Short Story #1

This is not a story of romance. This is not a story of spiritual things. Yes, all things fundamentally come down to spirituality, but this story is not about that. This is a story of truncation, a story of precision.
He sat in his chair, his back straight, perfect posture. An article he had read in Men’s Health stressed the importance of a strong core. It was thirteen past the hour and he had been working diligently at his desk since eight. Vincent’s light brown hair sat upon his head combed to the side. His black-rimmed glasses hung across his long, slender face. Today he wore a blue tie with his white, starched shirt. His mother had given him the tie for Christmas. It had been on sale at Macy’s and she had a coupon. It was a bargain to say the least.
Vincent double-checked his work. No remainder. Everything tied out perfectly. The statement was complete and now he could justify getting his second cup of coffee. It would be his last of the day, because he did not want to chance having too much caffeine. As Vincent stood up from his desk he looked out the window at the St. Louis skyline. He was not sure what to think of the falling snow. It certainly was not beautiful. Snow meant traffic jams, tardiness and disorganization. Vincent hated snow.
It was twenty-seven past the hour when Vincent returned to his desk. He filtered through the emails on his computer, looking for the next task to tackle. Over his shoulder hung an accounting degree from the University of Wisconsin. Carefully hung around the diploma were family pictures. 1998 in Mexico with his brother, 2004 in Maine with his mother and father, and a family portrait from last year’s Christmas. The glass in each of the frames was shinny and streak free.
Vincent continued to work throughout the afternoon and stood to grab his jacket at exactly six. The daylight had already slipped beneath the horizon and darkness remained as the only thing outside his window.
As he gathered his keys, wallet and jacket his thoughts went to the chicken breast marinating in his refrigerator at home. He’d need to check how long it should cook to guard against the possibility of salmonella. Vincent shut his computer down, turned off the light in his office and headed to the exit.
As he let his car’s engine warm, he turned on the radio. The first station was not playing a song to his liking so he continued to toggle between the preprogrammed stations. Content with an evening NPR program, he put his car into drive and headed towards the highway.
Forty-five minutes. The drive normally took twenty-five. He parked his car in his assigned spot and headed to the apartment mailboxes. A credit card statement, a letter from his brother in Europe, and a penny-saver ad laid in his box. He took the penny-saver and discarded it in a waste bin. Vincent disdained junk mail.
Vincent opened his apartment door and hung his winter jacket in the closet. Carefully he folded his scarf and placed it on the end table next to the door. His apartment smelled of air freshener and Pine-Sol. Vincent prized himself on the cleanliness of his apartment. It was sterile and organized.
Records. Records were a terrible inconvenience. What was his sister thinking when she dropped off a box of them last week? Vincent had no desire for clutter, especially clutter that was obsolete. He would make a point to drop them off at Goodwill on Saturday. Perhaps some poor soul would find them useful or get some utility from them. For Vincent it meant a tax write-off.
Vincent pulled the chicken out of the oven and placed it on a white plate from the cupboard. As he sat down at his kitchen table his mind returned to the records. It made him itch. CDs and MP3s were clean and digital. Records were analog. He ate a few bites of his chicken and decided he was no longer hungry. Who would collect records? Why would anyone collect anything for that matter? Collecting was an inefficiency. Unless one is collecting things with an expectation of them having value at a later date, it did not make sense. Vincent took his leftovers and placed them in a Ziploc baggy.
After writing a check for his credit card bill, Vincent put on a sweater and grabbed the box of records. He walked out to the apartment trash compactor and dropped the albums in. The tax write-off would have been minimal he told himself as he walked back to his apartment.