Murphy’s Law | Jacqueline Skiadas
I start every day the same.
In some twisted way, I am Alice, stuck in Wonderland, and I must consider 10 impossible things before breakfast. The impossible things infect my thoughts—they are my thoughts—forever spiraling into the worst-case scenario as I attempt to exist for a day. From the moment my brain awakens, I am plagued with spiraling thoughts about the day ahead of me. One day–hopefully–my luck will turn for the better, but since I’ve entered my late 20s, it seems like life is just one bad event after another. I’m almost used to it being that way. So, for my sanity, I think of only 5, all while I’m in the safety of my bed, under my warm polyester comforter:
1) My alarm does not wake me in the morning. The screeching—which is closer to electronic singing, thanks to the new IOS update—soothes me like my mother’s calming voice, and I sleep the best I ever have. Instead of waking up at 7:00 am, I awaken at 7:28 am. Perfect. I think, just perfect.
I get up anyway, even though the day is already ruined, and head to the kitchen for some coffee, the chill from the dingy linoleum seeping through the soles of my feet, the cold tile floor grounding me. The bitter cold shifts to my toes as I reach up to the cupboard, my abdomen pushing against the not-as-cold greige laminate of the counter. I pour myself a cup of fresh coffee into my last clean mug— “Seize the day!” it says in faded rainbow letters—without any complications, and I bring the cup to my mouth, ignoring the sharp ache in my wrist. I realize before taking a sip that I don’t have any clothes on. Quickly, I walk back into my room, flip on the light switch coated in paint—the ‘landlord special’—and get changed into my work clothes. I think I’ll wear the baby blue shirt today, maybe with the khaki pants? I think as I sift through my closet. Michelle always says something nice about these, how the colors pop in the fluorescent office lights—or is her name Mary? Mary-Michelle will have her day made when she sees me with these on, although I only see her in the breakroom. She works in Quality Control. She’s good at what she does, and she controls the quality of my outfit. My perfect spotless outfit, completed with my stainless-steel watch.
Upon my second entrance into the kitchen, being much more awake, I catch a whiff of the stale, earthy smell of mildew. I ignore it, and I hop up and sit next to the sink and begin to drink my coffee when Murphy joins me on the counter. The sun has started to shine through the slim window behind me, warming the back of my head. He rubs against my arm and purrs, his whiskers tickling my skin.
2) Then, my cat spills my coffee onto my khaki pants. Damn it, Murphy. I suck the air through my teeth, quickly stand, and glare at my cat. “Oh–Murphy. He has no idea, none at all, of what he’s done,” I say, gritting my teeth. I start grabbing his little face and smooshing it softly. He meows in response.
Some days, I wish I were Murphy, and he were me, and I could spill his coffee onto his khaki pants. He doesn’t wear pants, so I would have to buy pants to put on my cat and spill coffee on him. That’s terrible. And a waste of money that I don’t have. This morning is making me think insane things.
It takes a moment, but once the adrenaline wears off, I feel the scalding pain seeping down my leg. This day is ruined, and the universe was trying to tell me that from the second I woke up. I should have taken the sign when my alarm didn’t wake me up on time. I should just get in bed and tell my boss I died and can’t come in today. Maybe my co-worker Martin will send flowers. Or would Mary? Would they have a party because I died? No, no, that would be too much. It’s only quarter-of-8—there’s still time. I head back into my room, flipping the chalky light switch, when I realize...
3) I didn’t do laundry this weekend. Because of course I didn’t. Why would I? That would’ve been too simple, too perfect. Too convenient. Too smart. I put a hand on my head and groan in frustration. Not me—instead, I spent the whole weekend filing reports and filling spreadsheets with the same two words: Labelled and Unlabeled. The same click-clack task over and over again.
I suppose my job could be a lot worse. Other people risk their lives to save others from fires, or do miraculous surgeries, or deal with snotty kids all day. All I do is stick labels on boxes and fill an Excel sheet in my off time. At least it’s easy. The worst I get is carpal tunnel.
Reluctantly, I reach into my hamper and grab the first pair of pants I see. They pass the smell test, although they don’t quite fit as well as they do after they’re freshly washed. I guess they’ll do the job for today. I really need to do laundry later. I can’t afford another day of lacking pants. Not again. I unbutton my khakis and let them fall to the ground, exposing me once again to the bitter cold air that my comforter should be protecting me from. No, no, stop. Today will be a good day. I breathe and accept the cold, stale air into my nostrils, allowing it to fill my lungs—and then I let it go. Murphy slinks around my ankles and lets out a “Brrrt.” I raise my wrist to check the hour. 7:50. Okay, there’s still time, as long as I leave now. I grab my bag from the table, which thankfully I packed last night, and fish my car keys out from the bottom as I head out the front door.
I’m met with the sight of my 2000-whatever red rust bucket of a vehicle, its dented front bumper and spare tire glistening in the sun. Despite its age, the car doesn’t give me many problems. Sure, it makes a few funny sounds now and then, but it gets me where I need to be. The car door creaks open, and I slump into the driver's seat, stretching to put the key in the ignition. My foot finds the brake, pushes it down, and I begin to turn the key when I hear...
4) Clunkclunkclunk GRRRRRRT, followed by a puff of smoke coming from the hood, and every single light on the dashboard illuminates simultaneously. Dread surrounds me like a predator hunting its prey, and any ounce of hope I had for the day escapes me. I exhale a series of obscenities and sink farther into the car seat. The universe is giving me every indication that I should stay home, get into my bed, apologize to Murphy for getting mad at him, and sleep the day away, far from anything else bad happening.
With my luck, especially today, the roof would collapse and kill me and my cat, so I’ll take my chances trying to get to work. Even if that means taking the bus. I hate the bus.
I begin to walk to the bus stop, which is about three blocks away, and check my watch again—I have to be at work at 8—it’s 7:55. My situation this morning is almost laughable. Can I even traverse 3 blocks in 5 minutes? On a day like today, anything is possible. I fasten my bag close to me and begin to run, my feet thumping on the sidewalk below me. The neighborhood around me becomes a blur of brick and siding and mailboxes whooshing past me as I dash down the street. Even in my haste and panic, I make sure not to step on any cracks or breaks in the pavement, as each of my shoes hits the center of the almost-square slabs. 1, 2, 1, 2, 1, 2. Left, right, left, right, left, right...
I check the time again—7:58—I won’t make it. Not at this pace.
I veer to my right, through a yard and into the brush behind the house. I break through some shrubbery and run through the small wood between neighborhoods. I run and run, not stumbling on roots, avoiding the hanging sticks, and I soar through the thicket. I can make it. Branches and thorns tear at my clothes, leaves crunch beneath me, and suddenly I’m through to the other side. Slowing my feet, I take a second to reorient myself. Left. My pace quickens again, and I see the bus stop on the horizon ahead of me. I ignore the aching in my legs and the stitch in my side and continue running. Houses and mailboxes and people walking their dogs and murmuring to themselves rush by me as the bus stop gets closer and closer. I blink, and suddenly, I’m there. I made it. I can feel my heart pounding in every inch of my body, and a metallic taste fills my mouth as I sit at the bench and close my eyes.
After a moment, I hear the hissing of the bus and my eyes fly open. I stand, brush myself off, and steady my breathing as much as I possibly can.
5) I get on the bus.
As if that wasn’t bad enough by itself, I fumble through my wallet and realize that I don’t have a bus pass. Since I don’t have any other choice, I pay the $2.75 fee and find a seat by the window. The cold from the hard vinyl seat nips at me through my hamper-pants, and I lean my head on the window. I check the time again, and it’s 8 a.m. on the dot. Against all odds, it seems, I’m going to work this morning, even if I’m late. The bus jolts forward, and I squeeze my eyes shut. Bus rides have always scared me. The concept of a large, rectangular vehicle on the road withlots of people inside sends a shiver down my spine. Buses can cause so much damage to other cars, and vice versa. I don’t have a choice. I need to get to work. A gentle vibration and humming noise fill the otherwise quiet interior, ripping me from my thoughts and making it feel as though I’m on the bus alone. Maybe the bus isn’t so bad.
The bus continues to accelerate as it travels down the road, causing more and more bumps and jolts. This isn’t anything out of the ordinary; the city is notorious for disregarding the state of roads. There are potholes everywhere. Suddenly, the gentle humming is drowned out by the hard shaking of the vinyl and plastic and metal interior. The vibration that previously calmed me has transformed into a deafening, violent shudder throughout the entire bus. I open my eyes to see the area around the bus flashing past at breakneck speeds, reducing buildings and people to blobs of color around me.
“Excuse me,” I shout to the bus driver, but I get no response. I stand up, trying to steady myself, but another bump causes me to stumble back, and I grab an overhead handle to hold myself up.
“We’re going too fast!”
No other passengers are phased but are instead looking at me like I have six heads. “What? I’m not the one driving like a lunatic!” I shout, and I quickly consider the possibility that I could be overreacting. As I do so, I notice the bus approaching an intersection. We have a red light. The other cars surrounding the bus are starting to decelerate, but the speed of the bus is staying the same. Slow down.
“Hey!” I shout again, and a large bump sends me stumbling forward down the aisle. I steady myself on the overhead handles once again and continue towards the driver. “Slow down!” My heart pounds in my ears as I approach the driver. I try to shake him, but his gaze is glued forward. I look out the windshield, and, for a split second, I see a massive semi-truck crossing the intersection as we pass the red light. The bus smashes into the semi-truck, and the sound of shattering glass fills my ears as the windshield is destroyed. Then, a violent and deafening screech and the sound of metal creaking and tearing as the bus collides with the semi-truck. I feel my entire body get crushed and ripped apart and bend in every direction as the bus continues forward through the semi-truck. Everything comes to a stop.
6) The bus crashes.
The feeling of nothing engulfs me. I faintly hear sirens and screaming, but far off in the distance, nowhere close to me. Help is far, far away. I feel so much and nothing all at the same time. In front of me, I see Martin and Mary setting up the breakroom for a celebration of sorts. The room is filled with black balloons, coffee cups, and my coworkers all dressed in black, crying to each other while picking at the hors d'oeuvres. I guess I was right, I think, and I hear the words echo in my mind; They really would throw a party for me. I mean, I had to die for them to do so, but a party is a party.
Eventually, I feel myself begin to soar away. The feeling is eerily similar to when I was running to the bus stop just minutes ago, but instead of flying through a neighborhood forest, I am flying through a gigantic nothingness. It’s almost freeing in a way. Suddenly, everything that happened to me this morning—actually, everything that has happened to me ever—feels so minuscule now.
I feel myself float back to the bus, and my eyes fly open again. The bus has stopped, and there is a deafening hiss as the doors open. I stand up and leave.
And then, I walk into work.
The End
Jacqueline (Jackie) Skiadas is an Adolescent Education major with a concentration in English at SUNY New Paltz. This is her first time being published! She enjoys creative writing and drawing, and hopes to pass on her love for creativity to her future students.