Nonchalant.
“Must appear nonchalant”, he reminded himself letting the spider's leg of a cigarette drape from his lip. The recently exhaled plume of nicotine laced smoke hung in the air framing him against the light of the convenience store. He shrugged off the cold of the night, insulated from the damp by a protective coating of alcohol. It is a well known fact that the liberal application of alcohol to ones internal organs provides a shield against the elements. He rocked a little unsteadily on his heal.
Nonchalantly.
Adjusting the weight to the other food he dragged the warm air from his lip mounted heater and surveyed the scene. The night was gently lit by the reflection of neon and headlamps, the clouds themselves denying the night its darkness. An older women in younger clothes tried hard to make the miniskirt seem something other than wanton advertising as she searched for her undersized phone in her oversized handbag. A group of 20-somethings laughed at the remains of an awkward end to a night sprayed on the pavement. Probably on their way to repeat the event he mused to himself as once again let the burning toothpick hang.
Nonchalantly.
A herd passes. Flowing from the subway mouth nearby, the procession of downwards looking, inwards thinking triathletes rarely meeting his unconcerned gaze. “The daily triathlon” his public speaking persona announced from the lectern in his mind. “An athletic contest consisting of three events, typically walking, strap hanging and -ator (of the travel, escal, and elev varieties)”. The second leg of his personal marathon awaited him, the significance of this dulled by the activities in the bar he exited recently.
Nonchalantly.
For a moment he thought of home, a warm floor, the warm embrace of his children, the song of his wife's tale of the day. He steeled himself against the desire to blend into the crowd ambling toward the metro's step. He was working for them now, improving his standing in the eyes of his peers. The late night conversations are where promotions are made. The confidence gained by applauding your boss's drunken moaning behind a microphone at 2a.m translates into more income, eventually he let the disdain for his own forced lifestyle escape in a slow sigh that knocked the remains of his cigarette to the ground. He let it burn for a few moments, then clumsily stubbed it out with his toe.
Nonchalantly.
His partners in this drunken competition for favour stumbled out of the shop. His boss raised a small bottle to his lips, drinking the bitter concoction he now required to maintain his reputation in front of his younger employees. A weary hand tossing the empty container into the trash, the weakness disappearing once more as his assumed the salient position among the posse. They jostled over to where he waited for them, his hands now out of pockets. He had planned the next venue, and readied himself to be the guide and “pseudohost” for the next round.
As I past him our eyes met for a moment, his story told in the few moments as I strode from the underground. A picture tells a thousand words, but his posture told millions. I walked on,
Nonchalantly.
“Must appear nonchalant”, he reminded himself letting the spider's leg of a cigarette drape from his lip. The recently exhaled plume of nicotine laced smoke hung in the air framing him against the light of the convenience store. He shrugged off the cold of the night, insulated from the damp by a protective coating of alcohol. It is a well known fact that the liberal application of alcohol to ones internal organs provides a shield against the elements. He rocked a little unsteadily on his heal.
Nonchalantly.
Adjusting the weight to the other food he dragged the warm air from his lip mounted heater and surveyed the scene. The night was gently lit by the reflection of neon and headlamps, the clouds themselves denying the night its darkness. An older women in younger clothes tried hard to make the miniskirt seem something other than wanton advertising as she searched for her undersized phone in her oversized handbag. A group of 20-somethings laughed at the remains of an awkward end to a night sprayed on the pavement. Probably on their way to repeat the event he mused to himself as once again let the burning toothpick hang.
Nonchalantly.
A herd passes. Flowing from the subway mouth nearby, the procession of downwards looking, inwards thinking triathletes rarely meeting his unconcerned gaze. “The daily triathlon” his public speaking persona announced from the lectern in his mind. “An athletic contest consisting of three events, typically walking, strap hanging and -ator (of the travel, escal, and elev varieties)”. The second leg of his personal marathon awaited him, the significance of this dulled by the activities in the bar he exited recently.
Nonchalantly.
For a moment he thought of home, a warm floor, the warm embrace of his children, the song of his wife's tale of the day. He steeled himself against the desire to blend into the crowd ambling toward the metro's step. He was working for them now, improving his standing in the eyes of his peers. The late night conversations are where promotions are made. The confidence gained by applauding your boss's drunken moaning behind a microphone at 2a.m translates into more income, eventually he let the disdain for his own forced lifestyle escape in a slow sigh that knocked the remains of his cigarette to the ground. He let it burn for a few moments, then clumsily stubbed it out with his toe.
Nonchalantly.
His partners in this drunken competition for favour stumbled out of the shop. His boss raised a small bottle to his lips, drinking the bitter concoction he now required to maintain his reputation in front of his younger employees. A weary hand tossing the empty container into the trash, the weakness disappearing once more as his assumed the salient position among the posse. They jostled over to where he waited for them, his hands now out of pockets. He had planned the next venue, and readied himself to be the guide and “pseudohost” for the next round.
As I past him our eyes met for a moment, his story told in the few moments as I strode from the underground. A picture tells a thousand words, but his posture told millions. I walked on,
Nonchalantly.
No comments:
Post a Comment