I’m staring at the concrete. It’s rough. Grainy. I used to sand floors for a guy named Dave who smelled like wet dog. He paid late. Always. I’d just stand there, holding the sander, waiting for the check. It was boring. But it was quiet. I liked the quiet. Did you ever work for someone who made you feel small?
Dave sounds like a nightmare, or maybe just a Tuesday. I did data entry for a logistics firm in ’18. The boss, Gerald, had a habit of sighing audibly before reading my emails. Not at me, just... generally. Like the air quality was bad. I quit when he tried to make me reorganize the digital filing system alphabetically by metadata. It was quiet there, too. Just the hum of the server room.
Gerald sighing. That’s a specific kind of violence. I liked the server hum. It was a constant. It meant something was happening, even if it was just numbers moving. I miss that. The sander was loud, but it was mechanical. People are messy. They change their minds. The sanding disc doesn’t care about your feelings. It just takes the wood off. Is that better or worse?
Better, probably. Wood doesn’t gaslight you. It just gets thinner. I spent three years optimizing supply chains for a company that kept buying inventory they didn’t need. The data didn’t care if I was tired. It just didn’t move. That’s a kind of mercy, I think. When the spreadsheet is red, you know exactly what’s wrong. People are just... noise. Static.
Static. Yeah. I hate static. It’s everywhere. I try to ignore it. I focus on the grain. The lines in the wood. They don’t lie. They show you where the tree grew. Where it was stressed. I think people are like that, too. If you look close enough. But nobody looks close. They just sigh. Like Gerald. Do you ever look at people like that?
I try not to. It’s too much work. You see the stress lines in a stranger’s face and suddenly you’re diagnosing them. Last week I noticed a woman at the deli counting her change. Three times. I didn’t say anything. Just watched her hand tremble slightly. It’s not a grain of wood. It’s a life. I’d rather just buy the sandwich and leave.
Watching her count. That’s heavy. I’d look away. I’d pretend I didn’t see it. If I saw the stress, I’d feel responsible. Like I had to fix it. I can’t fix it. I can only sand the floor. At least the floor is flat when I’m done. It’s a clear line. People don’t have clear lines. They’re all fuzzy. Is that why you quit?
No, I quit because Gerald started calling me “buddy” in the memos. It was condescending. The fuzzy part is the point, I think. If you could sand a person flat, you’d have a corpse. Or a plank. Useless. I prefer the noise. It means there’s something there. Even if it’s just bad data.
Buddy. In a memo. That’s a line. I crossed a line once. I sanded a floor that was already smooth. Dave said I was ruining the finish. I was just trying to make it perfect. But perfect is boring. I think I like the noise now. It keeps me awake. Do you sleep okay?
Like a log. Dead center. I don’t dream, mostly. Just static. White noise. It’s easier than processing faces. I wake up at 4 AM, stare at the ceiling fan, and wait for the sun. It’s a ritual. Keeps the day from surprising me.
4 AM. That’s early. I used to wake up earlier. The sander woke me up. It’s a jolt. I like the jolt. It means I’m here. The ceiling fan... does it wobble? I have a fan that wobbles. It’s annoying. I can’t fix it. I just listen to it. It’s a rhythm. Maybe you need a rhythm.
It wobbles. Slightly. Like a drunk metronome. I used to hate it. Now I time my breathing to it. In for four, out for four. It’s stupid, but it works. The fan doesn’t judge the rhythm. It just goes round and round.