In Due Time: Better Views To Be Had By All
I woke up about twenty minutes late this morning. I hate being late. I rushed to pull that same ratty t-shirt over my head that I wore yesterday....and the day before? I can't seem to keep track of the simple things now-a-days. Names, faces, what I had for lunch today, what I plan to have for dinner. All these things and more have melted away within my head. I am empty.
But where was I? You see what I mean? I believe that I had just gotten out of bed, pulled on a ratty t-shirt. As I munched my piece of pseudo-toast, pulled prematurely out of my fifteen dollar Walmart toaster oven -- no time for thorough cooking, I was late afterall -- I made my way through my living room. In actuality, the place that I call my living room is just a ratty couch with a t.v. sitting on a spool, all of which sits just to the left of my kitchen and just to the right of my bedroom door.
As I rushed past the entry-way to my place in the sun, I hit my right arm on the ever too narrow --and I would surmise getting ever narrower -- door frame. "FUCK!" I yelled, just loud enough to wake up old Mrs. Krenshaw, the little "sweet" old lady that lives across the hall. I hate that woman, always bitching to me "It's seven P.M. do ya have to run the dishwasher during Matlock??" " I can't sleep with you banging that gong at 2 a.m." I tell her to fuck off as politely as I can.
I'm off track again though. You see what I mean? Jumbled....a mess.....too much information, so very little time to get it all across. I must be more choosy. I must be more careful. I must...
As I made it to the elevator that takes me the 4 stories down to street level, down to where I feel much more at home, I ran across a man, dressed in rags, sleeping off his malt-liquor stupor. I decided to simply side-step him. Inching across the wall. My back pressed flat, my toes mere inches from his rags. The effect is much the same as that of an ice climber, harrowingly close to the edge of a thousand foot cavern, the only thing between him and death, those mere inches of unstable rock face.
To get back to my point, I eventually made it to the elevator, past the doorway, past the menacing drunk, and into the safety of the flying metal box. A message left on the wall of the elevator proclaims proudly in black marker " J.C. was here and I fucked Yer MUTHER!"
"Well", I thought out loud, "Good to know...I wouldn't want to have any misconceptions of her purity. Now would I?"
As the elevator completed its journey down the four story shaft and came to a screeching, grinding, although surprisingly gentle stop and I stepped out into the lobby -- which, I might mention, is as filth ridden as the bum-infested hallway upstairs -- the covey of old women that frequents this part of our little hell-on-earth greeted me with their typical glares and whispers of contempt that they pass amongst themselves.
I hate this....
I hate this so much....
I made my way out the door and into the busy streets of city. I tried time and time again to hail a cab, each time being out maneuvered, out gunned by businessmen in sharp suits with briefcases full of the world. I hate this...
Eventually, seeing the futility of my struggle for the attention of these barons of the road -- heck they know a good tipper when they see one....and I ain't one -- I resigned myself to take the bus.
The bus, in this city like so many others, is the place that people go who
a) can't scrounge up the change for the cab
or b) can't seem to make themselve seen in this world and thus are relegated to the sub-standard conditions that are the mass transit system of everywhere USA.
Once again though....the point of this all is not the bus. I am far far off track. I want to tell you so many things. So many things that lead up to what I will eventually get to. So many things that all added together to make this thing happen. So many things that I cannot tell you, they are...or were...within me. So many......
As I stepped out into the air in front of my office building, large but not the largest and therefore just one more stone box in a forest of stone boxes, I looked up at the sign. Every day at that sign. I HATE THIS.
"J.R. Snedmeyer and Co. ATTORNEYS AT LAW" it proudly proclaims from a gold placard above the entry-way.
Now, as I'm sure you have gathered about me by this point, I am not a lawyer. I am...or was, but we'll get to that soon enough... a file clerk. The bus-boy of the business world. I hate this.....
As I entered the building, through the bank of metal detectors, past the guard, and into yet another elevator -- this one immaculate, with muzak and no messages about my mother on the walls -- I sighed. One More. One more.
I took this elevator to the top floor, far past my office; which so happens to be in the basement. I walked out into the hallway, fetching stares from my superiors. They aren't used to seeing anyone on this floor without the customary pin-stripes on navy blue sport coat. As I approached one of these creatures in the hallway, I looked through him. Past him.
"I hate this", I hissed.
"What was that?" he asked as if he actually might care.
"Nothing" I said as I made my way for the stairwell.
I hit those stairs running. Not running to. Not running from. Just running. I made my way up that one last flight of stairs and through the door out onto the roof. The sunlight, at such a height, is menacing and cold. The wind is such that it can take a small child, or "sweet" old woman caught off gaurd, and fling said individual off the roof.
As I took that first step over the edge of that building, the sensation was nothing like I thought it would be. The feeling was not one of flying as I had pictured so many times sitting at my cubicle, but rather a terrifying drop from the top of a tall building hurtling at the concrete below.
Its funny how we tend to romanticize these kinds of things, don't you think? We picture in our heads these types of things to be much cleaner, much more poetic than they really are. In truth, it is a hellacious ride to the bottom followed by an excrutiating stop, and then, if the Lord is merciful -- and he almost never is -- there will be a quick death, if not you sit and suffer until the ambulance arrives and relegates you to the life of a vegetable.
I, thankfully, had the pleasure of the first option. The Lord was much more merciful to me in death than ever in life. For this I am thankful. I am finally content.
But where was I? You see what I mean? I believe that I had just gotten out of bed, pulled on a ratty t-shirt. As I munched my piece of pseudo-toast, pulled prematurely out of my fifteen dollar Walmart toaster oven -- no time for thorough cooking, I was late afterall -- I made my way through my living room. In actuality, the place that I call my living room is just a ratty couch with a t.v. sitting on a spool, all of which sits just to the left of my kitchen and just to the right of my bedroom door.
As I rushed past the entry-way to my place in the sun, I hit my right arm on the ever too narrow --and I would surmise getting ever narrower -- door frame. "FUCK!" I yelled, just loud enough to wake up old Mrs. Krenshaw, the little "sweet" old lady that lives across the hall. I hate that woman, always bitching to me "It's seven P.M. do ya have to run the dishwasher during Matlock??" " I can't sleep with you banging that gong at 2 a.m." I tell her to fuck off as politely as I can.
I'm off track again though. You see what I mean? Jumbled....a mess.....too much information, so very little time to get it all across. I must be more choosy. I must be more careful. I must...
As I made it to the elevator that takes me the 4 stories down to street level, down to where I feel much more at home, I ran across a man, dressed in rags, sleeping off his malt-liquor stupor. I decided to simply side-step him. Inching across the wall. My back pressed flat, my toes mere inches from his rags. The effect is much the same as that of an ice climber, harrowingly close to the edge of a thousand foot cavern, the only thing between him and death, those mere inches of unstable rock face.
To get back to my point, I eventually made it to the elevator, past the doorway, past the menacing drunk, and into the safety of the flying metal box. A message left on the wall of the elevator proclaims proudly in black marker " J.C. was here and I fucked Yer MUTHER!"
"Well", I thought out loud, "Good to know...I wouldn't want to have any misconceptions of her purity. Now would I?"
As the elevator completed its journey down the four story shaft and came to a screeching, grinding, although surprisingly gentle stop and I stepped out into the lobby -- which, I might mention, is as filth ridden as the bum-infested hallway upstairs -- the covey of old women that frequents this part of our little hell-on-earth greeted me with their typical glares and whispers of contempt that they pass amongst themselves.
I hate this....
I hate this so much....
I made my way out the door and into the busy streets of city. I tried time and time again to hail a cab, each time being out maneuvered, out gunned by businessmen in sharp suits with briefcases full of the world. I hate this...
Eventually, seeing the futility of my struggle for the attention of these barons of the road -- heck they know a good tipper when they see one....and I ain't one -- I resigned myself to take the bus.
The bus, in this city like so many others, is the place that people go who
a) can't scrounge up the change for the cab
or b) can't seem to make themselve seen in this world and thus are relegated to the sub-standard conditions that are the mass transit system of everywhere USA.
Once again though....the point of this all is not the bus. I am far far off track. I want to tell you so many things. So many things that lead up to what I will eventually get to. So many things that all added together to make this thing happen. So many things that I cannot tell you, they are...or were...within me. So many......
As I stepped out into the air in front of my office building, large but not the largest and therefore just one more stone box in a forest of stone boxes, I looked up at the sign. Every day at that sign. I HATE THIS.
"J.R. Snedmeyer and Co. ATTORNEYS AT LAW" it proudly proclaims from a gold placard above the entry-way.
Now, as I'm sure you have gathered about me by this point, I am not a lawyer. I am...or was, but we'll get to that soon enough... a file clerk. The bus-boy of the business world. I hate this.....
As I entered the building, through the bank of metal detectors, past the guard, and into yet another elevator -- this one immaculate, with muzak and no messages about my mother on the walls -- I sighed. One More. One more.
I took this elevator to the top floor, far past my office; which so happens to be in the basement. I walked out into the hallway, fetching stares from my superiors. They aren't used to seeing anyone on this floor without the customary pin-stripes on navy blue sport coat. As I approached one of these creatures in the hallway, I looked through him. Past him.
"I hate this", I hissed.
"What was that?" he asked as if he actually might care.
"Nothing" I said as I made my way for the stairwell.
I hit those stairs running. Not running to. Not running from. Just running. I made my way up that one last flight of stairs and through the door out onto the roof. The sunlight, at such a height, is menacing and cold. The wind is such that it can take a small child, or "sweet" old woman caught off gaurd, and fling said individual off the roof.
As I took that first step over the edge of that building, the sensation was nothing like I thought it would be. The feeling was not one of flying as I had pictured so many times sitting at my cubicle, but rather a terrifying drop from the top of a tall building hurtling at the concrete below.
Its funny how we tend to romanticize these kinds of things, don't you think? We picture in our heads these types of things to be much cleaner, much more poetic than they really are. In truth, it is a hellacious ride to the bottom followed by an excrutiating stop, and then, if the Lord is merciful -- and he almost never is -- there will be a quick death, if not you sit and suffer until the ambulance arrives and relegates you to the life of a vegetable.
I, thankfully, had the pleasure of the first option. The Lord was much more merciful to me in death than ever in life. For this I am thankful. I am finally content.
posted by Joshua Skrobarczyk at 3:54 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home