The Flesh and the Glass

5:15 a.m.

Kiss Lucy good morning, avoid disturbing her; terrible morning breath. Gather clothes, piss, shower, brush teeth. Kiss Lucy goodbye, grab bagel with slight cream cheese, remember to lock door on way out. Oh, dammit, the dog. Take dog out to piss, feed him, change out water, then remember to lock door on way out. Wait, grab iPod on small table by door.

5:50 a.m.

Jog. Focus on pavement. Inhale fresh air; gasoline, animal shit, road kill, lack of pride. Wave hello to old bat Mr. Watermen as he gathers fishing supplies into the bed of his Ford. Stop, don’t stare at his chipped tooth, or the large mole beside his nose, it’s rude. Especially because he donates liberally to the charity. Ignore the couple moving into the blue house at the corner. Won’t be able to take eyes off the woman’s chest to bid her twizzler of a husband a civil greeting. It’s her fault, really. I’m merely a spectator, never touch. Make small talk with Paul while jogging. Ask him how the firm is going, how his children are, and if he wants to come over for dinner on Friday-- Lucy is an exceptional chef. Car approaching, move to the side, too healthy to die. Begin jogging back home.
Home.

6:45 a.m.

Back just in time to say goodbye to Lucy, Samantha, and Christopher. Remind Christopher to double check his things before he leaves school, can’t forget his sheet music for tonight’s performance. Give Samantha her Hannah Montana lunch box, always the best for my children. Tell Lucy she looks beautiful, and that I’ll be late for Christopher’s recital, kiss her goodbye; minty fresh breath.

7:00 a.m.

Tie dog up in backyard, take another shower, put on charcoal suit with blue, no, red tie. Spray cologne in front of me, step into mist-- don’t be the mist. Grab keys, brief case-- brief case? Nevermind, left it at the office. Step into American manufactured vehicle, look both ways before pulling out, drive. Stop at Starbuck’s for black coffee that always has the hint of mud and dirty water. Learn how to drive, asshole, put on your fucking blinker; stop, control road rage. Too healthy to die.

7:38 a.m.

Park, walk into building, wait for elevator, push for 5th floor, wait patiently. Smile politely at the woman standing beside me, try not to stare at her unflattering large rear end, and tell her she has a piece of toilet paper dangling off the hem of her skirt. Assure her not to be embarrassed, it happens to us all. Step out of elevator, greet Mr. Holcomb. Tell him I’m done with the proposal, I’ll give it to him before lunch. Also, that it looks like he’s been working out, that he looks younger. It doesn’t hurt to kiss a little ass. Ask Elizabeth if I’ve received any messages, tell her to re-schedule all appointments before lunch, I’d like some silence today.

8:05 a.m.

Walk into office. Put Tom Waits’ c.d. into laptop, plug in headphones.
Work.

10:55 a.m.

Step out of office for water. Forgot the damn bottle at home. Take messages from Elizabeth, tell her I’d like to continue to not have any disturbances. Put dollar into machine, 5B for water, sip, sigh. Nod automatically to Mr. Layton as he rants on about how our country is obviously superior to the rest of the world. How our country has no faults, and is sublimely perfect in every way. How other countries simply have no sense of stable government, and how their people act like barbarians, which is why they’re doing so poorly. How we need to keep illegal aliens out of our perfect nation, they’ll begin stealing all our resources along with our jobs. I couldn’t agree with him more. Walk back to office, take out Tom Waits and put in Miles Davis.
Work.

12:40 p.m.

Briskly walk out of office, stomach is too hungry for conversation. Drop off proposal with Mr. Holcomb’s secretary, wait for elevator, step in, push for 1st floor. Ignore putrid stench emitted by husky man beside me. Breathe through mouth, maintain professionalism at all times. Quickly step out of cramped elevator, walk through revolving glass doors, breathe deeply, enjoy the familiar scent of industrialism and global warming and progress. American progress. Unlock car, slide in, key in ignition, pull out, head to Subway for the usual. Ham on rye, light mustard, side of cheese soup with Pepsi. Damn the youth of today, stay in your lane! I don’t know if I can handle these kids cradling my future if they can’t even drive a shit mini van. Temper, Rodney, temper. Park car, step into Subway, wait in line, order, sit down.
Eat.

1:50 p.m.

Step into restroom, piss, wash hands. Unlock car, slide in, pull out. Accelerate speed, avoid lunch hour rush. God dammit, look before you cross the street, woman. To hell with control. Park, walk in building, elevator, walk and ignore, check in with Elizabeth, sit at desk, sigh. Sip water, take out Miles Davis and put in Itzhak Perlman.
Work.

4:40 p.m.

Answer messages, work.

5:30 p.m.

Meeting. Try to pay attention to the actual subject, not Mr. Holcomb’s pronounced beer belly or Ms. Stewart’s facial hair or Mrs. Arnold’s voluptuous chest, her swan-like neck that’s asking to be kissed, her full red lips, her-- briefly explain your proposal on how becoming a sponsor for the charity would further enhance this company for the better. I am, after all, the founder. I should know a thing or two. Meeting has ended, walk back to office, work.

7:10 p.m.

Hurry and leave to Christopher’s recital. Missed the introduction, hopefully arrive before his final piece. I hope he gets this music thing out of his system soon, it’ll take him nowhere.

7:25 p.m.

Find Lucy with Sa-- there they are. Try not to cause too much of an entrance, quietly sit between the two. Kiss Lucy on the cheek, kiss Samantha on the head, fix attention on Christopher and his cello. Regardless of this music being but a phase in his life, he’s damn wonderful. This is my boy, and I’m proud of him.

7:45 p.m.

Tell Christopher how impressed I am, how well he’s progressed. Shake hands with his instructor, tell her she’s doing a fine job, thank her. Follow Lucy home in my car, park, get out, walk into house with my family. My family.

8: 10 p.m.

Have a late dinner, put children to bed, take shower, put on sleep wear, get into bed with Lucy. Ask her how her day went, have conversation with her. Kiss Lucy‘s lips, kiss her neck, kiss her shoulders. Tell her I love her, show her I love her.

10:08 p.m.

Sleep. Repeat American suburban lifestyle tomorrow.