Shane's First Day--A Short Story

Shane’s First Day

    Shane rubbed his tired eyes and peered at the clock on the nightstand—4:15. It’s too early for anyone to be awake, he thought.  He was starting a new job though, and he couldn’t afford to be late. 

    He pulled his 38-year-old frame out of bed and stumbled to the bathroom.  He flipped the lights on and moved to the shower.  He placed one leg in the shower.  As he raised his other leg, he lost his balance, his full weight crashing down on the unforgiving laminate floor.  He let out a disoriented moan as he reached for the back of his head.  Good—no blood.  What a way to start a day!  He slowly rose and climbed into the shower, this time carefully grabbing hold of the railing.  He felt the steam open his pores and thin his blood.  He felt good about this day.

    Shane sat down at the kitchen table.  His wife placed a hot plate of bacon and eggs in front of him.  “Thanks, sugar,” he said.  He turned the page of his morning paper.  All he really cared about were the sports and the funnies.  He flipped to the back, slicing through his index finger mid-flip.  “Ooooo!” he moaned as blood oozed out of the cut.  “I hope this isn’t an omen.  This is turning out to be a heck of a day!” he said.

    “This is going to be a good day—I promise,” his wife said.

    “I hope you’re right.”

    Shane pulled onto route 21.  He looked at the neon numbers on his dash: 5:05.  Good—I’ll be early.  He rounded a bend that came before a set of railroad tracks to see a row of angry drivers sitting still, waiting on a train to pass.  He rolled to a stop.  The train seemed to have an infinite number of cars.  This is why you leave early, I guess.  As he reached to turn up the volume on his stereo (In the Air Tonight was playing), his neck snapped back and his airbag deployed.  Dazed, he opened his eyes.  There was something sticky on his face.  He looked at his reflection in the rearview mirror—he had applesauce on his face.  Great!  Now my lunch is ruined! 

    Shane slowly climbed out of his mangled vehicle to assess the damage.  There was a red Ford Taurus intertwined with his Chevy Impala.  The driver of the Taurus, a young blonde woman, was extremely apologetic.  It didn’t make him feel much better.  “Is that applesauce on your face?” she asked. 

    Shane arrived at work a half hour late—not bad, considering.  His boss was understanding and didn’t think it reflected on his character.  He was relieved.  This was his first “desk” job, and his first day was going well.  He was sitting in his cubicle, small but serviceable, inputting numbers.  Mindless as the work was, it beat flipping burgers.  He heard a shout, which seemed to originate from the opposite side of the large office.  He poked his head up.  He immediately dropped back down.  There was a man, nicely dressed in suit and tie, holding a .38 revolver.  People scattered.  Shots sprayed.  Blood spattered. 

    What do I do?  He cautiously crawled out of his cramped cubicle.  He tried to shuffle as quietly as possible to the exit, but he heard footsteps shadowing him.  He jumped up and began running for the back exit. 

“Stop, Shane!” 

    How does he know my name?  He turned around, unsure of whom he would see.  He didn’t recognize the face of his antagonist. 

    “Now that we’re alone,” the man said, “we can have a little talk.”

    “Who are you?” Shane asked, his lip trembling.

    “Shane, my friend, you don’t recognize me?”

    “Should I?”

    “We were best friends when we were like 8, man!”

    “Ryan?”

    “What?  No!  Ryan was your best friend?  He was an idiot.  It’s Mark, buddy!”

    Shane dug through the vault of his childhood memories.  Mark, Mark, Mark…hmm.  “Oh, yeah!  We had like two classes together.  I don’t think I would call us best friends.”

    “Well, you were my best friend!”

    “Wow…that’s sad,” Shane said. 

    “Anyway, I’m here because your mother sent me.”

    “My mom is dead.  She’s been dead for several years.”

    “Well, I’m a medium.  She visited me last night.”

    “I don’t believe you.”

    “She did.  I swear.”

    “What’d she look like?”

    “Shut up.  The point is that your mom wants you to be nicer.”

    “You have problems, Mark.” 

    “I also have a gun,” he said, pulling back the hammer dramatically.  

    Shane paused.  What floor am I on?  “Don’t do anything rash,” he said.  “We can work this out.  Wait!  What is that?”  Mark turned his head for a brief moment. Shane bolted for the back of the room.  Mark fired several shots after him, one of them striking him in the shoulder.  He kept running, grabbing the wound.  The blood felt unusual.  It was blue.  Whuh?  He licked it—it tasted like Jello. 

    He made it to the back of the room and leapt through a large window, hoping he would survive the fall.  He gazed up at the sky as he fell.  The clouds were magnificent.  It was strangely peaceful.  Wait…I’ve been falling for a while.  He kept expecting to feel the impact, but he just kept falling.  What floor was I on? 

   “Shane!?  Shane!?  Can you hear me?” He felt someone shaking him repeatedly.  He peered through his fluttering eyes to see his wife’s concerned face.  “Shane!” she said, relief replacing panic. 

    “What happened?” he asked.

    “I don’t know.  I heard a thud. I jumped out of bed and ran in here to find you on the floor.” 

    Shane looked around.  He was back in his own bathroom.  He sighed.  This is gonna be a long day…