Joe Smith woke up to the sound of his iPhone’s default alarm, and rolled out of bed. His mattress and sheets were uncomfortable, worn from years of use, and bigger than they needed to be. When he was younger, he tried to buy from “ethical” companies, but he never had the money. This mattress was not fair trade. Like his iPhone, his clothes, his glasses, and damn near everything else he owned, it was made in the third world; made by faceless, nameless, rightless, laborers that he would never meet.

Joe hopped in the shower and turned up the heat. He tried not to drink the water — a few years back, there was a lead scare. Joe didn’t live here then, but he read about it on Facebook. Joe stepped out, dried himself off with a towel that smelled like hamburgers (he hadn’t done laundry in weeks), and threw on pants, a dress shirt, and tie.

Checking the time, Joe realized that he had taken another long shower, and was running late. A few weeks ago, he bought a jar of Nutella, aspiring for more variety in his morning rush. But today, like everyday since he bought it, the jar was left unopened. Instead, he made two peanut butter sandwiches, threw away the plastic knife (his roommates didn’t have silverware, so his was always dirty), grabbed a Dasani, and ran to catch the bus.

He made it just in time. As he stepped on, he took in the familiar scent of diesel and old, fake leather. Joe smiled at the driver, took hold of his favorite handrail, and looked out the window as they went. Most of the faces were familiar. He remembered the wrinkled, shabby woman who always tried to take too many groceries with her. A homeless man (at least, Joe assumed he was homeless) muttered to himself in the back, and his neighbor’s daughter sat in the corner, hiding behind her book bag.

The bus drove past an empty building. Joe remembered the cafe that used to be there. He and his wife would go every morning. The coffee was great, and Joe liked how nice the baristas were. It was a co-op, he recalled, but he never knew what that meant. A few years ago, a Dunkin opened across the street. He never liked Dunkin, but it was cheaper, and faster, and had a drive thru, so he went there more than he meant to. Joe remembered the articles written in the local paper about saving the cafe. He even donated to a remodelling fund. The cafe closed last year.

Joe saw his old neighborhood. His house was too far from Main Street to see from the bus, but he recognized his old fence. He thought he’d live there forever. But then the crisis came, and he had to move out. He took his silverware, and his mattress, and sold most everything else. He had wanted to have kids. He wanted to stay with Susan. They started fighting when he sold the house, and they never stopped. He wondered how she was doing.

Joe got off the bus in front of an old, beige building. He always thought it was tacky and imposing, as if inspired by worn-out khakis.

Joe hated his job. He didn’t used to hate it. He couldn’t even remember what made him hate it. Years ago, when he was newly hired, Susan threw a surprise party to celebrate. His life had no surprises anymore.

Joe’s boss was, like all bosses, an old, white, incompetent man. Rob was his name. When Joe was younger, he had imagined taking Rob’s place. Now, Joe laughed at his jokes, and pretended not to hear him harass the teenage interns.

Joe worked as an accountant — or should I say, an “analyst.” He only ever analyzed expenses and income, but he left school too early to be an accountant. A few years back, Joe got a promotion for figuring out how to pay less property tax. Joe didn’t like cheating the system, but he was so afraid of losing his job that he reported it anyways. Joe became “senior analyst.” His cubicle stayed the same, and his pay barely changed. But for a few weeks, he felt important.

It had been a long time since Joe felt important.

The hours passed slowly, and Joe spent the day playing solitaire. It’s not that he didn’t want to work. There was simply no work to do. So he sat in his office, updating spreadsheets occasionally, but mostly just wasting time until he was allowed to go home. Joe smiled at his boss and said goodbye, interrupting Rob’s fifth conversation with the intern, and allowing her to escape.

Joe stepped back on the bus, again acknowledging the familiar faces. Joe recognized an old neighbor, Will, who smiled and waved as Joe took hold of his railing. Will was a short, dark skinned man, and carried a briefcase. Joe remembered Will’s daughters; they used to sell lemonade by his house. Joe liked Will. Will got death threats from someone in the neighborhood, and so he moved away. Joe was sad when he left.

Joe opened the door to his apartment (he had to use his shoulder because it always got stuck) and collapsed onto the couch. Within minutes, his tie was on the floor, and Joe was scrolling through Facebook. He saw the day’s news. Another gay man had been attacked, another talking head was upset with college kids, and another politician was accused of rape. Joe wanted to care — he really did — but he was just so exhausted.

And so Joe opened up youtube, skipped an ad from PragerU, and watched people play League of Legends until he was tired. Joe ate another peanut butter sandwich and went to bed.

“Today was fine,” he thought, “and with any luck, tomorrow will be fine too.”