Trivial
Ali Cherry
He felt stupid, sitting at his desk staring at the words on his monitor. It was dumb to write a speech on volunteerism, about cookies, when Mrs. Landingham was dead, and there was a major fight ahead of the President. And they weren't even cookies that were good. Oh somewhere in his childhood they had tasted good, but now the stamp of progress had had a hand. They were prepackaged dry biscuits with the occasional coating of chocolate. They weren't Mrs. Landingham's Snicker Doodles or her Oatmeal Raisin.
He should be helping with something. He should be doing something other than sitting at his desk, looking at his screen, wondering if anyone would notice if he recycled the speech from two years ago because there were things he could do, that he should do. And this speech was so trivial.
Oliver Babbish was down in his office, and Sam should be with him, helping with the witness list, gathering information. Anything but sitting in his office. He could be, should be, helping with the address about the Haitian government. He could be collecting stats on smoking and the tobacco industry; he could be giving blood because then, maybe, the next car accident victim might have a chance.
He shouldn't be writing a speech to Girl Scouts, or Brownies or whatever else they called those girl groups that take children into the woods to hide them from the stark realities of life.
Mrs. Landingham was dead and the President was diagnosed with Relapsing Remitting Multiple Sclerosis. And Sam was writing a speech about cookies.
Life sucked.
When he was done here, he knew what he would do. Drive home, change clothes; he shouldn't have worn a suit today anyway. It wasn't like anyone cared that he wore a black suit today. Josh had shown up in his brown casual pants, his Saturday outfit, and Sam had chosen a black suit and tie, out of respect. So he was going to change, because who lounges in suits on a Saturday, but maybe not, 'cause why bother changing clothes? It wasn't going to change his mood.
But he might.
Then he'd turn on the television and channel hop until deciding the only thing worth watching was the news, 'cause the comedies were stupid and pointless and the dramas just weren't as dramatic or as heart-wrenching as real life. But the news was depressing because it offered no hope, and the number of polls that news organizations had was staggering and they all said the same thing; the President wasn't winning any battles.
So Sam would flip through his CD's and settle on an eighties band, whose dark thunderous opening would suit his mood exactly. The edgy guitar would pull at his heartstrings, but he'd have to turn it off halfway through the song because he couldn't fight. Because the fight wasn't there with him, it was somewhere he wasn't. And he couldn't help because no one wanted him.
Oliver Babbish didn't want him tainting the case, Toby swore he needed Sam to handle the little things so that he could work with Leo and Josh on the Big Picture. And Josh didn't have time for anyone other than Leo, Toby and Donna.
Red Cross didn't want him either. They wouldn't take his blood. He was slightly anemic. They had given him a diet list and sent him home. They told him to come back in two weeks. He was searching for a way to help and there was no way.
Maybe he would stop at the store on the way home and buy some cookies. Not Girl Scout cookies because they weren't selling those right now, but maybe some deli made ones, that promised the same home goodness that he found with Mrs. Landingham's cookies and maybe while he was out, he'd slip a hundred dollar bill into the United Way bucket, just to know he had done something. Anything other than writing this speech on volunteerism, while his television blasted a cartoon melody.
Sam looked over to the TV, set to the Cartoon network because Bonnie had brought her son into work today and she didn't want him to watch the news. And Sam wondered how kids could watch these old cartoons because they were all the same. Wiley Coyote tried to kill Roadrunner and Roadrunner just kept right on running. It never changed. It was the same every time; and every time he could hear the peel of laughter from Bonnie's son.
“Sam,” Toby called as he walked into the office.
Sam wondered if maybe Toby ever felt that life was this trivial, this tedious. He wondered why humans even bothered to put one foot in front of another when they knew a few steps down the road they were going to be hit again. He wondered why they bothered to laugh, when the world was filled with such horror and pain, when each day was a little more disappointment.
“Are you done?” Toby asked, already knowing the answer to his question from Sam's stare at the television where Scooby and the gang were running from yet another wanna-be ghost trying to hide a treasure.
“I'm getting there,” Sam replied slowly. He couldn't take his eyes off Shaggy. On a good day he occasionally did an impression of Shaggy. It was CJ's Jackal and Sam's Shaggy. They were the fun on the campaign trail.
Sam looked over to see Toby rubbing his head with his finger. “Sam,” he sighed, his face scrunched up as he thought about what to say to his deputy. “Do I have to tell you how important it is that the President connect with the people?”
“This is stupid, Toby. It's trivial and it's not going to make a dent in the polls. It's trivial. It shouldn't even be on my desk.” It was the closest that Sam had come to feeling anything other than apathy in a week.
Toby sighed again and closed the door behind him as he stepped further into the room. “This is important, Sam. This is about saving the President from being a fool by announcing that he's going to win the next election.” Toby stopped and looked Sam directly in the eye. “It is important, Sam.”
Sam looked away. “Yeah.”
“It isn't trivial.”
“Yeah.”
“Another step in life when you want to stop and grieve isn't trivial. It isn't stupid.”
“Yeah.”
“It's another step. It's closer to living than dying. It isn't something that makes sense, it's just the way life moves.”
“Yeah.” Sam stared back at the cartoon on his TV. “Toby? Do you ever wonder why. . . ?”
“What?”
“Do you ever wonder why the Scooby Gang always seemed to run? I mean they were five to one, and they always ran.”
Toby looked over at the television. “'Cause they were stupid, Sam. How am I supposed to know? Because if they didn't run they wouldn't have a mystery to solve, and there wouldn't be a stupid cartoon with a stupid dog that talks. Turn that crap off and finish that speech. Josh and I are going out to get something to eat and you're going with us.”
“Okay.”
“The next step, Sam. It's just the way it is.”
HOME | TITLE |
AUTHOR | CATEGORY