300

The alarm clock rang at 5:00 AM on October 27th. The man arose from his bed and looked out the window. He steadied himself on the dresser and wiped the crust from his eyes. He looked down at the dresser at the picture of Claire and him, barely visible in the dark. Claire had been his girlfriend for 4 months now. They were smiling on top of the Empire State building. He smiled to himself, remembering that he liked her thick curly hair and crooked teeth.
The man walked through the hall, past the closet and down the stairs. He went into the unfinished basement in the tiny apartment. He turned on some music and started his morning routine: 100 push ups, 100 crunches, and 100 leg lunges. Keeping in shape was important, he thought. Those were the rules, he told himself.
Afterward he wiped the sweat off his underarms as he turned on the coffee maker. He listened to the two messages on his phone.
“It’s Dale, I know you aren’t coming in today, but you’ve got some breakdowns I’ll be needing for that sale I told you about. Give me a call if you can.”
“Hi baby, it’s me. I hope you feel better this morning. Call me when you get this.”
He knew he wouldn’t call back. Not today. Those were the rules, he told himself.
After the coffee he walked up the stairs and past the closet and into the bathroom where he brushed his teeth and then combed back his dark hair, silently wishing there were more of it.
He went to the drawer in his dresser that had the clothes he always wore on October 27th, unless it was a leap year. He pulled the black cap with the bent bill down on his forehead, removing his peripherals.
He went past the closet, down the stairs, and out into the street. Standing on the front step and looking at his feet he breathed deeply. He stepped onto the sidewalk and
lifted his eyes.
“One.” He counted to himself, seeing the black haired little boy running past him.
He was walking downtown, and then to the park, and then farther, maybe. It all depended.
“Two.” The pretty girl with the ebony hair in the jean jacket.

It was a little after noon now, and his legs were starting to get tired. He was in the park now, walking under the oaks that led to the bridge over the stream.
“297.” The man throwing a frisbee to his dog, his arm rippled.
“298.” A little ways down a homeless man had taken off his cap and laid his head with a flowing black mane in the grass.
“299.” He noted the boy counting aloud for hide-and-go-seek behind the tree, his back toward the path.
For a while there weren’t any. He was heading out of the park now, climbing up the big stairs that led to the street. He’d made it past the park before, all the way down to Chinatown, but he hadn’t gone any farther that year.
“I thought you’d be here, you like the park too much to stay away, even when you’re sick,” Claire said.
He looked up and she was waiting at the top of the stairs. “300.” He thought and then he really was sick, all over his shoes.
“Oh God,” she walked down the last few steps and put a hand on his shoulder. Now she was a little angry. “You should really be in bed. Sometimes I don’t get you.”
“Thought a walk would be nice… such a nice day.” His grasped her black, curly hair as he steadied himself. But then he withdrew quickly. He retched again but swallowed hard.
“I think I’m going back home now.”
“Damn right you are, I have a half hour left of my lunch break, want me to go with you?”
“No.”
“You sure.”
“Yes.”
“Alright, well you should take the bus, get some rest.”
“I’ll be fine.” But he wasn’t sure about that.
He caught a bus and stared in a daze out the window. This year was different; he knew exactly where to go. He wondered if he had miss-counted. The rules are never wrong, he thought. But it wasn’t reassuring. His stomach felt like stones.
When he arrived at his apartment he went up the stairs past the closet, and into the bathroom. He took a shower, shaving off all the hair he could reach. Those were the rules, he told himself. His hand trembled a little as he did this, and every once in a while some blood ran down the drain from a fresh nick. Afterward he rubbed his bald head in the clouded mirror, wishing there had been more to shave, trying not to remember that Claire liked running her fingers through his hair. He looked at his hand. There was a little blood on it from where he had cut his forehead. He rubbed the water off the place where his eyebrows had been. He tried to focus on his face in the foggy mirror.
He dried himself off and put the clothes and the black cap back on. Then he sat in the big chair in the room downstairs, the one he and Claire would sit in and watch movies, but tried not to think about that. He stared at the black empty screen until sunset, his hands shaking.
He went up the stairs and opened the door to the closet. He opened the duffel bag in the corner of the closet. This time the sight of the bag and its contents made him retch again. Nothing came up from his stomach though because he hadn’t eaten all day. Those were the rules, he told himself. Light from the hall glinted off some of the objects in the bag. He looked away, zipped it shut, and shouldered it. The closet door closed.
He looked into the bedroom at the picture of the Empire State Building and shuddered. Then there were hesitant footsteps, descending the staircase. The door to the apartment opened; there was a long pause. It closed.