Addicted Buddha

The following is a short story I wrote while sitting in the warm Minnesota sun on a couch that once served a much holier purpose. 

The story is dedicated to my Jackson friend who gave me the tools to understand time's varying forms and to my Minneapolis friend who gave me a space to experiment with those tools. 

The clock on the office wall has read 3:57 for the last half hour and the Hancock casts an ominous stare from across the milling city. Perhaps Tom Aarons is the only person who, at this very moment, is consciously aware of the black building's existence. The Hancock's leer through the office window anchors Tom to his seat. 

The daydream is interrupted by building urge to take the never-arriving break. He checks his wrist: 4:03. Time follows very loose rules here. 

Rising from his desk, he walks past the window and the now-forgotten building beyond. Outside his office, a woman passes him in the hallway. The eye contact lasts for a second. 

"Hey Tom."

"Hey Debra. "

At the elevator, Tom stands alone as the button's yellow glow promises deliverance from above. Ding. The doors slide open and Tom steps into the empty space. 

The doors slide. People enter. The doors slide. People exit. The doors slide. 

23 floors down, Tom is swept into the current. The glass at the far end of the hall, the dam holding all this stale air, promises a speedy escape through the spinning turbines at its base. 

Before reaching the doors, Tom's hand finds a little box in his blazer locates one of a dozen identical paper cylinders. As he enters the rotating glass, his lighter sparks on the first shhhhk, and the dark smoke enters his lungs as he plunges into the hazy freshness of the air outside. 

The sun is bright and Tom's usual nook stands empty and inviting. Walking to it's far end, he circles a bit, pulls out his phone, and assumes a position facing the sun. 

Another drag, another exhale. His ex-college roommates' Instagram feeds depict lives ten fold more exciting than his own. 

Chhhk. The screen goes black and his phone disappears into his trouser pocket. 

Another drag, another exhale. Opposite Tom's nook, a bus exhales in a large black woman's face, causing her wide hat to ripple in the dense warmth of the bus's belly. 

A passing cellphone listens to its owner's dismay. "If he's going to treat you like that, I can't figure out why you're still with him." 

Another drag, another exhale. The clouds above move just enough to suggest that time is still passing. The blue sky beyond swallows Tom's worldly thoughts. His mind enters a realm that may not exist. A realm from which it may seem that our world does not exist. 

Nothing happens for a while. There is a lot of white. Plenty of light. No thoughts followed to this other-world, and few thoughts can be generated in its sea of nothingness. It's pretty quiet. Maybe some distant wind can be heard, but it isn't concerning. Time definitely holds no power over this reality. 

The Chicago street fades back into view and people instantly populate the scene. Tom's cigarette is gone. He snuffs the remainder in an ash tray and tosses the butt in the can. 

Tom inhales, then exhales, and turns to go.