Carpe Diem
Or, Quiet Desperation







“The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation.”

















~ Henry David Thoreau









He was forty now. Married- content, but not happy. Not in the true sense of the word. He gave the illusion quite well, though. He had never been truly happy. There was a time when he might have been. That was long ago; he had let it slip through his fingers. For years afterwards he had wished he could catch it; had wished that he could turn back time, redo it all over again, knowing what he knew now. But that’s not an uncommon thought. Everyone wishes that at some time or another.
He walked home from work slowly. There had been a call from one of his old school mates. They had a nice long meaningless chat, and then hung up. Both knew that they would never have the same friendship as those good old days. The call had got him thinking. Remembering. He had had dreams then, of being a star; of being a writer, a musician, an actor; of winning awards, and being famous. Of being the best. The brightest. They had never come about; he was trapped here, a librarian. Not a particularly good one, but not bad. He had never dreamed of that back then. Back then. The term in itself seemed to bring about a feeling of nostalgia, a remembrance of good days gone by. Back then he could have made it all good. He could be happy.

Back then…

He had come to the school at the beginning of the next to last year. He had left behind friends in the move. The new school welcomed him, though. He made friends; he was a very likeable man back then. More of a boy. The year passed, and he looked forward to the next. When he came back, eager as the rest of the boys for fresh girls, he and they were disappointed. So they turned their eyes back to the old friends, who suddenly became more than friends. He noticed one, above all others. She was short, like him. Her hair was brown and cut shoulder length. He thought it framed her beautiful face perfectly. He fell in love slowly, at first thinking it a slight crush, and then gradually realizing that he couldn’t live without her. She got him up in the morning. He never quite made a move, though. He didn’t think that love was reciprocated, and that was enough to discourage him. There was another boy who always seemed to be with her, and that too was enough to stop him for acting. He savored every hug, every touch he got. The year progressed. He fell harder for her than ever before.

The end of his time there came and gone, and he never made a move. After, for years, he couldn’t help but wonder what things might have been like if he had. He had the disquieting sense that it could have been perfect, could have been great.


But that was back then. Now he walked home in the cold. His wife waited for him there, as did warmth, and solace. They had no children, and lived in a modest house. His feelings for the woman who was his wife were… affectionate. He was fond of her. They had married because he had had nothing to do, and thought marriage would provide a distraction. In his mind he continued his journey through the cliffs and crevasses of memory.


He is nervous. Very nervous. Those around him seem cool and collected, mouthing their words silently, faces contorted into expressions of various emotions. He looks down, tries desperately to read the words he has been given, but they are meaningless. They seem to slide away from his eyes. Someone is nudging him, and he looks up. He realizes that they have been calling his name repeatedly for the last few minutes, and he stands quickly. Licking his lips, he walks slowly through the door.


Onto the stage.

The lights hurt his eyes, and he squinted at the three figures sitting in front of him. For a moment, with the stage lights burning his retinas, they took on the appearance of gods; and, he supposed, in a way they were. They held the fate of him, the mortal, in their hands. Their word was law here in this place. In this theater, they were deities of the highest degree.

“Name,” said a cold, disembodied, clinical voice. He told them.

“Age.” He told them.
“Prior experience.” He cleared his throat.
“Ah, none.” There were titters and murmurs from the small, all-powerful audience.
“Very well. You may begin.” He hesitated, searching the page for the lines that had been highlighted. Clearing his throat again he began. From the very first he knew that it would not go well. He stumbled over words, paused in the wrong places, lost the thread of the script. That terrible, agonizing, heart-stopping fear that arose in him paralyzed him and it was a testimony to what character he had then that he managed as well as he did. When he finished, he hung his head for a minute, feeling the crimson blush of shame tinge his cheeks. He finally looked up, not expecting sympathy and finding none.

“Thank you, but you’re not quite what we’re looking for. Maybe next time,” one said, and thus he was dismissed. Miserably he exited the stage, and he knew that there would be no next time. As he stood outside the theater, staring at the script in his limp hand, he felt a sudden sense of revulsion at himself and his failure. Hurling the script in the trash, he angrily walked away. He never tried out for anything after that.

This memory spawned a sudden feeling of nausea. He stopped in a convenience store, suddenly feeling very tired. He bought a sandwich and ate it, musing.


He met her at college. She was a pretty girl; tall, blonde, slim. She came upon him in the library. She smiled at him over the book she was reading. He noticed she had blue eyes. They were vague, emotionless. He knew her vaguely from classes. They smiled, began to chat. It was meaningless, what they said, but it was proper etiquette, and they followed it to a t. Origins, goals, grades, relatives, the lot. He hadn’t felt the same way he had before, with Her. He didn’t think he ever would.

Finally it came. A smile, and then

“Do you want to come back to my place? Have a drink?”

He didn’t think he would ever have that perfection again, that perfect merging of two souls that could have been.

But he could not live like that forever. He could not dwell in the past while the present flew past. His grades were slipping, and he had a feeling he would drop out soon. He had no career in front of him.

He looked at her, smiled faintly, and said,

“Sure.” They left. He had a hollow feeling in the pit of stomach.

They were married four months later.


He had finished the sandwich and was staring thoughtfully at the empty wrapper as he remembered.

He had found the job in the paper.

“Librarian needed,” it read. “Requirements: must be well read, have working knowledge of computers.” He decided to apply, as he needed a job and met the requirements. He always had.

He drove to the building, peering at each passing address. When he found it he got out and walked to the door. Inside was a desk, at which sat a bored-looking woman. Upon seeing him, though, she put on a forced smile and politely asked him if she could help him. He said that he was there for the job. She gave him a form to fill out. As he was doing so, he saw an old man pushing a cart of books, grinning a toothless smile. A clear, cruel certainty suddenly struck him that this old man had once been like him, had once had dreams and hopes and loves and tears and laughs, that he had once had a life. And now he was reduced to this. What was even worse was that he saw himself in the man, saw what the road he had taken had led him to. He had traveled the road taken by many.

He signed the papers.


Abruptly his thoughts were interrupted as the door slammed open and three men rushed in. He was struck by one of them and roughly thrown to the ground. Dimly he heard shouts, threats. A haze seemed to cover his vision; things seemed slowed down. He saw the men pointing guns at the clerk, saw him open the drawer and begin feverishly handing out money. Slowly, he sat up. He heard the pulse in his ears, loud, inexorable. He looked down at the wrapper in his hand.

There weren’t even any crumbs left.


The blue and red lights flashed hypnotically. The convenience store was cordoned off by the garish yellow tape. Two police officers stood, staring at the scene. Before them was a stretcher upon which a man lay.

One, looking down at the corpse, asked,

“How’d it happen?” The other shook his head.

“Funny thing,” he said as the two began to zip up the bag that the man rested in. “Witnesses say he just rushed at the guys holding up the place. He got hit three different places. They say that he never had a chance, and that he shoulda known, but… Well, stuff happens sometimes.”


The zipper closed over the smiling face.