Attention to Detail: A Short Story

Dialling my obsessive compulsive tendencies up to 11 for fun

This is a short story that I wrote last week, without the prompts of a flash fiction challenge. I had a lot of fun writing it and didn’t put too much thought into it, which can be the best way to create. The idea came from a period a few months ago when I was consistently late for work by about five minutes each day. Fortunately, my managers are very understanding and I didn’t make a habit out of it – only this story.

Speaking of fiction, my good friend Kody Roby published his debut novel Dead Man’s Detail earlier this year and you should check it out if you’re a horror fan like me. It’s the first in his Nocturnus series and follows 96^th Generation Penman Alistair Emerson and legendary Flesher Edgar Renrudder – how cool are those names? – on a treacherous journey through WWI France with monsters and dark magic at every turn.

I’ll be interviewing Kody at Books@Stones in Brisbane on Thursday 14 August where we’ll be talking about the book and all things writing. If you’re local and love stories, come hang with us for an hour – it’s free! You can register your interest at the link here.

The Silence of the Lambs (1991)

Mark snaps his eyes open at the nagging drone of his alarm and rolls over to silence it, holding his index finger above the screen until it sounds a fifth time before tapping the button. Monday morning, 5 am – up before the birds and cars signal the day’s arrival. The interview wouldn’t be until 9 and it will take three quarters of an hour to get there (he triple-checked by searching the fastest route online and test driving it twice last week), but he allows himself enough time to get ready.

It’s still dark outside, so Mark slides into the slippers neatly placed beside the bed and shuffles over to the door to turn the light on. He flicks the switch and cool white hits every surface in the room, his pupils straining to adjust. Dissatisfied, he switches it off and on twice more until it feels right. He goes back to the bed and pulls the covers tight and flush with military precision then gently plumps up the pillows, standing back to admire his work.

At his desk sits an immaculate array of stationery, books, glasses, sleeping tablets and vanilla incense sticks. He collects the reading glasses and drops them into his pyjama pocket, tapping the other to gauge the weight of his phone tugging at his elastic waistband.

Propelled by habit, Mark heads to the bathroom, turns on the light – just once – and tears off a square of thick toilet paper to lift the lid with before draining his near-empty bladder. He flushes three times, each weaker than the last, and turns to the sink where he actively avoids his reflection. Wait until after a shower to pick and pluck, he thinks. No use checking now. He lathers his hands in a foaming soap, also vanilla-scented, and counts to ten in his head. The flick tap handle is slightly off-centre, which bothers him, so he straightens it before rinsing his hands under the cold water and carefully placing it down again.

As Mark makes his way down the short hall to the kitchen, he notices that the left cuff of his pyjama sleeve is damp and briefly contemplates if he should go back and wet the other one as well or change completely. Thinking better of it, he rolls both cuffs up twice so that he doesn’t have to see or feel it and turns on the light above the counter, flicking the switch five times. He checks the water level of the kettle, a fraction below half full, and adds a dash more so that it meets the line exactly and turns it on.

While he waits for the water to boil, Mark retrieves a black mug from a row of them in a cupboard by his head and measures out his instant coffee and sugar with a plastic spoon. A spilled grain of coffee taunts him from the white bench like a fly in milk and he presses the pad of his thumb onto it and drops it into his mug. He empties the clean dishes from the drying rack, carefully placing them at the bottom of each stack in the cupboards, and sets a bowl and spoon on the countertop to prepare a serving of vanilla yoghurt with honey nut granola.

The kettle clicks off and Mark stirs as he pours the water into the mug, constantly stopping to check until it is level with the next marking on the side. Satisfied, he returns the kettle and rotates it clockwise until the handle is perpendicular to the splashback. Once he sits down in one of the two chairs at the table to have his breakfast, he puts on his glasses, pulls out his phone and notes the time. 5:43 am. Good, he thinks. Tracking well so far. He swipes across his colour-coded apps and opens Facebook to find a new notification: a suggested post that he might like. False alarm.

Taking a long pull from his black coffee, Mark scrolls through casual positions on LinkedIn next. Just in case, he thinks. He filters the search by distance, not willing to travel further than an hour each way, and is presented with fourteen results. The only options for someone with a Master of Arts in English who can’t even type a text without it sounding like a Morse code transcription of War and Peace these days. He saves a job listing for a new role in a marketing startup and finishes his yoghurt and granola, clanging the spoon against the side of the bowl five times before rising.

Mark washes the dishes under running water in ten-second bouts, centres the tap handle and makes his way back to the bedroom. He opens the sliding wardrobe door and chooses his clothes for the day, sorted by colour and occasion, laying them out on the bed as if he were handling ancient artifacts. An interview demands an excellent first impression, he thinks. Especially when the stakes are so high. Happy with his selection, he takes the mauve long-sleeve shirt and tan pants back to the dining area to iron them.

Having left the ironing board out overnight to save time, Mark folds the pants over the length of it and checks that the water in the iron is level with the marking on the side before turning it on at the wall. He flicks the switch on and off and on again then begins to smooth out the creases with great care, relishing the hiss of steam against his cold fingers. Once he is satisfied with one side, he flips the pants over and starts on the other leg. The shirt requires more attention as he moves the nose of the iron from side to side between the buttons like a bottom-feeding shark of steel.

Mark returns his warm, crisp outfit to the freshly-made bed and removes his phone and glasses from his pockets. He places his glasses back in their position on the desk and plugs in his phone charger at his nightstand. The screen illuminates for a second or two with the time, 7:09, in bold at the top. Not too bad, he thinks. Can’t be too careful though. He heads to the bathroom, closes the door to the empty apartment and undresses beneath the pale glow of the downlight, carefully folding the pyjamas over the toilet and placing a bathmat at the foot of the shower.

The glass screen groans as Mark reaches in and turns the hot handle 270 degrees anticlockwise then waits for ten seconds before turning the cold handle 90 degrees. When the water reaches the optimal temperature, he steps inside and begins his regular routine. Shampooing his hair, rinsing, conditioning his hair, rinsing, lathering vanilla body wash over his skin and under his arms and between his toes, rinsing. By the time he finishes using his facial scrub, the water begins to run cold and he turns it off, aligning the H and C as symmetrically as he can.

Mark eases the shower door open and grabs the towel hanging beside it then dries his top half as water drips from his elbows. He lifts one leg high to dry it and steps onto the bathmat in a big arc, like a tiptoeing child trying to avoid detection, then repeats the motion. Following the edge of the towel to find the corner, he works it between his toes and fingers and inside each ear before returning it to the rail and ensuring that each side hangs level with the other.

It’s not until he shuffles in front of the mirror with the bathmat under his feet that Mark sees himself for the first time all morning. He leans forward over the vanity, his face centimetres from the glass, and studies his eyebrows and nostrils from every angle. With a pair of tweezers, he plucks a few stray hairs and pops a pimple on his chin where coarse stubble is beginning to show. He brushes his teeth, spitting and rinsing every ten seconds, and tastes blood as he rolls on deodorant under each arm.

Naked with gooseflesh, Mark pads back to the bedroom and dresses in the clean clothes laid out before him, counting each of the notches in his belt before buckling it on the fifth. When he returns to the bathroom to button his shirt, he notices that the threading has come out of one and goes into the kitchen to get the scissors and cut it. The utensils in the drawers are arranged alphabetically, so he is disappointed to find them between the slotted spoon and spatula. He snips the thread and drops it into the bin then places the scissors back where they belong.

Irritated by what the day has thrown at him already, Mark unplugs his phone from the charger and sees that the time is now 8:12. With a belly full of severed snakes, he races down the hall to fetch his sneakers from the front door then turns back to the bedroom for his dress shoes instead. He hauls open the wardrobe door and rummages through the top drawer of the dresser for the first pair of socks that he can find. Beads of sweat form on his brow as he fumbles with the socks and then the shoes, knotting the laces haphazardly while wiping the salt from his eyes with the back of his hand.

Mark snatches his phone, wallet and car keys from the nightstand and pockets them then turns the bedroom light off. It doesn’t feel right and his body shudders in protest, but he forces his legs to carry him to the kitchen where he turns that light off too. He flies out the front door, locking it behind him (and triple-checking it) and taking the stairs three steps at a time to his car in one of the residential parking spaces outside the apartment building.

Hot and flustered, Mark unlocks the spotless sedan and climbs behind the wheel, fighting the urge to press the button another four times at least. The engine comes alive and he slides the automatic into drive and peels out of the carpark. He knows the way there off by heart, but peak-hour traffic on a Monday morning is unpredictable at the best of times, so he determines not to try any alternative routes or unfamiliar roads under such stressful circumstances. He has never been late to a job interview before and he doesn’t want to start now.

Five minutes from home, Mark realises that he left the bathroom light on and subconsciously begins speeding in a mild panic. Too late to turn back now, he thinks. He weaves between traffic on the highway, going well over the limit, and suddenly becomes aware of the unbearable silence in the car. With one hand on the wheel at the two o’clock position, he uses the other to turn on the radio, which is halfway through a poppy love song, and looks up just in time to swerve back into his lane as a truck passes by, blaring its horn at him.

Mark adjusts the volume on the steering wheel to an even number and glances at the time displayed on the dashboard: 8:37. Might still make it, he thinks. Eleven turns and intersections later, he catches sight of his destination up ahead between the surrounding skyscrapers. He raps his fingers against the wheel impatiently as pedestrians saunter across the road, laughing into their phones with their takeaway coffees or briefcases by their sides. The light finally turns green and he almost spins the tyres as he takes off.

When he gets to the building, Mark checks the time again: 8:56. Thank God, he thinks. Then an inexplicable gnawing at the base of his skull makes him circle the block, twice, before pulling into the undercover carpark. He kills the engine, exits the vehicle and counts his steps as he hurries up to the entrance of the building. One of his shoelaces comes undone in the bustle, making him want to claw at the skin of his inner forearms, but he just hitches the legs of his pants up a little so that he can move more freely and presses on.

Once he reaches the huge glass door, Mark checks his phone and is relieved to see that he has made it with a minute to spare. A new personal best, he thinks. Cutting it way too close for comfort. He feels like he could be having a heart attack, but he manages a smile. His hands are sweaty and trembling with adrenaline as he kneels down to tie his shoelace when what he sees strips the breath from his lungs: odd socks. One black with white stripes, one black with white spots. A chill grips his spine and his blood turns to ice.

Mark stands outside the university for an age, taking in his sad reflection with stinging eyes. Sweat stains spread from his armpits and the buttons that dot the front of his creased shirt form a slight S shape. He eventually turns away and heads back to the car, quietly cursing himself for such an egregious oversight. When he closes the door then opens and closes it again, he pulls out his phone and winds his alarm back fifteen minutes. Might be ready to apply soon, he thinks. It will be good to teach again.

The engine fires up, still hot, and Mark changes the radio station until he hears classic rock then heads home. He will try again tomorrow.