As appears in http://panzeepress.com/20071114.pdf
“Thank you all for coming, and have a good day.”
Don snapped his portfolio shut and stood up quickly. He pulled his briefcase up from below the table and hastily gathered the rest of his belongings. The meeting with the legislator ran longer than he’d hoped. He had so much to do, and it pained him as his window of opportunity lost 45 minutes. He couldn’t be late for the 1:00 conference call and, as he moved out into the hallway, immediately began calculating how to get the biggest bang from the now-shortened available time.
Don failed again to breach the cemented receptionist as he dropped a copy of his proposal…one day, maybe. Another hall, down the stairs and out into the late morning, he stiffened to the breeze and buttoned his wool coat, tucking the bright red scarf inside. He began dialing the first call, forcing himself to wait until checking his voicemail – the office call had to come first. His frustrations would mount, though, as a client’s frantic interruption further delayed the time when he’d learn whether the checks had arrived. Don had a lot riding on this check.
It just pissed him off. The client wasn’t a big deal in itself, but it really just added to the day. He’d wasted his time this morning. He knew the legislator’s session would likely run long just because “the guy’s too pompous for his own good and always wastes everyone’s time.” He knew the day would turn to crap when he first pleaded with his boss’ secretary to send someone else…but she scheduled him anyway. He knew it when his boss missed the last meeting and needed to send someone else to this one.
He could have spent the day in the office. Instead, he was outside in the cold, rushing around to make everything happen faster. Down onto Third St. and moving uptown, Don let the distracting but satisfying thought linger. “If other people’d just get their shit together, things just might go my way a little more.”
He asked his wife to get his gloves out last night, yet they were nowhere to be found. His fingers chilled in the air, so Don chose to wait until he was inside eating to make his other calls and dropped his phone in his pocket. He’d hit the pharmacy after a quick lunch, but only if his stop to see Mr. Tressler worked to his favor. A typically disagreeable client, Don expected another delay which only squelched his hope all the more. He reached North St. trying to think of ways to make the visit go smoothly. The stoplight conspired against him, but Don convinced himself that the waiting car could wait a little longer.
(Meanwhile…)
Clayton pushed the other chair out from under his feet and stood up slowly. He placed his bag on the side table and began putting the other chairs away, but in no real hurry. The counselor’s morning group meeting didn’t take as long as he’d hoped. He had very little to do, and it bothered him that he now had an extra 45 minutes to kill. He only had to make it to the soup kitchen after they opened at 11:00 and, as he moved to clear and sweep the common room, tried to figure how to occupy himself during the now-longer stretch of available time.
Clayton failed again to breach the cemented house manager as he tried to cajole a room for himself…one day, maybe. He watched a little TV while waiting for his roommate to leave, then went to his room to put the new laces (finally!) in his boots. The smoke breaks outside told him he’d need his coat for the walk to lunch. At the payphone in the main hallway, Clayton dialed the insurance office. His frustrations would mount, though, when the caseworker had to take a call from another client, further delaying when he’d learn if his check had arrived. Clayton had a lot riding on this check.
It just pissed him off. The call really wasn’t a big deal in itself – he could just call again after lunch – but it just added to the day. He’d wasted his time this morning. He knew the counselor’s session would likely bore the hell out of him just because “the guy’s too serious for his own good and always wastes everyone’s time.” He knew the day would turn to crap when he first discovered he didn’t have enough money for a bottle.
He could be sitting on his porch sipping whiskey. Instead, his ex-wife made sure all his dough went to her and the kids – her fault he was drinking again anyway. Clayton finally left and ambled his way along Third St. moving downtown. Clayton let the distracting but satisfying thought linger. “If other people’d just get their shit together, things just might go my way a little more.”
Somebody stole his gloves about a week ago, and they were nowhere to be found. His fingers chilled in the air, so Clayton chose to wait until after lunch to have another smoke and stuffed his hands in his pockets. He’d hit the convenience store for another lottery ticket afterwards, too, figuring the timing would be right to see his buddy Rudolph. Rudolph had some dough these days, so there was a chance he’d have something he could get a slash of. He crossed North St. with the green light, but the stoplight conspired against him. Clayton didn’t notice it switching while he was in the street.
(Then…)
The two guys crossing in front of her pissed Danelle off.
”I’ve got a green light, godammit!” she shouted, and honked her horn.
The horn startled him, and he bumped into this other guy crossing the street. He glanced at him quickly, decided it was no one he wanted to talk to, and just stared him down for a moment before continuing…
…”what the hell is THAT guy’s problem?”
One Perspective 