Life in my cube - Short Story

Literary Review, Summer, 2002 by Bino A. Realuyo

III. The Mini-signing

At my cubicle, I sign copies of my books with my green-ink pen. Surprisingly, people come to my desk with copies of my book at hand, expecting me to sign them, and sometimes, expecting a conversation. To begin, I give out little friendly postcards so that my friendly buyers can give them to their literature-friendly friends. I didn't plan on doing this. It's just that everywhere I go in my organization, someone asks me about my second novel. While what I really wanted to say is: Do you think I can really find time to write a second novel when I spend most of my precious time working here? (wink.) What comes out of my mouth is: Did you buy my first? And when I get a blank stare, I walk away. For my patrons, however, I write special dedications on the first title page of the book. I don't expect anyone to read my work, although when someone comes back to tell me he has read the book, I am almost always completely surprised, or at least, pretend to be, and am embarrassed to express my desire to know more. I get worried that my co-workers around me may be getting tired of listening to people talking about my first novel. But I don't bother to ask them if they are. Sometimes I summarily end the discussion with "tell your friends about it," only to end another day of book discussion. More and more people at work find out that I am an artist who has to work full time. They no longer wonder if I have made my first million because I have published a book. Instead, the reality of the life of a writer has become clearer to them because there is not a moment I don't share my angst when I lose a grant or a fellowship. Sometimes I wonder which one is my second life--my writing or this job. This is certainly not just another day job. I love being here. I look forward to coming here. In fact, it is harder for me to end this week and transition to my solitary writerly life on weekends, when I have absolutely no one to talk to but images in my brain. Writing full-time is a permanent fantasy, unreachable at best. Until then, I will make my green-ink pen available for signing.

V. 9 to 5

Yes, I do work. I have been at the same job for about seven years now. My mother especially approves of my keeping this job. She worries about my dreams to write full-time, afraid I might become a lunatic, being alone and thinking all the time. Worse, a lunatic without health insurance. But there are many reasons why I continue to work. Most important, beyond the regular paycheck reason, is that because I don't want to miss out on the world. The everyday has become a routine--I get up early at 6 a. m., make my breakfast, check my e-mail, chat online a bit, tune in to New York 1 for the weather, shower, prepare my lunch, get dressed, then head to the 59th street subway station for the N train--but the streets of New York are never the same at any time. The subways always present new opportunities for creativity and inspiration. There are people, people, people, millions of them spread on one small island. At work, I am surrounded by people from whose lives I learn. Their stories are ever changing, with perfectly arched plots, never a boring ending, always multilayered characters. Life as a writer as an office worker is food for the imagination. So my cubicle, as seemingly a lifeless symbol, is a parking lot of ideas. Many of my thoughts are created here. From here, I see a world bigger than I can ever write about. A few feet away, I see a window, and outside it, a whole city. Ah, this great city of mine! As Walt Whitman once said, "Who does not know that our city is the great place of the Western continent, the heat, the brain, the focus, the main spring, the normal and beyond of the new world."