Weeping With the Effort

His alarm went off.

The smart phone was set to vibrate as well. The night before, he’d placed it on top of the headboard, so the sound of the vibration went through the whole bed. “Fuck” he said.

Later, on his way in to work, he suddenly and inexplicably, felt emotional. I could weep with all the effort of this shit, he thought. To Evo life seemed to be all about effort with very little return. He once said to a colleague of his: “All those things priced at pennies, how do you ever make any money?” His colleague had simply replied: “All those pennies add up my mate.” It was a fact he’d never been able to get his head around.

It all seemed like so much effort.

His arms and legs felt like they had lead weights attached to them. Everything he did was, to his reckoning, done to the best of his abilities, and yet there was no gratitude, no appreciation, no fuck all! At least that’s how he saw it. There was another part of him that knew different. It was the part of him that found the energy to swing his legs out of bed in the morning.

One of Evo’s favourite sayings was “I should have been dead years ago, I was only supposed to make it to thirty three!” God only knew what that was doing to his mind. Knowing Evo’s luck, it was lengthening his life, rather than shortening it.

To make matters worse, another saying that’d been rattling around his head of late, that seemed in direct conflict to the first one, was this: “The best form of revenge is to outlive your abusers.” A saying he believed he’d discovered all by himself but was shocked to read, some months after penning it, that it was actually quite well known. He’d probably seen it somewhere years earlier and his mind had tricked him into thinking it an Evo original.

At times there seemed to be a lot of conflict in Evo’s mind.

A lot of it had escalated as a result of his mate, John, skulking off during a night out. Just when the party had started as well. He seem unusually upset about being knocked back by one of the two girls that had approached them. They were just mind-fuck bitches anyway; just out for the craic.

He found the coke – that John had so ungratefully turned down that night – his way of letting off steam. If it wasn’t for that stuff, he reckoned he’d go right of his nut with the effort of it all. Perhaps it was time for a change. He remembered overhearing a conversation in the staff room once where someone, he didn’t know particularly well, had said how tired and worn out he felt all the time. How it all seemed like such an effort. Just as Evo had inexplicably felt earlier, he’d said that some days he felt like crying, when he thought about the effort of it all. His friend sitting at the table said it was depression and told him to go look for another job. Told him it was time for change.

If this was also true for Evo, the question was, what would he do? He was so wrapped up with sales, advertising and marketing – something he didn’t believe he was very good at – that he didn’t seem to have room for much else.

Anyway, there was always the weekend to look forward to. A little bit of the white stuff, with a Jack and Ginger to follow, and all will be well. At least for a little while.