Power Hour #8 (Incomplete)

The ink has run out. Seemingly nonsensical phrases are scattered about the page. Cigarette butts litter his wastebasket. There’s a slowly smoldering fire masked by day old ash. When Frank fails his ideas, he cannot stand to look them. When he started writing, he used to tear up page after page of writing. But he’d put them back together, only to tear them up once more. He’s learned to burn them.

Frank’s pen hangs limp in his hand. He throws it at the wall. There’s no more paper left either. He shuffles out of the room. As he exits, the wind cuts at his bare arms. Turns back to retrieve his jacket, but he backpedals out of the door. Looks at the spiral his feet made in the snow. He lengthens his stride and spins around again. Stretches his legs further apart. Repeats his twirl. Stretches his stiff legs as far as they can go. Creates the outer circle to his spiral. Frank looks down and marvels at the echoing curves. Smiles at the symmetry. His arms are numb, and his fingers are senseless. Goes back inside.

Halfway back to his desk, Frank freezes.
“Dammit, I’ve forgotten to go to the store.”

Searches around his room for his jacket and hat. Finds his jacket in his laundry basket. Smells respectable. But the hat is nowhere to be found. Frank gets on all fours and looks under his bed and desk, his only two pieces of furniture.

“I must have left it at the office. That’s a bother. I should be heading off now though. I should go to the restroom before I leave, it’s a long walk to the store.”
His hat lays on top of his toilet seat, crushed in.
“Why are you here?” Frank questions his hat. “You shouldn’t be here. You should be on the tacky hat rack Marie forced on me.” Picks it up and punches out the top.
“I must have sat on it this morning while I was looking at the patterns in the wallpaper.”

Plops the hat on his head and marches out. It sits too far back, revealing his receding hairline. Frank marches out the door. A blast of wind hits him and the hat flies back into the room.
“Blasted wind. These winters in Boston are trying to annoy me.”
The hat landed in his wastebasket. Picks it up, slaps off the ash.
“Hats are such a silly fashion trend. It’s like the people who make the clothes, strange people they must be, decided to tack on another piece of clothing I am required to buy. And I can never find one that fits right.”
Pulls his hat down to his eyebrows.
“I must be going. I have to finish this article or Michael will be furious. I missed the last two deadlines. He’ll have my neck.”

Frank slams his door shut. He keeps his eyes straight, as to not get distracted. His hat is grey from the ash and his jacket is quite wrinkled. None of his outfit matches. His pants are an off tone black, worn from too many washes. The shoes are a muddy brown with large scuffs at the toes. Frank hears from the side snickers from two girls. They have matching bonnets, billowing dresses and baby blue fitted jackets. Their father stares with judgmental, forked eyebrows. Frank looks at him and chuckles at their contrasting appearances. The father is dressed in a perfectly pressed and tailored suit with a silk handkerchief delicately folded in his jacket pocket. He has on a top hat, and Frank wonders how it stays on the man’s head in this wind.
“Never mind that, I really should be going.” Frank mutters to himself.

The father beckons his daughters hurry away. It’s a straight path to the store now. But Frank has gotten lost exploring the side streets many times. He steps down the cobblestone road, but only on the bricks that are slightly raised. To Frank, the flat bricks are a deathtrap. They may as well be polished glass. Without fail, at least once a week, Frank has fallen. He tiptoes down the path, ignoring the oddly proportioned dresses of the passing ladies, or the batch of frozen grass surviving in a side street, or the rippling cracks in the bakery’s walls, or the daisies in a second story window, or the clicking of his shoes, or the gradual movement of the clouds.

After much delay, Frank arrives at the store. His cheeks are red and feverish. He’s forgotten to shave again. Frank has shapely cheekbones, a proportionate face and strong jaw line. He’s only thirty or thirty-one or twenty-nine, but he looks much older due to the ever expanding dark circles under his bold green eyes. His hair is disastrous, and the cashier smirks when Frank takes off his hat.
“You stayed outside for too long again, didn’t you?” the cashier jokes.
“Seems so.”
“You’ll catch your death in this weather. Boston will freeze you to your bones if you aren’t careful.”
“Can I use your restroom? It’s quite urgent.”
“Of course, you know where it is.”
Frank walks through a door labeled “Employees Only” and stops. Sticks his head back out the door.
“Umm.”
“Frank, it’s the first door to your left.”
“Umm. Thank you.”
Frank jets down the hallway, and concludes his business as quickly as possible. Walks sheepishly back to the register.
“You made it back in record time,” the cashier remarks.
“I didn’t want to keep you waiting again.”
“So how may I help you? Did your typewriter break again?”
“It’s simpler to just write it down and have my assistant type it for me.”
“So, it did break.”
“Well, I was just about to complete a majestic article on the essential civil liberties required as a citizen and as a person, but it jammed when I reached my last paragraph. I started jabbing at the keys and the ink spurted out onto the page. There’s a hole in my wall now. I found I out I have more strength than I thought.”
“I see.” The cashier stifled a laugh during Frank’s story. He ceased to strain his jaw and belted out a guffaw. Frank lets loose deep, reverberating laughs. They both move to catch their breaths, and fail.