Harolds Horrible Life

Harold's Horrbile Life

Chapter One

Harold had always been close.  Perhaps that was the most frustrating thing of all, an entire life full of missed opportunities and misunderstandings.  Had he not been so close, he never would have known what else there was.  He might have lived a content life, happy with what he had.  He lived alone in a one-room garden apartment on Chicago’s north side.  He had no friends and, therefore, no furniture which they might have enjoyed.
Yes, Harold had always been close.  To what, exactly?  Anything.  Everything.  As a child he would play the same game that all children play, “How would you spend a million dollars?”  Excitement builds as young kids banter back and forth at all the joy that would come with such a large sum of money, the possibilities seeming nearly endless.  At a young age, all children believe they will grow up to be rich and famous.  Their minds are full of imagination.  As they grow, this imagination is slowly replaced with what is commonly known as “Life Experience.”  By age 20 only half of those children still believe in the fantasy of fame and fortune.  This percentage continues to drop as the years roll by, until finally the only ones who still believe this dream are the lucky few who actually achieve it.
Harold.  Harold MacGrew.  He had always believed it.  He had felt it.  Felt just how close he always was to that fame and fortune.  He wasn’t sure which he wanted more, the fame or the fortune, but assumed they pretty much went together.  And with that fame and fortune would come all the happiness he had always lacked.  He had always been so close, and waited patiently for things to happen.  But as each day passed, and as each calendar page was turned, the slow dribble of doubt began to wear on him.
His teen years had been fun, and his twenties were spent traveling.  His thirties were a time for settling down.  But now he was 43.  He was not rich, nor was he famous.  Friendless, in fact.  For so many years he had waited for good things, but he was finally starting to conceive the notion that perhaps he wasn’t destined for stardom.  Upon recognizing this, he began to also realize the many other things he had not achieved.  This list, which had never before been compiled, only grew in length the more he thought about it.  A few obvious points were impossible to miss.  He’d never been married, nor had he any children.  He’d never finished college.  He’d never played professional sports of any kind, though this had always been a dream of his.  All little boys dream of the big leagues, perhaps, but Harold really believed it.  Not that he was any more athletic than the next kid, but Harold had just assumed he had what it took.  By the time he realized that some sort of effort was required to make this happen, he was well past his prime.
Yes, there were a lot of big things on the list.  Secretly Harold had always known this.  These failures lingered in the back of his mind no matter where he went or what he did.  Simple acts, such as buying an ice cream, had always been tinged with the sadness of personal disappointment.  This disappointment had been present for so long that Harold didn’t question it.  But now, for whatever reason, something had changed.  A lifetime of buried emotions were being brought to the surface.  For years his subconscious had put in great efforts to ensure that Harold was never able to fully see the grand scale of dissatisfaction that his life had become.  No longer confined to one part of his mind or another, thoughts and memories began to mingle, and each newly acknowledged sentiment only added to the overall resentment Harold felt.  The protective process of selective repression had lost its strength, and Harold was now recognizing the reality of his life.
Harold had never married.  He had been close, on two separate occasions.  The first time, it was he who ended it.  The second, it was she.  He now hated them both.  He did not realize it, but he hated himself most of all.
Just as the bigger thoughts brought on more and more memories, these details also shined light on whole new problems.  He’d never finished college.  He dropped out after six months.  He then agreed to join the Navy, but left town before beginning his training.  Most things he planned on doing, it seemed, did not get done at all.  Harold imagined there must be some reason for this, but he hadn’t yet figured it out.
All his days were tough, but some were worse than others.  For example, he worked five days a week and these were bad days.  His two days off, however, were much worse.  Harold never knew what to do with a day off.  There were a number of options, of course, but they were all terrible.  Laundry.  Dishes.  Reading.  A walk.  Each and every awful possibility of how to spend one’s time just made Harold sick.  What was the point of any of it?  It was all just a way to kill time until returning to work.
His job, though dreadfully boring, at least allowed him to exist for a few hours without the pressures of thinking.  He would show up at a certain time, perform the tasks as instructed, then, at the end of the day, he would go home.  The energy expended while at work allowed him the excuse of being tired.  He would come home, eat dinner, then watch TV until falling asleep.  This was his life.