It was seemingly rotating slower by the second. In fact, everything around me was strangely out of place. The towering slender women and the short rotund

I pulled out of his driveway and got back on the highway. Soon I got to my apartment building and went to my floor, 21. From the glass-enclosed elevator, I could see everything. I could see the magnolia trees, ashes, beeches, and bald cypresses. Far away, I could see the gulf and the fisheries on the water. Florida's economy was growing rapidly, in terms of fish. (Fuson and Norrell; Muller and Irvin). Finally, the elevator warning bell rang and I got off. I walked down the carpeted hallway and I was at my apartment. There, I unlocked the door and walked in. The sun was down and the stars were up. I could see lights everywhere from the other homes and buildings. I walked into my room and fell into the bed. I could tell it was time for bed. I shut my eyes and dreamed sweet dreams. It was early in the evening, yet there I rest, the only peaceful part of the hectic Florida town

You couldn’t see anything but you could tell that people are by you and could hear sounds right by you. The waiter took us to our seats and told us where to sit. “Guys I don’t know if my eyes are opened or closed.” Zoe said. That’s how dark it was in the room. I couldn’t even tell when I blinked because nothing changed. I felt around with my hands, trying to figure out where everything was. I found my fork and my knife, but there was one other thing on the table that I could not figure out. It was a little cube shaped package. I turned to the person next to

He had been walking somewhere on a road, in between buildings, he doesn’t know how long it’s been how long he has been walking. Night hauntingly shrouds his surroundings with darkness; the artificial lights seem so damn weak. They seem to only produce enough light to brighten a large moving box. The darkness stares him down, the cold presses against the bare skin of his arms. A hand squeezes his right shoulder he can feel the warmth through his shirt.

‘The Edge’ bar and restaurant is the only thing alive around here in February. The whole town goes into a fog-like mental process where things never get done, and people choose not to see. With red neon lights, soft rock playing from the old radio, and the smell of Cedar it felt like I was shoved back in time. The edge, is an arthritic house that compliments its name and invites you to take the last step into nothing.

When I stepped out of the car onto the freshly paved road, I instantly recognized the smell of asphalt that was paved onto the street moments ago. I could hear the jackhammers pounding into the ground, making the ground shiver as if it was cold and the sound of power tools grinding into metal pierced my ears. As I looked up to the sky, I saw cranes towering above me and mirrored skyscrapers reflecting the bright, blinding light. In the distance, I could see the Art Museum with hundreds of people racing up the steps like tiny ants. At the top, stood the Rocky Balboa statue and other structures, with bystanders modeling for pictures as if they were on the red carpet.

As I sit in my car, in the parking lot of a 24-hour Walmart, I reminisce of the many experiences that lead to this moment. Writing this essay with a notepad on my lap and pen in hand, this position is all too familiar, surreal, and thought-provoking. How did this all happen…again?

As I approached the restaurant I looked up and saw the outdated signs, the logo looked to be the original logo. The parking lot had no more than ten cars in it at 7:00 A.M, I parked behind the restaurant under a light post and could hear the buzzing of the light. Walking around the building towards the doors I noticed the morning dew dripping from the glass as the sun was about to rise. I walked into the restaurant and the smell of the food rushed from the kitchen directly to the doors. I was greeted by the host and many other employees, I introduced myself and host lead me on the tour of the restaurant. I examined my surroundings and noticed the various western pictures, stars, and other decorations that left the feel of the wild west. The outer walls were brick, but had been painted white and lined with a wood trimming. Half walls designed for privacy separated booths, they are wooden and painted with a color that was identical to murky green lake water. We walked towards the kitchen, the floor beneath my shoes changed from carpet to a reddish tile.We turned the corner and discovered a food takeout window and the dishwashing conveyor system

I stepped into the kitchen the kitchen looked very clean. It was as shiny as gold, there wasn’t any dish’s in the sink and the counter were as polish a boot. The stove looked like it had never been used. The whole kitchen looked like no one has stepped foot in it, then a wonderful smell blow over me as I smelled apple pie. Mother was making apple pie that is she hasn’t noted me as I watched her as she baked.

Everyone sleeps at certain times. Chicago’s imminent seeming glow from the lights is starting to flicker and dim. Windows turn off, second by second. The window cleaning personnel raise themselves up on their scaffolds to start their nightly work; cleaning each window of Willis Tower, home of the Skydeck. An ABC News helicopter flies by with four passengers aboard. I am one of those passengers - a news reporter, reporting a standstill traffic jam. To imagine myself as just a maraca shaped dot in the sky is above my, so to say, “Imagination limit.”