Sam

Sam was tired. Sam was bored.
He got home from work and set his suitcase on the floor. It was an old case, and he knew that the other sales reps looked down upon him for having such a beat up old case. He'd patched a hole in it with black electrical tape. He sat down in front of his computer and stared at it for a little while. A picture of a sunset, somewhere tropical, was frozen on the screen. He lit a cigarette.
He'd spent most of that day learning to compile spreadsheets with Excel to conform to the companies database records, typing numbers and staring at grids for hours; it was numbing, and his fingers felt like dull pencils.
"Fuck," he mumbled. He looked down at his suitcase, next to the computer, fallen over onto it's side where he'd set it. The tape over the hole was peeling up at the edges, little gummy bits of stickiness holding onto bits of dirt. It looked grimy.
He turned off the computer monitor and got up, leaving his small apartment to walk to the corner store. Bought a bottle of vodka from the mustachioed man behind the counter.
Went back to his apartment and poured a shot. Drank it and felt it burn down to his stomach. Spreadsheets, sales figures, client names, profit margins.
He poured another shot right after the first and drank that one too.
Neckties, starched shirts, ironed pants, patched up holes.
He drank two more shots and laid down on his old couch. He closed his eyes and watched the redness behind his eyelids fade and dull to a darker color as the sun slowly set beyond his window, beyond his darkened computer screen. The alcohol settled into his stomach and along his spine and into his brain, cuddling up with an unsettled crunch of tension coming closer to view. Things left undone.
He opened his eyes, turned his head and looked out the window. Darkness outside. Street lights on, shining and bouncing light in. He sat up, got up, took off his tie and dropped it on the floor.
He left his apartment again. He walked back to the corner and turned and followed that street up to the next one, a wider one.
Cars raced past, making the green light. He walked down that street, stopping on the sidewalk, halfway between the stoplights at either end of the block.
He watched the headlights coming from both directions for a time, the closer ones zooming by from left to right, and the cars flying past on the far side from right to left, the vodka warming his limbs, his fingers; thinking of dull pencils.
He picked a lone pair of lights coming fast from the far right, bracing himself and tensing his legs. He waited for it to get to the green light and come through the intersection. Breathing deep and fast, he waited for it to come towards where he stood, nearer, nearer, and when he wasn't quite sure about it anymore, he lunged forward, running across the street.
The car came at him as a bright leviathan of swiftness. He ran as hard and as fast as he could strain himself to do, directly into it's path. The car's brakes screeched as it tried to stop and the lights swerved erratically. He felt the heat of it as it came on him and jumped forward; felt it's mass moving under and behind him, just missing.
He landed on the sidewalk and kept running, his blood flushing his face, and his lungs bellowing. The screech of brakes ended in a metal crunching crash and thump. He ran into an alley and kept going to the next block over. He slowed down, and noticed a bar. Went inside, sat at the bar and ordered a shot of vodka. The bartender looked at him strangely, but didn't say anything. Sam's hands were shaking and he was red and sweating. He paid for the shot with cash, drank it, and left the bar. Outside he hailed a cab. Sirens wailed in the distance, coming closer, as he got into the car.
Sam told the cabbie to take him downtown. He'd find a bar down there, further away. He thought that he'd probably call into work the next day.