A Day in the Life - Part Five

The crew arrived twenty minutes late to the plane. Why is ‘hangover’ the first word that came to mind? But they came, and now they fly. I reach for the gummies.

I’m munching on Sour Patch Kids. I read they help with anxiety. I’ve been seeing a therapist for anxiety on and off since the late seventies. My old girlfriend - the paranormal enthusiast (nut?) - got me started. I was not a social person. We were at a party once where she was sitting behind me talking to a girlfriend. They were talking about me. ‘Does it talk?’ said the girlfriend. ‘Ouch,’ I mumbled. It? Double that ‘ouch’ and pass me a wtf. What can I say? Not enough it would seem. I was the quiet one in the family. Being one out of eleven kids, someone had to be that guy. I got the job, and now I sit here sucking on shiver-me-timber gummies. They do give a nice little jolt to the system. 

***

I’m back at home, sitting at the breakfast table. Will attempt to read news and I’ll eventually say to myself, ‘Why do I torture myself?’ I know I won’t find myself saying, ‘Aw, isn’t that nice.’ And I’m all gummied out, too. So I’ll have to cold-turkey my way through the Times.

***

The only thing I got out of the news is that we’re we’re all screwed, which means I’ll need to bulk-order more Sour Patch Kids and get yelled at by my dentist. Who I secretly believe enjoys me rotting my teeth. Sure, she’ll scold me. Then continue to rake in the dough from my ever depleting bank account and molars. She’s got a big rake.

***

Chances are I’ll be retired in less than than a year. I can feel it. The daily grind of commuting is getting to me. I leave my house at 5AM and return by 5PM. All for an eight hour job. No complaint that. Just the reality. It’s been a good twenty five years so far. 

But then again, I’ve been complaining about my commute since 2001. I’m a fickled individual. In two years time I’ll be complaining about my daily commute to the retirement centers buffet table. I have issues.

***

Interesting tidbit at work at a social club over the years:

Gorbachev walked in with his henchmen and they handed me his coat. He was there for lunch with Richard Nixon’s avenging angel Henry Kissinger. Upon leaving his Gang of Four asked for his coat. I did so. Gorbachev tried it on and handed it back to his ruffians. One ruffian said to me in thick Rusky accent, ‘He said it is not his coat!.’ I said in plain English, ‘It’s the only coat I’ve got.’ Coat gets handed back to former premier, who eyeballs coat more closely and says to his Glocks-at-the-ready-horde, in a translated message, ‘Oh, he says it is his coat!’

International incident avoided. 

I later found out from the matre d’ that the befuddled premier had been downing vodkas and his sordid security were sucking down whiskies in the waiting room. 

Drunks with Glocks is the name of my forthcoming memoir. 

Till next time we meet.

Photo courtesy of Wiki Commons:

https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:148_365_sour_patch_(18214968771).jpg