“Your job isn’t who you are,” the little monkey voice inside
the head kept chattering. Yeah, yeah, heard it all so many times before in a
been-there-done-that kind of way. Wave after wave of images roll onto the
shores of my short term recall, trying to evoke a response or any sign of life.
Only to return back to the abyss of the deep sea of memory. It’s going to be a
long night, but when it’s all said and done it’ll be another Monday.
How many years, how many white pressed shirts have preceded
this moment? How many chicken dinners? How many plates of spaghetti and
meatballs? How many bottles of wine? As if this is meant to last ad infinitum?
An old friend was chiding me in a way only an old friend
can. “You think you can continue to be subjective and non-linear in today’s
world? What are you thinking, man? There are rough times out there, would you
like to change places with me? How about all the people who are depending on
you? Doesn’t that count for something? Anything?” I had no idea what he was talking
about, maybe the smoke from the Weber Grill that Lew had given to me had clouded
my judgment or my reason. It just didn’t seem to add up.
You have to
understand, it’s like I found myself transported to another place and time. Just
like that. And it is exactly that, this sudden arrival to a place where there
is more looking back than forward. Or that’s the lie they try and sell you. In
reality the moment is as it always has been. An eternity
of nows, not Mondays. But for some reason Monday seems more concrete than now.
Dogs barking outside, wind rustling leaves off the tree,
coaxing them to the cleanly manicured suburban lawns, a Sunday ritual. Right
after church and brunch. So predictable.
Sell, sell, sell….
