“What the hell do you think you’re trying to do?”
I’m approached by a young man. One glance reveals the nature of this beast – no doubt he’s a type one old money Ivy League product hailing from the Northeastern regions of the country. He is wearing a white polo and khakis, his medium length blond hair is permed to the side, Ray-Ban’s on his head. I can smell the overwhelming stench of some expensive cologne he probably received from his girlfriend’s family as a graduation gift from Yale. His fingers have the scars of cracking one too many lobsters in his life; his Blackberry is in his belt holster, ready to be deployed at any potential fear of market fluctuation.
I’m crouched in the far corner of a room, facing the white walls, furiously trying to organize the work in front of me. I look like a mess. I haven’t shaved in days and my tired eyes are blood-red. My white cap and my light green button up shirt have numerous salt stains from continual perspiration. My khaki shorts are stained and dirty. Drops of sweat fall on the papers that I’m shuffling back and forth; reorganizing; taking notes here and there.
“Hey guy, I’m talking to you. What are you doing?” he asks me again. I turn to face the beast and I give him a hard stare. Little does he know or understand that these papers I’m dealing with are my only possession. These papers I’m shuffling are literally my life. This is serious stuff! I pause. Hmm. The beast probably thinks I escaped the ward, I think to myself. It’s no secret that my behavior is frowned upon in everyday society. He’s here to round me up! Cautiously, I turn back to my work, keeping him in my periphery. I’m striving to organize these papers in the right order, dammit. I’m seeking peace and harmony in a disheveled and disgruntled pile. No luck so far, but I’m working on it, so leave me be man! Continue reading
