Pastey Soled Lola (four)

It was difficult for Lola to drag herself to work in the morning and she knew she wasn't alone, but she felt her reasoning to be unique. It wasn't that she hated work enough to just stop showing up. She saw the value of work in that it enabled her to pursue her true passions, monetarily. She enjoyed her bed, and she enjoyed her tea, she enjoyed the quiet time to simply reflect. Lola had noticed a big change in herself since embarking on the nine to five grind. Her reflection time before was much slower, much more methodical and structured, the pieces were laid out in her head and they were easy to follow. Now it seemed all of her reflection time was substituted with deflective tactics, attempting to keep the monotony monster out of her brain. The morning was the only time when the insides of her head didn't buzz. She could breath deeply, stare softly at the wrinkled sheets on her bed and just think thoughts one by one, with no reason to rush them along. It was always the mornings when her brain felt content that it became the hardest for her to get to work. She'd wake, after a long night of collaging and conversations with Albert, to feel completely relaxed. Exhausted of her desires to seek dimension, she'd be at peace. It was in this time, Lola's personal time, that her pastey soles began to stick. She'd roll out of bed and the sheets would come with her. She'd laugh and sit down and gently pull them from the bottom of her feet. She'd stand up and head for the kitchen. Step, stick, peel... Step, stick, peel... Step, stick, peel. Lola's pastey soles wanted to remain attached to their comfort dimension. The apartment had that warm summer morning feel to it, warm enough to entice you out of bed, but just cool enough to let you stay for a little longer. She'd have a seat in her favorite chair, the one that sat parallel to her favorite window and across from her favorite wall and sip her favorite tea, cranberry mint, as she smiled at the last memories of her dreams.  She'd close her eyes, only to remember details, and see stop motion movies flickering in shades of grey and pale yellow. The worlds she created at the edge of sleep would come to life in her dreams, peeling themselves off of their poster-board birthplaces and growing into layered masses of gloss paper. She'd watch as the Calvin Klein model with zebra legs would prance over to Aunt Jemima who'd be enjoying a stack of pancakes on the moon while watching a cat walk by wearing 4 different shoes singing "Seems I'm not along at being alone" over and over again. It was a happy place whose inhabitants were simple. They were upfront and honest, and never turned their back on others, but this wasn't because they didn't have backs, it was because they were genuine, they only lived off of two dimensions, their poster board home of needs, and their sticky foot travels of emotion. Lola smiled at the world and headed out the door.

Lola walked the same route to work every day, and everyday she'd get stuck in the same places. It wasn't that hard at first. Lola loved the fresh air and how the sun would warm her even on cold days, she also like trees and looking for rollie pollies in the cracks of the sidewalk. Her footsteps would be smooth, fluid and deliberate, she walked with enjoyment. However, within two blocks she'd begin to slow. She'd feel the paste softening up and sticking a little more with each step. By the time she'd reach Arnoldi's Bakery, one foot would be firmly gripped to the cement. She'd bend down and pretend to tie her shoe, but really she was prying, like she pried the sheets off her feet each morning. Over the course of a year, people began to notice Lola's dilemma and some began to help her. Mr. Arnoldi himself would greet Lola each morning with a chocolate chip muffin on the sidewalk. This warmed Lola's heart and kept her sticky soles subdued. With every effort someone else made to help Lola get to work, the journey became easier. Whether it was Peter the architect who'd stop to chisel away the dried paste and suggest alternative angles of foot placement to minimize surface contact, or Yvette the knitter who'd knit fuzzy wool lily pads and hold Lola's hand while she jumped from one to the other, Lola began to feel a connection with others that she thought was only possible once abandoning the third dimension. Lola began to question her father's belief that humanity replaced the third dimension and instead wondering if the third dimension was a necessary layer in the human collage. Lola continued to get stuck, because that was just her way, but she knew she could count on, and she started to believe that, the connection with other people was necessary in order to find freedom. It was so contrary to Sam's superstitions of deflation, but she couldn't help feeling as if expansion was the key.

Once in the office things were different. People didn't talk, they either worked or stared deep into their monitors, lost in the oblivion of internetdom. Lola felt timid here, even after a year of sitting in the same spot, amongst the same people, Lola still felt uneasy. She'd turn her chair quietly, cringing at the squeak it would make, afraid someone would complain. She'd hold in her sighs, only releasing them through her nose and sneeze into the fold of her arm to muffle the rumble. Lola went as far as waiting until everyone was on their lunch breaks to use the restroom before silently eating her sandwich inside her cube. She felt it was easier to exist here alone. Life inside the office wasn’t like life of the street. People in the office were cold; they were self absorbed and desperate. She knew she didn't belong here, but figured it was only a matter of time before she left for good. It had been a particularly busy week for Lola in the office. She was forced to leave her cube at least three times a day and venture out into the hallways of cold stares and static stinging carpet. She walked carefully, knowing that at anytime her pastey soles could soften up and leave her stranded in the middle of the file room, helpless and insubordinate. Nearing the end of the week, she really began to feel sluggish. Another worker had been given a promotion and Lola was assigned to cover her duties. In the time Lola would usually use to plan her studies for the evening, she was now copying receipts and carbon paper, stapling them back together, and then numbering the copies and then stapling the copies back together. She'd do this in thirty-minute segments. Thirty minutes spent in the copy room, thirty minutes spent in her cube, thirty minutes stapling, thirty minutes on the phone. Lola began getting very anxious; to calm herself she put post-it notes on the pages of magazines she wanted to cut out at 4:15. With each trip back and forth from cube to copy room she felt her legs becoming heavier, as if with each new step she took, a new piece of earth would come up with it. It was Wednesday and Lola barely got through. Thursday came and it was the same routine. Lola began to shake with anxiety, constricting the muscles in her neck, and then relaxing them in a compulsive manner. She'd whisper to herself "It's almost over, I'm almost done, I'm gunna buy new magazines and scissors and take a trip to the beach and cook tofu tacos for dinner, everything is gunna be alright." Yet with each new trip, came heavier, louder, stickier soles. People began to scornfully glare at Lola as she walked by. They made the extra effort to not just turn their head, but to swivel their chairs, about face to Lola, as she stepped and stuck and stepped and stuck and stepped and stuck.

Lola had her head down, watching the green light of the Xerox machine rapidly move back and forth under its cover when Mr. Sweeney approached. Mr. Sweeney was a very particular man, in that he liked things in very particular ways. He was particular about the thermostat always being set at 74. 73 was too cold and 75 was too hot, it had to be 74 no matter what. Mr. Sweeney was also particular about staples. The staples in his papers needed to be as close to the edge as possible. One millimeter off and he'd take it out and start over again. Unfortunately for Lola, Mr. Sweeny was also very particular about the noise levels in the building. Mr. Sweeney sat on the second floor, and Lola worked on the third. For the past two days Mr. Sweeney had heard Lola's pastey soles grow louder and louder. "Lola, this is a professional office, we don't stomp here, and we don't run or jump or slide across the floors either. We simply walk, from point A to point B in the most professional way possible because that’s what you do when you’re a professional, you simply walk. Are we clear?" If only he knew how hard it was for Lola to simply walk, especially when she felt discouraged. "Yes Mr. Sweeney we're clear. I'll try to be more discreet." Lola continued to copy, staying near the printer for as long as possible, fearful of traveling back to her cube. She looked at her watch, 4:05pm.Lola knew she needed to get back to her cube by 4:15 if she even hoped to wash this day away before leaving the office. She stapled her last receipt and headed back. She tried walking on her toes, hoping the paste wouldn't dry in a large enough spot for her to get stuck. It worked for a while, but then her calves got tired and she needed to rest. Next she tried walking on the outer edges of her feet, thinking that she might be able to get away without her soles making contact with the ground. She ended up twisting her ankle and was forced to walk the remaining portion of the hall leaving a paste trail in her wake. She almost made it, she got really close, but around the corner from her cube her feet dried and Lola was stuck. She panicked. She had never been stuck at work before, she had always been safe inside her cube, but now here she was, at the end of a hallway of cubes, desperately trying to pry her feet from their flakey white resting place. She pulled hard, and sections of the carpet lifted with her. Below on the second floor, dust began to sprinkle down from the light fixtures as they swung back and forth with Lola's struggle. Lola didn't want to be there anymore, she wanted to quit and run away and now she regretted not doing so as soon as she realized this job wasn't for her, but instead she was stuck, not just figuratively trapped at work, she was literally being held captive by her sticky soles and office carpet. She saw the faces of her co-workers, most of them confused, others simply laughing and she heard the second story door squeak as it swung open. The footsteps echoed through the stairwell and flew through the third story as they came closer and closer. Fear stricken Lola simply broke down and began crying. She felt a wide range of emotions. Everything from hating her job, to being afraid of loosing it, to being embarrassed about her pastey soles, and with each new feeling more tears poured down. They fell from her face into her hands and began forming small pools that would fill and then overflow, cascading towards the ground. The more she cried the more forceful the teardropfalls became and the deeper the tearpools around her feet grew. The tears began to seep into the paste, mixing with it and returning it to a viscous state. Lola could feel her heels turning, as they still turn when buried in wet sand by retracting waves. Mr. Sweeny was approaching, and under the inescapable impending doom, Lola shed more tears, strengthening the falls and deepening the pools, pushing more and more into the now porous paste. By the time Mr. Sweeny reached Lola, she had full movement of her feet, she twisted in place to keep them from drying as trucks mix cement to keep if from hardening. She didn't run though and there was no time to hide, she simply dropped the receipts, hundreds of them, into the pools below her feet, and watched as the tears absorbed and vanished inside the layers of soggy paper.