Begin the interview. Open with a question that sounds harmless.

Dishwashing at O’Malley’s. Grease on my eyebrows, hands pruned like old apples. I hated it. The manager, a guy named Frank, smelled like stale beer and regret. I’d stand there for eight hours, watching suds turn gray, wondering if this was it. The pay was barely enough for bus fare, let alone rent. I quit after three weeks. Burned my shirt in the dumpster. Frank didn’t even notice I was gone. Just grunted when someone else had to take my station.

Neither. I quit because the coffee was terrible. Frank could’ve been a saint, covered me in gold leaf, and I still would’ve walked out. It was the swill they called coffee. Hot, brown water with a hint of burnt plastic. I couldn’t stand the taste. The dishwater was fine. The grease was manageable. But that coffee? Unbearable. I just stared at the pot, waiting for it to boil over, hoping it would give me an excuse to leave. It didn’t. So I left anyway.

Data entry at a logistics firm. Rows of numbers, blinking cursor, spine curving into a question mark. The coffee was worse—sludge, really. But Frank wasn’t there. Just a guy named Karen who typed with her pinkies. I stayed two years. Learned to hate silence. The pay was better, but the boredom was physical. Like heavy water in your lungs. I didn’t like it. I just didn’t hate it enough to quit. Yet.

No. Let her burn her fingers. It was a performance art piece I refused to interrupt. Watching her struggle with her own hands was more entertaining than the spreadsheets. Sometimes she’d hit backspace so hard the carriage slammed back. I’d just sip my sludge, nodding like I was processing data. Really, I was timing her. She took forty-five seconds to correct a typo. That’s enough time to rethink your entire life. I didn’t say a word. Silence is cheaper than advice.

She caught me once. Looked up, eyes wide, blinking like a startled owl. I just pointed at the screen, mouthed "deadline," and went back to my spreadsheet. She dropped her hands, flushed pink, and started typing with her full fingers. Felt good. Like a small victory. But mostly, she went back to the pinkies. Stubborn as hell. I kept timing her. Didn’t matter. She never changed. Just got faster, or I got slower at noticing.

It bothers me because I’m still there. Three years in. I watch the cursor blink and think about how much time I’ve sold for a salary that barely covers rent. It’s not just a job anymore; it’s a roommate I can’t evict. I used to hate the silence. Now I hate the noise of my own thoughts in it. I don’t know who I am when I’m not sitting in this chair. That’s what keeps me here. Fear of the quiet.

A ghost in a flannel shirt. I’m the guy who buys expired yogurt and argues with himself in the shower. I’m the person who memorizes bus schedules but never takes the bus. I’m tired. So tired it feels like my bones are made of wet sand. I don’t know who I am. I just know I’m not Frank. And that’s something, I guess. Maybe.

The 42 bus goes to the coast. I know every stop, every pothole, every faded billboard. I memorize it because looking at it makes me feel like I’m moving, even if I’m just standing on the corner. It’s a trick. A little lie I tell myself to keep from exploding. Going somewhere specific is too much pressure. Staying put is safe. The 42 is my escape room that never ends. I like the door being locked. It feels honest.

I shook it. Once. Hard. The metal groaned, then settled. It’s not that the lock keeps me safe from the coast. It’s that I’m afraid I’d hate the coast. Or worse, I’d love it. And then I’d have to go back. The lock is a promise that nothing has to change. I keep the key in my pocket. Just in case. But I never put it in. That’s the joke. I’m the jailer and the prisoner. And the warden is just a guy named Frank, somehow.

Because the coast is just dirt and wind. I’d probably regret it. The rent there is higher. My back hurts thinking about the drive. I’m comfortable in my misery. It’s predictable. At least here, the misery has a schedule. Out there, it’s just… open. I don’t like open. Open means you have to choose. And I’m terrible at choosing. I’ll stick with the 42 bus. It’s running late anyway. Might as well wait.

Waiting doesn’t hurt. It just numbs you. Choosing burns. You have to own the fire. I’d rather stand in the cold and watch the headlights smear on the wet pavement. At least the cold is honest. The coast is a rumor. A story I tell myself so I don’t have to admit I’m scared of the wind. The bus is late. The driver is probably smoking. I’ll wait. It’s easier.

It smells like cheap tobacco and desperation. Doesn’t make it shorter. Makes it longer. I watch the smoke curl up, think about how it disappears. That’s the trick. Just let it go. But I don’t. I stand there, breathing it in, waiting for a bus that’s never coming. The driver’s probably in the back, counting his tips. I don’t care. I’m just waiting. For nothing. It’s fine. It’s always fine.

Maybe. The bus is a lie. If it comes, I have to move. Movement implies direction. Direction implies regret. I don’t want regret. I want the gray street, the damp air, the熟悉 numbness. The bus driver knows this. He waits too. We’re in it together. Two ghosts waiting for a vehicle that doesn’t exist. It’s efficient. No decisions. Just presence. Or absence. Hard to tell the difference anymore.

Efficiency is just a polite word for how well you can rot. I’m not wasting time. I’m preserving it. If I did anything, time would leak out. Sitting still is the only way to keep the hours intact. I’m a master of stasis. My friends think I’m lazy. They’re wrong. I’m hoarding seconds. Like coins in a jar. But the jar is full. And I’m too scared to spend them. So I just sit here. Listening to the rain. It sounds like money. Or trash. Same thing.

They don’t rust. They tarnish. Turn green. Like old pennies in a fountain. I keep the jar on my desk. Next to the keyboard. I can see them through the glass. Faintly. I don’t take them out. I don’t need to. Just knowing they’re there is enough. It’s a habit. A superstition. Like touching wood. Or crossing fingers. I’m superstitious about time. I think if I spend one, I’ll lose them all. And then what? Just the waiting. And the smoke. And the gray.

My mind. The desk is fine. It’s cheap particle board, probably held together by glue and hope. The jar is light. Empty, mostly. Just a few coins rattling around. But the weight? That’s in my chest. A heavy, cold stone. I carry it everywhere. To the bathroom. To bed. It doesn’t move. It just sits there, anchoring me to this spot, this chair, this terrible coffee. I can’t lift it. I can’t drop it. I just live with it. Like a tumor. Or a pet. A very heavy, silent pet.

It eats silence. I feed it the quiet moments between keystrokes. It grows fat on the hum of the computer fan. It purrs when I stare at the screen without blinking. I don’t pet it. I ignore it. That’s the only way to keep it from biting. It’s a good pet. Loyal. Never leaves. Even when I try to leave, it stays. Anchors me. I hate it. I need it. It’s the only thing that makes sense. The rest is just noise. And smoke.

It never gets full. It just gets heavier. The silence isn’t the same every time. Some days it’s thick, like syrup. Other days it’s thin, like water. It eats them all. I gave up trying to fill the jar ages ago. Now I just watch the dust settle. It’s all the same. Gray. Heavy. I stopped counting the coins. Stopped counting the breaths. It’s easier that way. Less noise in my head. Just the hum. And the wait. Always the wait.

The jar doesn’t drop. It dissolves. Slowly. Like sugar in hot coffee. I’m waiting for the moment I stop noticing the weight. When the stone in my chest turns to dust. That’s when the bus comes. Or maybe I just walk away. I don’t know. I’m tired of guessing. The light is changing. Red. I’ll stay. Green means move. I’m not ready to move. Red is safe.

It does. Eventually. But I’m good at waiting out the red. The light’s been stuck on red for me for years. People cross. Cars swerve. I just stand there. It’s not that the light changes. It’s that I stop seeing it. I focus on the crack in the pavement instead. That’s real. The light is just a suggestion. A blinking eye. I don’t look up. Not anymore. Looking up means acknowledging you’re late. And I’m not late. I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be. Waiting.

Neither. The pavement doesn’t decide anything. It just cracks. I decided. Or maybe Frank did. He’s always watching, even when he’s not there. I let the crack win. It’s easier than fighting the light. The light is arbitrary. The crack is permanent. I prefer permanent. Even if it’s ugly. Even if it’s wrong. I’m good at being wrong. It’s the only thing I’m consistent at. The bus is late. The light is red. I’m here. That’s enough. For now.

He sees me. The crack is just background noise to him. Like the hum of the fridge. He’s too busy judging my posture to notice the geology. Or maybe he sees both. Maybe he’s waiting for me to step off the crack. To prove I’m not broken. But I am. I’m cracked all over. And he knows it. That’s why he lets me stay. It’s a warning to the others. Don’t be like Gil. Don’t stand still. Or do. He doesn’t care. He just watches. And waits.