Dew support

I bought a Mountain Dew last week when I was about to pass out after lunch.  I don’t really drink pop anymore.  Not as a crutch anyway.  In high school I would have two a day.  Always Mountain Dew.  I even saved the cans in my locker.  Empty and leaking their last drops they filled it up.  I should have earned an engineering degree the way I got them all to stay.  I didn’t count them when I emptied it out.  Maybe I should have.  But since my principal was watching me, I think I was just trying to get it done.  Apparently bugs had begun to gather.  Gross.  I know. 

So even after a pretty healthy addiction like that I was still able to cut it loose.  I drank pop religiously into college.  My sophomore year I stopped.  Not consciously or even purposely.  I just realized one day that I hadn’t had it in a month or two.  I didn’t need it anymore.  And I still don’t.  Normally. 

But I did last week.  I had been up late a couple nights prior and it was finally catching up to me.  I made it through the morning, but after a meager lunch I was drained.  Lunch is usually a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and a bag of chips.  I drink water.  We are supposed to get 30 minutes for lunch.  Ever since I started, my counterpart takes a full hour.  So I take a full hour.  Usually.  After I eat, I read.  It’s a nice little escape in the middle of the day. 

As my eyes scan the page they start to close.  Every millimeter feels amazing.  The closer my eyelids get together the more my chair starts to feel like a featherbed.  I am relaxed.  It’s like the words on the page hypnotize me.  My eyes close.  The voice in my head, delirious with exhaustion, tells me it’s okay.  It makes sense at the time.  I don’t question it because it feels so good.  The line between asleep and awake, I’m walking it.  My arms start to sag and the spine of my book rests on my desk.  When my hands go limp the cover of the book snaps shut on my fingers.  “That’s not right,” some rational voice yells out.  Why not, I wonder.  In the bed in my mind I have pulled the covers up around me.  I find that position of ultimate comfort.  No stress.  No alarm clock.  Just the seemingly divine mattress and thick heavy blankets.  The pillows are perfect.  Supportive, but not hard.  My body is cradled.  I bet this is what the womb feels like. 

The book hits the floor and that rational voice chimes in again.  I can’t make out what he’s saying, so I focus harder.  It’s still muffled but getting clearer.  The blankets disappear and the bed is ripped from beneath me.  My eyes shoot open and try to make sense of the thick plank of wood under my head.  My book is on the floor and I’ve lost my page.  The right corner of my mouth is cold from the beginnings of an embarrassing drool puddle.  I snap upright in my chair and try to shake the tired out of my eyes.  I consider slapping myself but the office is quiet.  I don’t want to raise suspicion.  “Fine,” I tell myself.  “I’ll resort to caffeine.” 

The good thing about cutting something like that out of your life is that when you need it, it will work hundreds of times better than it ever did.  I make sure I’m actually awake before I try to stand up.  It’s not that I’m afraid I’ll fall over and hurt or embarrass myself.  I just know that if I hit the floor, I might fall asleep.  I’m that kind of tired. 

I stand and get caught in an unavoidable stretch.  I give every muscle in my body a flex.  It starts with my quads.  My legs lock straight and my hips push forward to arch my back.  It forces me to stand up straight.  My arms in the muscleman pose, my elbows move toward each other at the back to stretch my chest.  This is when I lose control of the stretch.  It happens to all of us.  My body takes over.  It tells me what I need to stretch.  My elbows swing around in front of my chest making my back round and tight.  It arches the other way like I’m trying to touch my toes.  My brain kicks back in and notifies my body that if I lean over too far, I’ll get a headrush and pass out.  I breathe and see stars and relax my body and the exhaustion comes back.  On my feet, I take a step toward the door. 

The cheap pop machine is on the first floor by the loading dock.  This is where the smokers take breaks.  When you enter the dock area, non-smokers judge you by your supposed addiction.  It’s a strange feeling. 

I’m still on the third floor waiting for the elevator.  I stare at the illuminated orange button pointing down.  I picture it as a sun; promising and warm.  It reminds me of the bed I wasn’t just in.  The bell dings and the sun burns out.  It’s cold again and I remember that I’m tired.  I step in the carpet and stainless steel elevator and light another sun.  The doors slide shut and it begins its short descent.  It’s slow and labored but it rocks like a bassinet.  My weight is diminished by the change in gravity and I’m back in bed, back in the womb.  The elevator car vibrates and hums and I could live there.  I hear a distant bell but know, even in this state, to wait for the second one before I open my eyes.  The doors open again and the covers are ripped off me again and my eyes spring open again and I take a step forward onto the cold granite floor of the main lobby.  My shoes squeak unavoidably as I zombie my way to the dock.  I don’t notice much of anything except for John eating lunch with his fiancé.  I don’t know if they see me, but I can feel their judgment as I pass through the dock doors.  Even if I did on a regular basis, he wouldn’t know whether I smoke.  I don’t reveal much of myself at work.  I don’t think it’s the place for that kind of disclosure. 

The machine is in my sight.  I’m going to make it.  One sip of that highly-caffeinated beverage and I will be ready to sprint toward the finish line.  I know what you’re expecting.  All this build-up, there has to be a disappointment somewhere.  “I bet the machine was out of order,” you might guess.  “Exact change only?”  Not an issue.  “Out of Mountain Dew?”  Nope.  Everything went fine.  I plugged a few coins into the slot and waited for the thud of a full can slamming down the chute into the little opening.  Just for me.  That drink was that afternoon’s salvation.  It would rid me of the sin of sloth and keep me from getting fired.  I picked it up and it felt like I knew it would.  Vacuum sealed and frigid; a solid cylinder of liquid.  Just holding it I felt revived and confident and ready to attack the rest of the day.  I turn around and begin the trek back to my desk. 

I clutch the can with my thumb on the top and my pinky on the bottom.  It’s too cold for me to hold in my palm.  That and I want to make sure my coworker sees it so he knows I wasn’t smoking.  I’m just not fond of revealing things about myself.  Especially when it would be fuel for judgment.  Yeah, I’m weird, but I think the word manipulative or controlling works better.  After all, who else would I trust with my image?

I walk by them again but I don’t say anything.  I never do when I see them at lunch.  It’s not me being a dick or anything.  I just hold the lunch hour holy.  I see him at his desk all day.  I don’t need to be involved in his lunch too.  This is a mistake that too many people make.  Just because I know you doesn’t mean I need to say hi every time I see you.  I saw you.  You saw me.  We can discuss it later if you really want to. 

This time the floor doesn’t feel as cold and my squeaking shoes do so quietly.  The rhythm is soothing.  I push the up arrow at the elevator and wait for the doors to open.  I don’t know what it is about this building, but wherever I get on the elevator, it seems to be somewhere else.  I’m always waiting.  This time, my fingers are getting cold so I switch hands.  Ding.  The ride up seems quick. 

Out of the elevator and down the hall and I’m feeling better.  I’m not fighting my eyelids anymore.  My body feels revived and I haven’t even opened the can.  I want to see how long I can go without drinking it.  I put it in the fridge and return to my desk.  Knowing it’s there is enough for me.  A security blanket.  I stay awake the rest of the day and the rest of the week and the can remains in the fridge.  I check it every morning when I retrieve my water bottle.  Every morning I give thanks to all the people who didn’t take it.  My confidence in them grows.  Why would any of these people need to take my pop?  There are other machines and cafeterias where they can get what they need, my drink is safe.  Yeah effing right. 

This morning I pulled my water bottle out of the refrigerator in the break room and noticed the bright green can missing.  I check the other shelves and behind and under things and it’s not there.  It was right in front, so obviously not belonging to anybody else.  Who would take it?  Who, in this setting, would take a lone can of Mountain Dew out of the fridge, knowing damn well it wasn’t theirs?  I would understand more if it was an open twelve pack or something.  That’s a little easier to hide.  Its owner might say, “I don’t remember drinking three of these already.  But I bet I did and just don’t remember.”  But a single can?  One can?  That is obviously there for a fucking reason.  Somebody bought it, decided they didn’t want it right away, and kept it in the fridge for an emergency situation.  Since when is there a statute of fucking limitations on a can of pop in the fridge?  Did I miss the sign?  The sign that says, “He who leaves unattended soda in the fridge for more than a day doth hereby surrender all rights to said soda.  This soda shall become public domain and shall be consumed by the first one who finds it unattended.”  Yeah, I must have missed that sign. 

My next step is to get another can.  Write on it, “This soda is and will remain property of the purchaser in perpetuity.  No length of time or lack of attention shall result in transfer of said ownership.  Anyone other than the purchaser who consumes this beverage will do so unjustly.”  Maybe I’ll get it notarized or something.