The week of Raymond Hall

MONDAY

Raymond Hall woke at 5:47 AM, thirteen minutes before his alarm, as he had for eleven years. He showered for exactly eight minutes. He ate two eggs, scrambled, with one piece of toast. The butter was Land O'Lakes. It was always Land O'Lakes.

At the office, he approved fourteen invoices and declined three. He took lunch at his desk: turkey on rye, no mayo.

His ex-wife called at 2:15 PM.

"You're going to die alone," she said.

He waited four seconds before responding. The line was already dead. He approved another invoice.

TUESDAY

The coffee machine broke. Raymond stood for two minutes and fourteen seconds, watching the orange error light blink. He counted the blinks: forty-three.

He walked to the café on Seventh. The barista had a tattoo of a sparrow on her wrist. He ordered black coffee, medium.

"You were here yesterday too," she said. "Starting to become a regular again."

He had not been there yesterday. He had never been there before. He did not correct her.

The coffee cost $3.75. He paid with exact change. The sparrow's wings were poorly proportioned. Someone should have told her.

WEDNESDAY

His dentist appointment was at 3:00 PM. He arrived at 2:47. The magazines in the waiting room were from March. It was October.

The hygienist found no cavities. She found no plaque. She found nothing remarkable at all.

"Perfect teeth again," she said. "Whatever you're doing, keep doing it."

He had been doing the same thing for thirty-one years: brush twice, floss once, rinse with mouthwash.

On the drive home, a bird hit his windshield. A sparrow, he thought, though he couldn't be certain. He did not stop. He had done nothing wrong.

THURSDAY

Raymond's brother called from Phoenix. They spoke for four minutes about weather, two minutes about their mother's hip replacement, zero minutes about anything that mattered.

"You should visit soon," his brother said. "The kids ask about you."

Raymond had visited once, in 2019. The children had not asked about him. They had asked about his rental car, a red Mustang convertible the agency had upgraded him to for free.

He said he would consider it. This was true. He would consider it briefly, tonight, while brushing his teeth.

His brother's children were seven and nine now. Or eight and ten.

FRIDAY

The woman in apartment 4C smiled at him in the hallway. She was carrying groceries: milk, bread, bananas, something in a red box he couldn't identify. Hamburger Helper, perhaps. Or cake mix.

"Working late again?" she asked.

It was 6:15 PM. He did not consider this late. He did not work late. He worked until his work was complete.

"Yes," he said.

She shifted the groceries to her other hip. The bananas were overripe. She would need to eat them soon or make bread.

He unlocked his door. He did not look back. He heard her door close.

SATURDAY

He walked to the hardware store at 9:00 AM. He needed batteries: AA, pack of eight. He also bought a mousetrap, though he had seen no evidence of mice. Preparation, his father had called it. Always be prepared for the thing that hasn't happened yet.

The cashier was a boy, maybe seventeen, with acne along his jawline.

"You need bags?"

"No."

"Receipt?"

"No."

"Have a good one. Come again."

The boy said this without looking up. It was not an invitation. It was a script. Raymond understood scripts. He had been following one for fifty-three years.

SUNDAY

Raymond sat in his chair by the window and watched the street below. A woman walked a small dog. A man carried a child on his shoulders. Two teenagers held hands and laughed about something he couldn't hear.

At 4:00 PM, his phone rang. He looked at the screen. Unknown number.

He let it ring four times before answering.

"Is this Raymond?" A woman's voice. Unfamiliar.

"Yes."

"Sorry, wrong number. I'm looking for a different Raymond."

"It's alright," he said. "It happens again and again."

But she had already hung up.