The Clock and the Pink Cubicle

There was nothing special about the clock that hung up high on the cinderblock wall. The second hand clicked loudly and echoed through the small room. Click, click, click, click. For every miserable second that passed, it sounded like two; but the minute hand never appeared to move.

The room smelled of old smoke. The cinderblocks may have been painted white a long time ago, but now they were stained and had a thick yellow coating. In some areas, there were fat trails of yellowish-brown tar that gravity pulled downward - most likely; it was from the poor ventilation and the high humidity in the room.

There were no windows, pictures, or posters on the walls and no bathroom. But the back wall housed a single off-white metal door that did not have a handle, just a flat metal plate where a handle should be. The floor made of concrete sloped inward towards the center of the room, where there was a four-inch round brass drain cover; it was weathered and tarnished a mint green. The ceiling tiles appeared to be in the worst condition - every single one had rusty colored water stains - they sagged and bowed towards the middle and looked as if they could cave in at any moment. The ballasts to the fluorescent lights buzzed a constant but almost soothing hum - I’m almost sure that the sound of them would eventually get on my nerves.

Perhaps the single worst feature of the room was the desk and cubical carefully painted in pink enamel that butted up against one of the walls. Not a hot pink, no, it was nothing nice to look at; it was the color of a muted Pepto Bismal pink. And I had to endure this miserable room for another eight hours and fifteen minutes… Or not, it could be longer; it could be less. But, of course, I had no way to be sure of the correct time - that damned minute hand never moved, and I wasn’t so sure that the hour hand did either - but that fucking second hand sure did!

Specific rules, or more like laws, needed to be followed while in the room. The first one was no personal belongings were allowed in the room. The second law was no talking, singing, humming, whistling, tapping feet, or finger strumming. Of course, I had to be aware of the finger strumming at all times; I had a bad habit of doing that. The third rule was no sleeping or resting head and arms on the table. That rule just plain sucked! The fourth rule was to be writing at all times. And the fifth and final rule was to stay seated until your writing, completed on both sides of the paper, was filled out. Then and only then could you stand up and stretch your legs and arms - but for only as long as it took to take the four steps to the metal door. Once to the door, you had to knock twice and then slide your completed paper and pencil under the door. A few click, click - clicks of the clock later, a new sheet of paper and a sharpened pencil would pass back through the gap under the door, and you took the four steps back to the pink desk to repeat the process for another eight hours - or whatever - fuck that clock! Also, being that you can’t leave the room meant no bathroom breaks. Maybe that’s what the sloped floor with the drain in the center was for - I’d HATE to have to take a number two.

I was on my third piece of paper by the time my eyes started bugging out on me. I rubbed at my eyes and blinked them repeatedly. Nothing seemed to help. Moments would go by with me just staring straight ahead - retina absorbing the awful pink wall of the cubical - what was it doing to my brain?

Finally, I shook my head in disgust and went back to work on my paper. I concentrated as best as I could, trying to block out the pinkish dots that danced across the white sheet, but it was impossible to do. I simply had to hunker down and write as fast as possible, ensuring that I had no less than two hundred and fifty-two words per side. And so that’s what I did. Click, click, click, click, click, click - I used the clock as my pedometer as I wrote, being careful to write legibly, no cursive, no misspelled words, and correct punctuation.

Twenty-five, twenty-six, twenty-seven - I was a mad man - each sheet of paper that passed under the door, both sides two hundred and fifty-two words, no less. My writing, crisp and clear, not so much as a smudged comma. Twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty - Click, click, click, click, click, click - This was becoming all too easy.

Every once in a while, my writing would slow, and I’d find my mind wandering - but I would jolt back to reality as I do at times when trying to fall asleep in bed. Thirty-four, thirty-five - my hand began cramping up now - probably by pressing too hard with the pencil to paper. Thirty-eight, Thirty-nine, Forty. Page Forty-one - and this is where my hand began to cramp so bad that even stretching my fingers and popping the knuckles no longer alleviated the cramps.

I looked at the clock on the wall - the first time I had done so since I finished page Twenty-seven - It still read 8:05 - and yes, the hour hand hadn’t moved since I entered the room. But now it appeared as if the second hand got stuck on the minute hand - Click, click, click, click - Why did there have to be a clock in the room in the first place?

I grunted as quietly as I could, turning to face my pink foe. Click, click, click, click. My writing is out of sync with the built-in pedometer. And the struggle it was to finish page Forty-one was the newest torture. Even the white paper began to take on a pinkish tone. I needed a break - one that I knew would not come - but I somehow managed to get through this page. Slowly I stood - the wheels of my chair chirping like a small bird as it rolled back - my knees popped as I straightened, as did my shoulders and elbows. It felt good to walk those four short steps to the door.

I knocked twice and slid my paper and pencil under the door. I waited. Click, click, click, click - nothing - Click, click, click, click. That’s odd. I was about to press my ear against the door when this time, two sheets of paper and a pencil slid through the opening. I bent down to pick them up. On top of one of the blank sheets was a sticky note - pink no less - It read: Page Forty-one does not count, not legible. Redo page Forty-one. Thirty minutes has now been added to your sentence! Do not return until both pages are correctly filled.

I was so angry with myself. I was doing so well - how could I possibly make it through this day - I could not afford to make any more mistakes - each additional mistake would now be double the penalty time.

My feet barely lifted from the floor as I made my way back to the desk. I sat down hard and almost broke my pencil in the process - I couldn’t even begin to process what the penalty would be for doing such - to break government property, even if by accident?

I went back to work, writing as slowly and as carefully as I could. Each sentence I completed, I would read twice over - making sure there were no smudges and that I capitalized where needed, and that I adequately placed all punctuation. I must have read page Forty-one three times over. Page Forty-two I was just as careful; a good thing too, because I was one sentence short - I had to write small to fit the last sentence in, but as long as it was of proper sentence structure and was legible - that’s all I cared about at this point.

I’m not entirely sure how I managed to make it through page Sixty-two without completely losing my mind, but I did. My right hand was so knotted up at this point; it looked like it had aged twenty some odd years - with a bad case of rheumatoid arthritis.

I don’t recall when it stopped, but it was by the middle of page Seventy that I realized the second had quit clicking. All I could hear now was the constant hum coming from the lights. Call me crazy - and maybe at this point I was - but I somewhat missed the click of the clock; I felt lonely without it. At this point, I began to cry - not a loud sob, but rather silent mourning. My nose began to run, so I used my shirt to wipe it dry, as I did with my eyes - I had to be careful not to get tears on page Seventy.

Slowly but painfully, I completed the following three pages - wiping away tears and snot as I did. Then, for a moment, I was lost, staring straight ahead into the pink void before me; until a quick flicker from the fluorescent light brought me back. I hurried back to writing my sentences and finished page Seventy-three. My bladder felt on the verge of bursting, and making the short walk to the door hurt - I made the dance most children do when they have to go while I waited for my new paper. Then, carefully I bent down to pick up pencil and paper and rushed back to my pink hell. The dam was about to burst. I unzipped my pants while sitting down. Once I was firmly seated, I relieved myself onto the floor - being careful not to moan with pleasure as I did.

Page Seventy-four started the same as the Seventy-three before it: I, Brandon Thomas Dowell, solemnly swear to the people and the state of Georgia that I will not litter again.

There was a loud knock at the door. I heard the lock turning, and as the door to the room opened, the hinges groaned. In stepped a female corrections officer, her dirty blonde hair pulled back so tight that it stretched the skin of her face. She attached the keyring she held to a loop on her belt. Then, with a throaty voice, she said, “Prisoner, 987134, your sentence has been served. Pencil down, let’s go.”

I dropped the pencil but didn’t move. Instead, I simply stared at the pink wall of the cubicle and cried - real sobs, like those of a child.

The correctional officer took a menacing step towards me and slammed her fist against the door. “Don’t make me ask you twice!”

I stood from my chair and rubbed the tears from my eyes with the palms of my hands. Then, I took two steps and stopped. I looked at the clock on the wall, and the second had was moving again. But I noticed something else - the clock read 6:45

The End