Another day--maybe I should say, a new day--begins when my bag folds down on the desk in the morning. By then I've dressed and passably groomed, slurped coffee for the weatherman and led myself to the office, but none of these welcomes a pause, not in the way a small transition can, like that moment of unburdening yourself and reckoning at the same time. Sure, would rather something somewhere else but when thinking what that might be, nothing comes to mind. Try as I might.
The next hours bring small labors: like this one character I could do without: call him Joe. If you're going to be lazy, at least be good at your job. Or be likable. Joe frequently rubs his palms together as if he's just sat down to a fine meal; given his extreme laziness, this habit is all the more offensive. And he says things about "illegals" or about how "they do things weird in California" but, sadly, he isn't from Texas where you can say such things without bitterness. Any one of his habits in isolation should be grounds for termination. But even at all that, he's easily enough ignored. Soon the hours have passed tolerably and the day's pre-existing agreement resolves itself. And then it's off.
Notes:
- In college pursue a career you think will provide the stability and money you need, then find the industry unsatisfying and after several starts fall into one that works. Marry at age 30 someone who respects you, with whom you can share affection. Have your kids, argue with them about vegetables then friends, mutually idolize each other until there's mutual respect. Feel guilty for the child who struggles into adulthood before you find relief in knowing you tried. Exchange calls with old friends twice a year, see their kids grow up in a series of postcards from 2012 to 2022, then sporadically after that. When you're older, enjoy talking to your parents. Die first.
