Table of Contents [Report This]
Disclaimer: I do not own The Pretender or anything affiliated with it. It is owned by TNT, NBC, and Steve and Craig. The song Mr. Cellophane is the property of Miramax. No profit is being made and no infringement is intended. Please don't sue.
Author's Note: Thought up this while listening to the Chicago soundtrack. I have never written a serious Broots piece before, so the characterization may be a little iffy. I apologize in advance for that.
Summary: People can not survive without the occasional bit of acknowledgement of their existence, so how has Broots been doing it for five years?
Mr. Cellophane
by: chopsticks
p g
-----
Cellophane, Mr. Cellophane
Shoulda been my name.
Mr. Cellophane,
Because you can look right through me,
Walk right by me,
And never know I'm there.
--"Mr. Cellophane," Chicago
-----
I sigh and flop down in one of the raggedy chairs in my living room, closing my eyes and trying to will my body to relax. It won't listen, per usual. Today has been yet another stressful day, the hunt for Jarod having been stepped up another notch. I ended up staying at work until one in the morning trying to create a program to search through every single newspaper, newscast, and magazine article for even the tiniest clue as to where he might be.
This program might just provide the break we need, since Jarod has been surfacing less and less frequently now. The recognition, of course, will not go to me, but rather to Miss Parker or Mr. Lyle. This doesn't bother me a bit, since I never came looking for recognition in this job. No, I just wanted to do what I do best: program. It is, after all, what I was trained to do. And, if I do say so myself, I am damn good.
No, I never wanted recognition. But what would be nice is if my existence would at least be acknowledged every now and then. Sure, Miss Parker and Sydney know who I am, but they barely have time for me unless I'm helping them with something. And, ultimately, it is more about their goals than me. I just sort of lurk around, doing what they ask of me, but they never seem to take an interest in anything but what I can do, not who I am.
It was only when Jarod interfered that they found out I had a life outside of The Centre; that I had a wife, now divorced, and a daughter, Debbie. No, they had no idea about that until Jarod came around. Sometimes I think Jarod is a better friend than either Sydney or Miss Parker, and I've only encountered him a few times, and we never really had the time to sit and discuss anything besides how the hell we were gonna escape with our lives.
I am listed as a part of the Recovery Team, yet Mr. Parker does not even know my name, much less what I look like. The same goes for Mr. Raines, though I'm pretty sure his personal sweeper, Willie, knows who I am. I would rather he know nothing about me, to be honest. Figures that only the creepy people acknowledge my existence.
Speaking of creepy people, I am very much aware that at least one person in this twisted company knows about and acknowledges my existence. That person is Mr. Lyle. He is, undoubtedly, the one person I wish didn't know about me, for he always uses that knowledge for his own personal gain, usually resulting in blackmail of some sort, which almost always revolves around Debbie. When it comes to Mr. Lyle, I would enjoy my life far more if he did not know who the hell I was.
The only people that truly acknowledge who I am as a person, excluding Jarod, is Debbie and my ex-wife. They both take an interest in how I feel and how my life is going, though my ex-wife's is a bit more selfish than I care to think about. Debbie, on the other hand, loves me unconditionally, something I take great pride in. I think it is this that keeps me going; that keeps me from falling into a depression.
As I said, I'm not looking for recognition. I don't want to be well known. And now I realize that I can do just fine with only the occasional acknowledgement of my existence. Besides, Debbie at least knows I exist, and that's all I can really ask for from this life.
-----
the end.
feedback welcomed at spacedoutwriter@hotmail.com.
Author's Note: Thought up this while listening to the Chicago soundtrack. I have never written a serious Broots piece before, so the characterization may be a little iffy. I apologize in advance for that.
Summary: People can not survive without the occasional bit of acknowledgement of their existence, so how has Broots been doing it for five years?
by: chopsticks
p g
-----
Cellophane, Mr. Cellophane
Shoulda been my name.
Mr. Cellophane,
Because you can look right through me,
Walk right by me,
And never know I'm there.
--"Mr. Cellophane," Chicago
I sigh and flop down in one of the raggedy chairs in my living room, closing my eyes and trying to will my body to relax. It won't listen, per usual. Today has been yet another stressful day, the hunt for Jarod having been stepped up another notch. I ended up staying at work until one in the morning trying to create a program to search through every single newspaper, newscast, and magazine article for even the tiniest clue as to where he might be.
This program might just provide the break we need, since Jarod has been surfacing less and less frequently now. The recognition, of course, will not go to me, but rather to Miss Parker or Mr. Lyle. This doesn't bother me a bit, since I never came looking for recognition in this job. No, I just wanted to do what I do best: program. It is, after all, what I was trained to do. And, if I do say so myself, I am damn good.
No, I never wanted recognition. But what would be nice is if my existence would at least be acknowledged every now and then. Sure, Miss Parker and Sydney know who I am, but they barely have time for me unless I'm helping them with something. And, ultimately, it is more about their goals than me. I just sort of lurk around, doing what they ask of me, but they never seem to take an interest in anything but what I can do, not who I am.
It was only when Jarod interfered that they found out I had a life outside of The Centre; that I had a wife, now divorced, and a daughter, Debbie. No, they had no idea about that until Jarod came around. Sometimes I think Jarod is a better friend than either Sydney or Miss Parker, and I've only encountered him a few times, and we never really had the time to sit and discuss anything besides how the hell we were gonna escape with our lives.
I am listed as a part of the Recovery Team, yet Mr. Parker does not even know my name, much less what I look like. The same goes for Mr. Raines, though I'm pretty sure his personal sweeper, Willie, knows who I am. I would rather he know nothing about me, to be honest. Figures that only the creepy people acknowledge my existence.
Speaking of creepy people, I am very much aware that at least one person in this twisted company knows about and acknowledges my existence. That person is Mr. Lyle. He is, undoubtedly, the one person I wish didn't know about me, for he always uses that knowledge for his own personal gain, usually resulting in blackmail of some sort, which almost always revolves around Debbie. When it comes to Mr. Lyle, I would enjoy my life far more if he did not know who the hell I was.
The only people that truly acknowledge who I am as a person, excluding Jarod, is Debbie and my ex-wife. They both take an interest in how I feel and how my life is going, though my ex-wife's is a bit more selfish than I care to think about. Debbie, on the other hand, loves me unconditionally, something I take great pride in. I think it is this that keeps me going; that keeps me from falling into a depression.
As I said, I'm not looking for recognition. I don't want to be well known. And now I realize that I can do just fine with only the occasional acknowledgement of my existence. Besides, Debbie at least knows I exist, and that's all I can really ask for from this life.
the end.
feedback welcomed at spacedoutwriter@hotmail.com.
