Story-A-Day #70: The Report

THE REPORT

I froze. Literally first, as the cold morning air filled my lungs and crackled my flesh, and figuratively second as it dawned on me that my report was sitting on the dining room table. I turned and my eyes followed my footprints back across the driveway and up the stairs to the entrance to my house.

The grating roar of a snowplow came to me from the busy thoroughfare that crossed the end of my somewhat quieter street. In my mind, I could see the report clearly, a pristine piece of work that I had slaved over until nearly four o’clock in the morning. It was twenty-three pages of perfectly crafted language in a 12pt. Times New Roman font. It represented my future, a masterpiece; and it was sitting on the table, next to a bowl of shiny Granny Smith apples.

It was not supposed to be there. It was supposed to be in the shoulder bag that was now crinkling my winter coat and rubbing against my tender, ice-cold hip. Still frozen in position at the end of the driveway, my eyes followed my footprints back to the door I had exited seconds ago and pictured the report sitting there on the table, right where I had intentionally left it the night before so I would not forget it. It had seemed like a wise plan, although hindsight had proven it flawed in execution.

I was still groggy from a night of big thinking and too little sleep, so I guess I wasn’t quite right when I stepped out into the cold, January morning. A better plan would have been to place the report in my bag last night, instead of leaving it on the table. My bag was something I never left behind; it was an instinctive extension of whom I was when I left for work each morning.

Begrudgingly, I made my way back up the driveway and to the door. I pulled off my mittens and reached into the left pocket of my jacket, the one where I always placed my house keys. I fumbled around the throat lozenges and couple packs of gum and realized that there was no hiding place for my keys in that soft, cottony enclosure.

I frowned, an awkward gesture for my already frozen visage, and retraced my steps once again. Had the keys fallen out of my pocket as I left the house? It was a possibility.

I scanned the ground for a telltale hint of silver and bronze. No keys.

Unbidden, the report flashed back into my mind. My masterpiece, forgotten on the table; wantonly abandoned after the night of brilliant mental bonding we had shared. It was sitting there, begging me for acknowledgment, and I realized now, that it was not alone. I quickly jogged up the stairs and peered through the small window in the thick wooden inner door.

The report was still on the table, next to the bowl of shiny apples – exactly where I had placed it with loving good intent. Next to it, I could see my keys, splayed out like a reckless drunk after a long night of drinking.

This was not a good start to my day.