The House of Many Faces

There was a wail, a muffled scream, and then nothing. His name is Mark and he just turned 30. He was sitting on an office chair that squeaks when he moves. It was half-hour past 8 in the evening. His shift ended at 6. He stared at the growing pile of unfinished paperwork on his desk. His stomach growled and his back hurt. But he kept his feet planted on the ground. The e-mail on his screen taunting him. Finish the deliverables tonight, it read. He straightened his back, he went on typing. All he could do was wail and scream in his head.

Rachel is a single mother. She named her 18-month-old son Nathan, a gift of God. Nathan was turning the pages of one of his Baby Einstein books, seemingly absorbed with its colorful pictures, until he lifted the book to his mouth and bit its edges. Rachel watched it unfold. Her lips curved into a smile, her head shook imperceptibly. She sees this happen every day but she still finds it amusing. Rachel crossed the room, removed the book from her baby’s mouth, and picked him up from the floor. She laid Nathan on the bed, beside the clothes she has yet to pack. It’s for his future, she steeled herself. A future she would provide, a future she would not be there to witness. Her flight is in seven hours.

It was a standstill. Horns were blaring, people were cursing. John awoke from his mild stupor. Outside, cars were piled on the road like a parking lot. Beside him, a lady is feverishly typing on her phone. I will be late, she pressed Send. She looked out of the window and let out an exasperated sigh. The van was full of commuters, employees around the city’s business district. It was 4 in the morning when John turned off the alarm on his phone. He took a quick bath. He picked his favorite denim button down. He did not shave today, maybe he would tomorrow. At 5 in the morning, John was seated in the van. His shift is not until 9. But the metro traffic is unforgiving.

This is Sheila from customer relations, she answers, how may I help you? It was a spiel she utters, forty, maybe fifty times per day. The keyboard rattles, the mouse clicks. A few more spiels here and there. Have a great day, she ends the call after 15 minutes. The clock reads 1:27 AM. Sheila was an art major. She was in primary school when she handed her mother her first painting. It was of a flower, a rose maybe. There were splashes of color in places there shouldn’t be. It was good. It was not amazing, but it was good. It was the day Sheila decided to be an artist. This is Sheila from customer relations, comes another call, how may I help you? The room temperature is fixed at 22 degrees. The walls are white and green. Sheila can't remember the feel of a canvas.

On March 30, 1973, Ricky graduated with a degree in engineering. The following Monday, he was employed in his first job. The pay was measly, but he would get anything he could. Ricky worked hard throughout the years. At 28, he married his longtime girlfriend. At 29, they had their first born. At 32, their last. Ricky was a good husband and a better father.  He made sure his children were provided good education and a roof over their heads. He worked, and he worked, and he worked some more. At 60, Ricky would soon retire. He has saved enough to live comfortably when the paychecks stop coming in. It would be difficult, explains the doctor, to do much walking with the arthritis this severe. Ricky had always wanted to travel. Now he could, but he also couldn’t. He is 64.

Few of the faces of our everyday lives. Why do you trade, they would ask. Do you know, I would answer, the stories of Mark, Rachel, John, Sheila and Ricky?