This guy from the office—Bob or Bill—he warned me, as he filled a coffee filter, that he may not be his usual self. “Yeah,” I said, but thought, so you won’t be invisible today? Not said, as he has been trying hard to keep his pill bottle empty. A comment like that might have been just enough to send him to the pharmacy to fill his new prescription. He opens his hand to show the slip of paper, lets it rock in his palm to the soft breeze from the air vent above us.

He’s been out of anti-depressants for two weeks. He’s been out of various other things for longer periods of time—rubber bands, staples, relationships—and it’s never bothered him much, but “being out of antidepressants,” he says, “tends to depress a person.” He fills the coffee pot with water and flips a switch, asks if I will want any, and when I say no, he adds a few more spoonfuls of grounds to the filter. It’s raining outside and Bill or Bob fits inside the sadness cliché well.

Bill or Bob wants to be stronger than his pills. He stopped “cold turkey,” a term he borrowed from the established lexicon of addiction. Sometimes I “itch” for a sandwich or get the “shakes” when I don’t eat breakfast, so I guess I can relate. It makes sense that we would talk.

As the coffee starts to percolate he tells me, “I couldn’t really afford the pills anyway, which depresses me all over again.” He inhales the percolator steam, admits that he wouldn’t have considered the price of his medication to be high if his doctor hadn’t, unprovoked, suggested the generic equivalent. “She must have noticed that I wore the same pants to every visit.”

The first thing Bill or Bob noticed about his doctor during his first visit those years ago was her wedding ring—the size of a small tumor. And you could fit that thing through one of Bill or Bob’s ulcers. This is what he told me. She had real pearls, too. “Who wears real pearls anymore?” he said. She prescribed the pills, said they alter the levels of serotonin and blah, blah, blah… He stopped listening after the third quadri-syllabic word. Knowing that people make money by studying his depression, depresses him.

“The doctor reminded me again yesterday that I am on the lowest dose available. ‘The introductory dose,’ she calls it. I’m not even depressed enough to be a real case.” The coffee pot quiets. Bill or Bob fills his cup, adds a small spoonful of sugar, and stirs with his finger. The new prescription he keeps pinched between the fingers of his free hand.

“I wasn’t going to refill last month,” he says, inhaling the steam from his cup, “but you know how things go…” I do. He told me. He lives alone, doesn’t have cable, or a computer. He doesn’t have a car, either. His dog doesn’t greet him at his door after work anymore. Each neighbor’s voice filtered through his thin apartment walls sounds to him like elite laughter. The jokes themselves, though, don’t make it through. He calls me “brother,” sometimes “son” despite our shared age, both July-born, even.

“My dream,” he says, still stirring his coffee, “is to stop taking the pills. Maybe find a girlfriend like you said.”

His doctor-with-the-real-pearls has told him to unload burdens wherever possible. “Your shoulders are only so big,” she said, but didn’t explain how to establish a hierarchy. He volunteers to change the water cooler bottle, but neglects bandaging a paper cut, lets his finger bleed through documents and into his coffee mug. He admits responsibility for donut crumbs on the conference room table, but blames me for The Dream. “That way if I fail,” he said, “it’s your fault.”

I compliment him on his tie. He looks down, past the tie to his gut, says “I can’t even see my own feet.” He bites a muffin. Professionally, Bill or Bob is a lifer. As far as life goes, he’s got just a few more years until the mortal layoff.

The first time I heard Bill or Bob laugh was two weeks after he filled his first prescription. He didn’t know I was listening. Chamber music leaks from his cubicle most days, most hours, but the music was dead the day of his first chuckle. I popped my head over the grey Herman Miller partition and asked him what was so funny. “I just thought I would see what laughter felt like.” His screen saver flashed on, a scrolling marquee of our company’s name. “It hurt my chest a little.”

When Bill or Bob finally stops stirring his coffee, he wipes his wet finger on his tie. His mother gave him this tie, gave him all his ties. They belonged to his father and even a few came from his grandfather. Confined to a cubicle, Bill or Bob is third-generation veal. It all could stop with Bill or Bob; he has no children, no spouse. He has a telephone with speed-dial capability, but doesn’t know enough people to be burdened by phone numbers. He calls his mother in the evenings, leaves voice mail messages most of the time. He would stop by her house, but she moved two years ago; he doesn’t know where to.

“I wasn’t going to refill last month,” he says again, “but I want to be happy enough to meet someone. A woman without maternal instincts. Do you think they exist?”

I watch the new prescription flap between his fingers. I am unresponsive for a single moment too long.

He fills the silence. “Depression is genetic. I just don’t think I could take responsibility for doing this to another generation. These pills give me muscle tremors anyway.” He drops the prescription into the trash, sips from his mug, and curses when he spills a few drops on his father’s tie.

“Author Note on Story #5 (Refill) In Hopes That You’ll Learn About Me Intellectually and Donate to My Pocket:”

For about a year I worked with a man who literally drank a pot of coffee every morning, and would spend the rest of the afternoon in his cubicle rocking back and forth in his stressed chair to chamber music. That’s where the character basis stops, though, as this guy was honestly quite happy.

The depression angle came from me, the first time my sertraline prescription ran out. The line “‘The introductory dose,’ she calls it. I’m not even depressed enough to be a real case” is all truth. I genuinely took offense every time my doctor reminded me that I was on the lowest dose; proof, in my opinion, that the prescription was warranted.

This is a guest post from Caleb J Ross, author of the chapbook Charactered Pieces: stories, as part of his ridiculously named Blog Orgy Tour. Visit his website for a full list of blog stops. Charactered Pieces: stories is currently available from OW Press (or Amazon.com). Visit him at http://www.calebjross.com. “Refill” is a story from his chapbook.