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  • Writer's pictureWJ King

Never Enough Time

Another day in the books and another day unemployed. Oh, how I wish I were part of the work a day world. To be able to pop out of bed at five or six am, seize the day with meaning in my life and someone depending on me to get the job done. This never gets old and annoys the hell out of the working class. I may have lost half a step over the years but it’d still take three pretty good sized men to wrestle me out of my house to take me to a place of employment.

My day is planned around feeding the cat, the birds and myself. My responsibilities include drinking coffee, making coffee and putting coffee on my shopping list. After a sufficient caffeine charge, I may amble over to my laptop and fire off a riveting work of flash fiction, sometimes over a page, but most often not. With this under my belt and sweat pouring...well, perhaps my regimen does not generate perspiration, but I’ll sleep well tonight nevertheless. I cast a watchful eye over my laptop, to the yard next door through my large picture window. My neighbors are toiling profusely, filling bags with leaves and doing what they call yard work. They’re not the only neighbors that violate the code of wilderness and I am surrounded by ne'er do wells. I have not yet taken a wife, but there is a young thing that calls on me from time to time and she believes the neighbors may be on to something, with this ‘yard work’ thing. Actually, her comments may have been a tad more salient and she has taken to picking me up and dropping me off a block from my house, until my yard takes on the charm and uniformity of my fellow street dwellers’. My response was swift, proficient and direct. Wielding my broom, like Arthur might brandish Excalibur, I bang the ceiling to gain the attention of my lodger. Upon his arrival, I admonish him that we do not live in the projects and the yard shall reflect that. Now, reaching near exhaustion from exercising my management skills, I barely reach the couch for my nap.

I awake, precisely one hour and forty five minutes later and am immediately the victim of poor planning. The salesman on television is touting high quality awnings at reasonable prices, but my noon hour is reserved for ogling the news and weather girl on channel eight, Susan Shaw and Ellen Bacca, respectively. In my haste to reach the couch my remote was left across the room and I have no way of retrieving it, lest I get off the couch and walk over. I watch the entire awning presentation and have to wait until the five and six o’clock news, to see the babes.

Having only had a bagel with peanut butter, marmalade and whipped cream this morning, I succumb to the hunger pangs. I get up, grab the remote and head to the kitchen to make a chicken sandwich. The cat is particularly fond of chicken, so I eat the sandwich in the bathroom. As warmer weather arrives, I’ll be able to eat on the porch.

This evening, I will read some, having received my obligatory at sixty-five, cataract surgery. That, two knee surgeries, a partial dental plate and hearing aids and I am prepared to seize tomorrow. The femme fatale that pursues me will be so impressed with the yard work, she will insist on going out for ice cream. You may wonder, “ice cream instead of eighteen beers?” I did mention losing half a step.


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