The Epic Saga Of Harold K Bowers

Harold Bowers trudged his way up what were once a carpeted set of stairs. The dull fuzzy rubber always reminded him of his bald head. He’d often wondered if the same thing happened to him. Too many people walking on his head---or at least yelling inside if. Always telling him what to do. The smell of his Mexican neighbor’s cooking invaded his nose. He felt like their presence was constantly invading his life. The smells, the noises and worst of all, those dirty shoes outside of the door, especially the mud-caked work boots. Harold hated feet. He constantly fantasized about opening their door and screaming at the entire family. He’d slap the dad around good, too. Just for good measure.

The door creaked open, kicking one of the boots toward Harold. A lightning bolt of panic stabbed Harold right in his gut. Someone had finally read his mind and now he was going to pay. Mrs, Ramirez, a woman as sweet as she was short and fat, popped through the door holding a steaming pot of soup.

“Hola Harold.”

Harold composed himself enough to reply, “Hello”, saying it slowly as if to emphasize the fact he was was making the conscious decision to speak english instead of spanish. “Hello, Ma’am.

After several arduous flights Harold reached his floor. He pulled the humid hallway air in through his nostrils and let out a deep sigh. Part of this was due to being a bit winded, while most of it stemmed from his usual post work depression. Harold was, what his old classmates liked to call, a skinny fat man. He had what should have been a thin man’s frame, yet it was plagued with an apparent lack of care and maintenance. It presented itself in a double chin and a small pot-belly. His pre-balding hair, patchy facial hair, and crooked teeth were just icing on the cake. At his best Harold was perfectly capable of being “not bad” looking, yet he had given up and just settled for bad. He looked like the grinch.

He somehow managed to slide his key into the lock without moving his shoulders from their usual rounded position of defeat. Harold pushed the door open, transporting himself out of the world and into his depressing statement of failure by mediocrity. The sight of his dwelling sent waves crashing through his head, breaking the dam which was tirelessly fighting back the ocean of “bad chemicals” that the brain produced to make a person feel lousy. Harold thought to himself, “ I live in an average apartment and I feel sad and anxious because my brain is producing the wrong chemicals. If I had a nicer apartment my brain would produce the right stuff and I’d be happy.” Although he knew he’d never have nice stuff, Harold knew he’d be happy tomorrow.

He slung the strap of his briefcase over his shoulder and sank down into his neutral colored couch. He popped his ottoman open and pulled out two uzi pistols, raising them into the air. He loved how the metal was always so cold. So shiny. He pointed them at his distorted reflection in the TV. He was confident he’d be on it tomorrow. Not his reflection, either. He was going to be sucked into the cameras and shot out across America. Many would hate him, and still few would admire him. He picked up his briefcase and gazed at his photo ID badge. Harold K. Bowers, Data Entry Specialist. His picture screamed pathetic. Tomorrow he’d enter some data, alright. Only it’d be the hot and metal kind. Death data, telling people to wake the fuck up or die. He was still unsure as to whether he’d kill himself after, or go on the lamb. Harold picked the remote off of the coffee table and turned on the television.

TV was good to Harold. It took his mind off things...

Harold immediately switched the channel off of the news to surf through the different stations. He stopped and watched a commercial for a candy bar. The chocolate flew out of big metal tubes and flowed over a cookie and caramel center. Harold got up from the couch and got himself a soda. When he came back he was pleased to see that “Pawn Masters” was on. He watched a fat black woman walk up to the counter holding an old stereo. She was mirrored by a greasy looking man on the other side of the counter. He maintained the physique of an intravenous heroin user, but wore enough gold to compensate for his physical disappointments. She wanted forty dollars for her stereo, but he would only pay fifteen. Harold was getting excited now that conflict seemed imminent.