In Seattle, we observe a man by the name of Josh Jenkins. He moved to Seattle when he was three with his mother and younger sister. Since then, his mother and sister have moved on, but he remained.

He goes through life on a day-to-day monotonous basis; however, this day will introduce our friend, Mr. Jenkins, to the first change he has seen in quite awhile.

He wakes up at 6:07 A.M., takes a shower for exactly eight minutes, brushes his teeth and hair, and puts on the same bland black suit as the day before. Sitting in a chair, Jenkins puts on his socks and black, spit-shined loafers. He puts on the left sock, then the right. Then he puts on the right loafer, and then the left. By 6:25, Jenkins exits his one-bedroom apartment and takes the second elevator of his apartment building (never the first) down the six floors to the lobby. The concierge greets him with the usual, “Morning, Mr. Jenkins.” Jenkins gives a short, “Morning,” in reply and continues his way to his car.

At the driver’s side door, he pauses and looks up. Maybe, just maybe, he will see what he looks forward to every year. Jenkins heaves a sigh of defeat, and slides behind the wheel of his black ‘95 Honda Accord. He drives the ten and two-fifths of a mile to his office and parks in the third parking spot in front of the building. There is no assigned parking, but he never fails to get that third parking spot. He turns the car off and tells himself, “One more day. Just one more day.” This thought makes him smile- just a fragment, though. He opens the door, slides out the same way he slid in, and slams the door shut. He pushes the button on the remote that dangles from his keychain to lock the door and set the alarm. Satisfied that no petty thief would be able to swipe his car, he walks to the door of his office building. At the keypad, he enters his code (10-56) and proceeds to his office on the eighth floor of the building.
He takes the second elevator, and when he steps off, the silent tapping of keys on a computer keyboard and the smell of Windex greets him. Nobody looks up; nobody says anything. Everyone is absorbed in his or her own affiliations. Jenkins sighs. He wishes that just once his co-workers would say something. Do something. Try to make the slightest interaction with him. Just one more day, he reminds himself again. He does that slight smile again and walks to his office.

Sitting behind his desk, he stares out the window, mesmerized. It is overcast. Every day of the year so far has had this gloomy, cloudy weather. He looks to his desk and picks up one of the few pictures on it. The picture his niece drew for him.

He smiles at it and says, “If only.”

Jenkins replaces the picture on his desk. The phone rings and he picks it up.

Before he can say hello, a little girl’s voice cheerfully asks, “Uncle Josh?”

“Katie,” he replies thoughtfully.

“Hi, Uncle Josh! Did you get my picture? I drew it when we first got to Florida! Do you like it?” Katie asks. (It seemed as though she did not breathe between sentences at all.)

Jenkins looks at the picture of the beach with the sun high above that Katie had drawn for him. On the back it read, “To: Unkle Josh, Luv: Katie” in sloppy handwriting only a child could have written. He smiles to himself and responds,
“Yes, Katie, I got the picture. I love it. Thank you.”

“Yeah, my mommy said you would like it. When are you coming out here to visit? Do you like butterflies? I caught three, yesterday. Three!” Katie babbles to him. She is only four, so her spontaneous topics are to be expected.

“Soon,” he replies, and then adds, “Sweetie, I have to go. I’m really very busy at work.”

“Okay. Bye, Uncle Josh!”

“Bye, Katie.”

He hangs up the phone and continues looking out the window. He really is not busy at all. He has only one in-voice and he figures he will do it later. Right now, he needs to study the sky. He needs to search for any hint of that bright joy. There is none, and he knows it, but it could not hurt to look.

At 1:25, he decides to take a lunch break. Walking out to his car, he spots a red convertible with a California license plate. Oh, how he envies that person. California! Can you imagine? He heaves another sigh and gets into his pathetic black Accord with Washington plates.

Without even thinking, Jenkins drives to Quincy Street, a little restaurant that he has gone to for lunch every day at 1:30 for the past ten years. He slides out of his parked car and walks into the restaurant, forgetting to lock and set the alarm on his car. (He always forgot to do that when he went to lunch.) He walks into the restaurant, and the same host for the past year greets him. Although Jenkins is a face that never changes in that restaurant, he has seen plenty of new waiters and hosts. Some have only lasted a day, but by his recollection, he knows why they were gone so soon; but with some, he wonders how they were there for so long?

He orders his usual- iced tea with a lemon wedge, and a chicken ceaser salad with light ceaser dressing- while sitting at his usual table. He is able to wish all he wants by staring out the window adjacent to the table he occupies. Jenkins eats his lunch in solitude. After he has finished his last sip of iced tea, he pays the check and leaves a twenty-dollar tip. It’s not as if I need the money, anymore, he thinks.

Back at the office, he completes his one in-voice and spends the rest of the afternoon staring out the window of his office. Staring at the blue-grey swirl of a sky- still missing that bright joy.

At 4:45, he straightens up his office (which does not take much effort) and goes down to his car. Work is over for most people, today. For Josh Jenkins, it is over forever.

His drive home is the same as always. Three red lights, one green, and home. He parks his car and sullenly walks into the apartment building. He gets on the second elevator (never the first) and goes up the six floors to his apartment.

At his door, Jenkins fumbles with his keys shortly and finally slides the correct one into the lock. He opens the door, closes it back up, securing the lock, and makes his way to his bedroom. Half-way there he pauses and turns back to the living room. He sits down on the couch slowly- you don’t want to break any springs- and picks up his remote. He turns on the TV, flipping through channels while he loosens his tie. He lands on the Weather Channel and sets the remote down on the cushion beside him. Maybe the weather will be different tomorrow. Maybe I’ll have a pur-

He never gets to finish his thought, though, for the weather for Seattle, Washington came on.

“And tomorrow, the weather in Seattle will be sixty-five degrees. Cloudy, with the possibility of rain,” the glowing box chants to him.

That’s it, then. It’s over. Goodbye, Seattle. Goodbye, World, Jenkins thinks.

He walks to his bathroom and grabs the box of Dulcolax he has in the medicine cabinet just for this occasion. He opens the box and punches out five of those little reddish pills. After dropping each pill into his mouth, he turns on his sink and grabs a Dixie paper cup, filling it with water. He brings the cup to his lips and swallows it all. He fills the tiny cup three more times, drinking every ounce. Gasping for breath after his fourth cup, he turns off the faucet, abruptly stopping the flow of water. He drops his pants and sits on the toilet, waiting.

Half an hour later, he makes his way across his bedroom. He approaches his bed and rummages underneath until he finally grasps what he is looking for. He slowly pulls it out, careful not to set it off. A 9mm Glock. His suicide weapon-of-choice.

Jenkins sits down at the foot of his bed, staring at the reflection of himself in his TV. He lets out one final sigh. He slides the barrel of the gun into his mouth, cocking it to the left, making sure it will go through his head, his brain, and out his temple. Making every detail so precise so he knows he will die instantly. He will finally be free of this sun-less excuse of a city. Away from the monotony of his so-called life. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. This is it. No more days, he thinks to himself. He pulls the trigger.