The Story Of T G

Okay, I feel kind of stupid for putting this up here. It's an imperfect (you know I can't stand that), disjointed, boring, pointless piece of writing. It's a true story, mostly. I think it's a good one but very badly written, and I'm kind of wincing at the thought of other people reading it. I wrote it late tonight after seven hours of work, it's about three in the morning now and I'm pretty damn exausted.

I want feedback. Questions, comments, anything. I want to know things that you might be able to tell me. Should I add more dialoge? Should I have it all in present tense, or past tense, or is it okay to switch between tenses? Should I make it more of a fantasy story? Should I make it more of a character sketch instead of a story? Should I make a poem out of it? Should I stop sticking so close to the truth (I think so)? Should I add a fucking soundtrack? Should I write an apology speech in case he finds this online?

The Story of TG

 /By Eireann/

When Thoreau wrote that “many men lead lives of quiet desperation”, he must have been thinking of T.G. I remember exactly how I became acquainted with this mundane, yet fascinating, character. It was about a year ago, when I took a temporary job at a so-called “law office”. My sister worked there, and she was the one who got me the job, which I hated with a passion. However, I soon became friends with my co-workers.

T.G is small and hard looking, with a perfectly sculpted face and hands that look like spider webs. His eyes are limpid and shallow, yet piercing, and underneath lies a mind I cannot read – and I’m pretty decent at reading minds.

T.G. likes routine. He wears the same clothes day after day, listens to the same music all the time, and throws a hell of a fit when someone moves one of his files out of order. He likes cats and hates roller coasters. He tends to sabotage things, inadvertently. He’ll work for hours cleaning up a case file and then yell at a client on the phone. He works too much for no good reason. I wondered once what he did what his time when he wasn’t working, where he spent it.

 “At the bar, mostly”, is his answer.
 “Oh,” I say. “Well, that’s really depressing.”
 He agrees with me. 

New Haven is a dying community now. T.G. tells me of the time, about a decade ago, when there was a flourishing underground culture. He tells me of tree in the middle of Broadway, where kids would go sit and get stoned, and talk about politics and philosophy. He tells me about the coffeehouse that all the freaks went to hang out, and how it was shut down; he cried when they carried the furniture out. I can’t imagine T.G crying, he looks like a wooden sculpture. But his eyes light up when he talks about this place, and I want to hug him. I’m kind of afraid of what he’d do if I did, though. He might just stand there.

He talks to me, but doesn’t reach out to me. He is not a courageous person, and I don’t think he knows how much he could handle if he gave it half a chance. He did reach out to me once, though. It was my last day at the office, and it was a pretty bad one. I’d gotten there late and then started to sign out to get some breakfast, which prompted my boss to shout at me for five minutes straight. The rest of the day was a rainy, dreary whirl of crackhead clients who shrieked on the phone, the sounds were like a jackhammer to my head. I made cup after cup of tea in the cafeteria area, but instead of calming me down it just made me more manic and shaky. I watched a black cloud form around me, blotting out all the happiness and hope that I usually had, and stalked around with a dangerous scowl on my face. When I walked past T.G., he looked at me with understanding in his eyes, and let his arm rest on my shoulder, in his steady manner. I felt pure golden light travel all through my body, and almost cried from the joy I felt before he disappeared. That was the day I realized he was magical, and that I loved him.

T.G. gives me a hockey puck, not for my birthday, but just as a random gift. It’s summer now, and we set up an amateur field-hockey practice area in one of the ghetto parking lots near the office. All I can see are littered streets, broken sidewalks and graffiti-sprayed buildings. T.G. moves in for the kill, hockey stick gripped in his hand and held perfectly still, and he looks as graceful as a bird on those rollerblades of his. He smacks the target, and then turns sharply on the wheels and gives me one of his sarcastic-type grins. He always looks like he disdains the whole human race, like everyone is somehow beneath him. His gaze is cool and calculating. But he never disdains me, and god knows I give him enough reasons to. We’re so different, him and I. I’m like this freestyling nomad hippie chick, and he’s a cynical punk working in a bogus law office. He seems to have come to the end of his life, even at the young age of twenty-six, and I’m just a child who’s still sampling every single delicacy the universe has to offer. I think he knows better, because my wisdom can compete with his in a way that no other person’s has. Once I was standing at the copy machine, when I was still working at the office, and he comes down the stairs and puts a hand on my head. “You’re my angel," he says.

T.G likes a good cup of black coffee in the morning, and smokes a two-pack of cigarettes each day. The door to his office is always closed to keep everyone out except his friends, and there is no window in the room. The room is filled with smoke and the smell of horrible-tasting coffee. On his desk are sculptures of monsters and cartoons. Once he went into a coughing fit when I was with him. I ask him if he’s all right.

 “It’s killing me,” he tells me. “It’s fucking killing me.”
 “Maybe you shouldn’t smoke inside,” I lecture him.
 “Oh I don’t know. It might take all the fun out of life.”

He sighs one of his famous sighs and goes back to his computer. T.G. is cynical. I have never seen another person so cynical. I can’t get enough of him, and that's exactly the reason I leave him.

Months go by while I immerse myself in other adventurous and other people. I go swimming and play on the playground with my friends, watch movies, and write a lot. It’s an ordinary summer, albeit an empty one. I make plans to move out and live with some friends on the west coast – I can’t stand this city anymore. It’s full of settling dust, bleak sunlight and lost people. The days have a set monotone to them.

In October, I get a job working nights at a local coffeehouse. The place is bright and cheery, with yellow walls and live entertainment every weekend. It’s not exactly the alternative underground place that T.G. once lived for, but it’s nice people and good pay… good enough for me. My life is suddenly filled with mochas and espresso shots and washing dishes for hours in the back room.

One Friday night he comes in, shortly before closing. I am restacking dishes.

“Hey T.G.,” I greet him. I am cool and casual, and glad to see him.

“Hey, Eireann! How’ve you been?” He asks me what I’ve been up to, and at the same time I ask him what’s been going on with him. I laugh, somewhat awkwardly. He looks different now. Not as tense as he used to. I miss you, I think.

He tells me about a week of absolute peace he experienced in another country. He says he’s thinking of moving there.

I think it’s a good start.