In 10 years…
I will be a better man in 10 years.
I will not lie as much, will not tell my wife I was working late when in truth I was not at work at all, but down at a motel, the kind that has doors that open almost directly onto the highway, and where the migraine-pink glow of the neon sign seeps into the room, darkening to a blood red the stains on the carpet, the cracks on the wall, the puncture scars on the hooker’s arms.
In 10 years I will work more diligently.
I will arrive at my place of employment at the time that I am required to arrive, and not two hours later then I should have, with breakfast still on my tie, coffee and sleep still on my breath, blood still on my shoes. I will sit at my desk and fill out the tiny cells of the spreadsheet with all the data required to accurately reflect the information gleaned from the audit I was hired to conduct on a client, instead of the strange squiggly figures that resemble numbers but in actuality are near-forgotten incantations in a near-forgotten language, taught to me by a blind woman who lives in attics when people don’t know she’s there, and that, if they work, will burn to ash all my enemies.
I will also, I sincerely hope, stop going into the basement in 10 years.
Not the one in my house, that basement is as dull and safe as basements can be. My children have their toys in that basement for god’s sake, what do you think I am? No, I’m talking about the basement under the cabin that I’ve had since I was nine, inherited it in my grandfather’s secret will, the one he left for me where he knew only I would bother to look. That’s the basement that isn’t a basement, but is more, well…
I need to stop going in there. And in 10 years I think I’ll be able to. I just hope what’s cultivating in there doesn’t ever get out, without my care.
Oh, and in 10 years and I’m hoping to be in a more upper-management type position.
So when do I find out if I’ve got the job?