The drunks must laugh at us.
The yuppie routine – it’s got to seem insane to them.
There we are, an here we go – getting up morning after morning, running out the door with our briefcase full of emails and a Mac laptop.
The iPhone in one hand, protein shake in the other.
We’re always late, shuffling out the door all frazzled, shutting the door behind us, and then it doesn’t latch, so we have to heel-skid and reach back and yank-slam it.
Trying to make it to the car by the 8:15 mark so we get to work by the 8:30 mark.
Always three minutes late and paranoid, and when we’re not late we’re still paranoid because we’re early – and because we’re early we feel like we’re forgetting something.
Which we usually are.
Agh, I left my sunglasses on my desk!
Meanwhile on Elm Street, the sun shines.
The drunks shuffle awake to another day, with nowhere to be by no time at all.
If they have enough money for a beer, life is good.
If not, it’s pick up the cardboard sign time and head to the intersection.
Then more Colt 45 malt liquor – that’s the good stuff.
Then it’s just another day.
No deadlines, no meetings, no boss, no pressure.
No running late.
No raises and no bonuses – no getting fired.
No reaching and failing…or achieving…but what’s the difference?
That’s what Wendell the drunk says.
Just beer and buddies and bullshit and the corner store.