Wednesday Morning
by Erik Espinoza

	BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! The sound of the alarm clock going off was so familiar to him that he permanently linked the electronic empty beep to the flashing red 6:00 on his alarm clock before he even opened his eyes. Martin Borez rolled over away from his wife and opened his eyes and sure enough, the alarm clock read 6:00. He hit the switch.
	Another day. He thought to himself, sitting up in his full-size bed that he shared with his wife of two years. He turned his slightly overweight body in order to look at her.  She had a slight frown on her face as she pretended the alarm clock didn't wake her and she tried to return to her blissful slumber. He observed her for a few seconds. 
He thought to himself. How long has she been pretending? Have I been waking her up all along? How much longer will she pretend it doesn't bother her? 
"Emily," he whispered in a voice so low that she probably didn't hear it if she was listening attentively. He was afraid to wake her if she really was asleep. She didn't respond. 
	He slowly stood up, trying not to make the bed creak so much- still afraid to wake his wife, if she really was asleep. He walked out towards the bathroom for his morning shower. He carefully closed the bathroom door behind him.

 Its not supposed to be like this, I imagined it to be better. I wonder what I would think of myself if I saw what I am doing now ten years ago. He mentally scolded himself.
 He looked at his reflection in the dirty mirror, whose edges were starting to chip away with flecks of rust. He hated looking at himself. He noticed that everyday he lost more of his hairline, and his second chin was gaining ground. It was like a medical time elapsed slide show, as each progressive slide showed his deterioration. 
	He forced himself to look at his visage. Drip. Drip. Drip. The leaky faucet an auditory reminder that time was leaving him. 
How did I end up here? He asked himself this question every once in a while even though he knew the answer. He had to choose a steady job or a life as a freelance artist. He chose the life of relative safety over doing what he had planned to do all of his childhood. He turned the water on in the shower and entered the lonely stall. 
It's funny how I thought it would be so easy back then. How I thought everyone would love my art, how they would instantly know what I was trying to say with a single glance at my work. I never even thought about anyone thinking negatively or critics calling my work vague or monotonous. It was simple then, I guess. Just dream and never have to worry about the obstacles. He grabbed the Irish Spring from the soap dish and lathered himself with the slimy green bar. There are no real obstacles now though. Just go to work and take care of all the customer complaints. "Your stores run all the small businesses out of business." "How can you call yourself an American company when all of your products are made everywhere else?" "Why are your stores against unionization?" and "Why don't you advertise about how you have low prices at the expense of 12-year-old Chinese kids?" All he had to do was give them the company policy about those issues and try to make Bulk-Mart look like an innocent American company just trying to make it in a competitive, capitalistic world. 
	Before, he was on the opposite end of those calls. He realized this. 
I would hate people who compromised themselves, those people who say screw everyone, screw the cause, I just want my ass to be safe. Is that what I did? Did I trade my goals, values, and everything I believed in for a steady ok paying job? I remember my paintings were so adamant against globalization and the gentrification of the world. I feared when the world would become a giant shopping mall, and all the exotic places would be turned into tourist traps: a place where even Gilligan's Island would have a McDonalds. 
	He stepped out of the shower and looked at himself again in the mirror. You have betrayed yourself haven't you? You compromised everything you believed in. He pulled at the mirror and took his shaving cream out of the medicine cabinet.
 I gave in and sold my values for stability. He slapped himself with a handful of white foam. There has to be a way out. I can't keep this crap up forever. I even married someone just to avoid feeling lonely. I care about her; I just keep asking myself if I really love her. She asked me to marry her and I did, out of fear that no one else would want to marry me. Did I compromise my values with her too? If I quit my job and decided to move to Mexico and become a full time artist, would she go with me? Probably not. She asked me to marry her because she wanted stability more than anything. She says she loves me, but she's just filling out her life like she hears she's supposed to do. She's a conformist. Get out of school, get married and have kids. I think that's her only goal. She doesn't seem to want anything else. Fuck this, I'm getting out of it.
 He reached for his straightedge razor and brought it to his neck. As he shaved, he made a plan of what he was going to do. 
	I'm going to drive to the airport and get the next plane to Mexico. There, I'll live on my grandma's farm and buy all the supplies I need. I'll start painting again, and I won't have to worry about paying rent or buying food or anything. Once I'm settled, I'll call Emily and ask if she wants to join me. Chances are she won't, so I won't tell her until I'm there. Yeah I'll do this now. I'm tired of compromising my values and selling out to this corrupt corporation that has everyone in its pockets. No more being part of a corporation that makes warheads and whose shareholders are politicians. He felt this wave of electrifying energy, which was probably from the aftershave he splashed on his face. 
	He hurried back into his room where his wife was still asleep. Her frown was gone. She looked more peaceful now than when the alarm first sounded. He went into his closet and took out his suit, still in the dry cleaner's plastic. 
I'm not going to work. I'm going to call in and tell Wordson that I quit. Ha, no more pretending to like everyone and faking laughs at the bosses' stupid jokes. His face showed evidence of a grin as he thought this.
He finished putting on his clothes as he walked out towards the kitchen where the phone was. Halfway to the phone, he saw the coffee machine had his morning cup of coffee ready. 
Oh, my coffee. Yeah, I'll need that morning cup today. 
He poured himself his cup of Folgers. Black. No sugar, No creamer. The way he has done for the past four years. He looked out through his kitchen window, cup in hand. He saw his Toyota Corolla in his driveway, ready for him to take it to work, where it would faithfully wait for him to drive it back home. He let his focus change and saw his reflection in the window. 
	That's me, he thought. All dressed up for work, suit and tie. 
His tie, he noticed, was a bit loose and off to the left. Out of habit, he centered it and tightened it up. He reached for his keys and headed out the door. 
	Like every other Wednesday before and after, Martin Borez went to work.