Writers wander around all day long suspecting they have a nugget of truth lodged twixt their ass-cheeks slowly going rotten. 'Tis that which makes 'em uncomfortable. 'Tis that which makes 'em squirm. 'Tis that which makes it possible.
As he left the house, he saw the mouse. It was lying there where the gutter meets the street. It didn't look very fresh, having one eyeball already sunken in, and the fur being a bit matted. Day not yet having fully arrived, the morning light well-matched the color of the mouse. He stooped to look at it. Such things did not bother him. Part of life, death. Decomposition. Hadn't been here yesterday. Pretty sure of that. He would have noticed. He straightened himself up, arranged his jacket, and continued on to work.
He walked down the hill toward the shore road, the road winding back and forth down the hillside, and he let his mind drift with the birds above, sliding, gliding, falling, suddenly swooping down on a small detail, then rising up again with the new wind. He thought of chicken sandwiches, (he WAS hungry,) Jamie Lee Curtis nude, his new belt, modern architecture, and hummed an Elton John song. That was the first 30 seconds of his walk. In the next 30 seconds he entered a slight depressive phase, as he thought about his goal to learn French, and read a novel this month. Not going well at all. He could exercise more – (hadn't been exercising, either,) and the house needed cleaning. Could pay someone to do it, but that was more money wasted, and God, He MUST pay that credit card bill. When was it due? Some frantic reckoning left him with a vague suspicion that he was in for a late fee. Again. WHY? Why was it always like this? Why was he not capable of the simple tasks of daily life? How is it, he asked himself, that other people with half my potential can make their way through the day to day of life, and never miss a beat, and I can't remember anything I am supposed to do?
Right there and then he resolved to turn over a new leaf. He would check his accounts online every morning, and write down what was owed. That way he would be 30 times more informed than he was now. He would see the deadlines approaching. He would be constantly aware of the amount in his checking account. Yes. That was the solution.
A mixture of relief, an upsurge of positive emotions suddenly took him. A combination of relief at having found the solution to his financial chaos, (so simple, so effective,) and a feeling of accomplishment, a measure of pride in his new-found control over his life made him feel stern, as though he were now, finally, the master of his own destiny. There would be no more uselessly silly purchases, now that he would always know how much he had. It would be unthinkable, because knowing how much was in the account, and how much he owed, would force him to act more responsibly in every situation. He thought how he would others would look at him. He would be an example, in this age of commercial excess, of restraint, of how it should be done. Necessary expenses, only, he told himself.) Other's would look at him and ask: How does HE do it?
His feelings slowly settled and combined into a softer feeling of overall competence and confidence. He could feel it, even now, in his walk. He walked like a new man. Odd, he thought to himself, how just the knowledge of one's own capabilities, and confidence in them, can change you physically, the way you move, as well as the way you feel. Well, it's all connected, after all. He focused on his walk, to analyze what was different about it. He felt his posture subtly different, the way he held his head. He felt his steps, his gait, was a bit crisper, more authoritative. He could imagine himself striding into a room, a conference room, perhaps, and people turning to look at him. There goes a confident man, think the men. No, the women. There goes a confident man, think the women. What do the men think? This gave him pause.
What did he want men to think about him? He wanted them to fear, (no, that would be ridiculous,) he wanted them to respect him. (Fear? No,)Respect him. Well, and maybe be just a little bit cautious of him as well. But why? Why would they be (not fearful,) but cautious of him? Was it his business accomplishments? (He tried hard to think what achievements he could make in business that would make them respect him, be cautious around him, and came up blank.) No, business was not it. Was it that he was physically dangerous? He liked this idea, intuitively, and seized it with some eagerness. Immediately, however, it occurred to him that this, also, was unlikely. Why would it ever happen? Images flick-flashed through his head as he tried them on for size. In a meeting he grabs a co-worker's tie, and says . . . NO. He is known as a former boxer, (this was good, but also impossible, so he disregarded it.) They knew, around the office, that he studied, (he cast around for a likely art, sufficiently exotic, not too cliché,) ESGRIMA. Stick fighting, (yes?) That would be good. And, (it came to him quite suddenly,) he did triathalons.
He ran through the situation again, mentally feeling it for size, for fit, like a suit, to see if it caught anywhere uncomfortable as he walked around in it. He entered the conference room, and everyone there knew he did (what was it?) esgrima, fighting with sticks, (it sounded very good, thus far,) and ran triathalons. (Run? Do? What was the word with “triathalons?”) It was good. He could feel the respect from his co-workers. And the women – (what was it they said?) - oh – They saw he looked confident.
He realized that his walk had suddenly shifted again. He felt more physical now than ever, and it had translated down into his fingers, splaying open slightly. He walked more on the balls of his feet, (balanced, like a cat,) and his eyes scanned the street, because he was ready, aware, a man of physical prowess. He noted with sorrow and just a hint of contempt the old man shuffling around the car in front of him. Such posture comes from a life of neglecting the body, he told himself. That will not be me. He straightened himself unconsciously, and turning, caught sight of himself in a shop window.
It was a terrible shock. Though he felt the confidence, the prowess, the physical energy flowing through him at this moment, the man in the window did not have it. Not at all. His neck stuck out too far from his body, and his shoulders seemed rounded. His suit, so crisp in his mind as he entered the conference room, seemed to hang oddly on his shoulders, simultaneously cupping an emerging belly while pooching loosely behind. Gazing down at his worn leather shoes, he noticed he was still slightly raised on the balls of his feet, poised to launch his pudgy self, where?
He self-conciously put his heel back down on the ground, and raised himself up to his full height. His suit seemed to fit better, now. He pulled in his gut, (the jacket hid it, mostly,) and held his shoulders erect. The suit slid more into place, now. He looked, almost, like a businessman. He could see himself entering a restaurant at the head of a group of his friends, no, associates, and saying “Table for five, please,” or something like that. Not in this suit, though. He would need a new suit. And new shoes.
It came to him suddenly - That was what he would do this weekend, then. He had been wondering what he would do this weekend. Now it was clear. A new suit, and new shoes. He felt like a man of action - a man with a plan. A familiar noise pulled him from his reverie. The bus. It was the bus, his bus. He turned and ran, his suit flapping behind him. In his mind he saw Tom Cruise, running in a suit. It was a good picture. As he entered the bus a feeling of confidence was stealing over him again. He had a plan for this weekend. It was a good plan.
