Sunday, September 14, 2014

Monday Morning Blues...A Short Story

Monday Morning Blues

Peter cursed the snooze button as the bus carried him to his job. He knew the fault rested not on a snooze button, but on his own unwillingness to get up early which denied him the opportunity to catch an early bus. Now, because of he violated the deadly sin of sloth, he was forced to share a bench seat, and since he boarded at one of the last stops before the bus entered the city, prime seating locations were next to impossible to find.

The accountant silently cursed again as the large man with whom he shared his bench shifted his sizable weight resulting in a head resting on Peter's shoulders that wasn't Peter's. Had he not ignored the snooze button and got up in time to catch the early bus, he could have practically laid down on the bench and slept during the twenty-five minute commute. Could the Monday get any worse?

Without being too gentile (but with enough restraint so as not to draw attention...), Peter pushed this fellow capitalist away; the man's head rose until it teetered at its highest point and that's where it stopped moving. Peter held his breath as the man's muffled snoring continued, his open mouth showing the slightest hint of spittle about to descend upon his wrinkled suit coat.

Peter raised a finger to offer a small push when he noticed the man's head began to fall--thankfully away from Peter. The clank of the man's skull against the window caused more than a few riders to look in their direction. To escape their gaze (and honest judgement...), Peter pretended to be deeply involved in the Candy Crush game on his iPhone. Fortunately, Peter's gentle shove in one direction and the subsequent stop of motion in the other did not wake up the man who kept on snoring.

The accountant looked out the bus window beyond the stranger's head and saw the city skyline come into view. The weather matched Peter's mood, morose, cloudy, and raining. Dark clouds hovered over the buildings, giving the man-made skyscrapers the appearance of rectangular stalagmites, each floor deposited by the clouds above.

Peter checked his phone--he'd be an hour late. No big deal, really. It took people at least forty-five minutes of bull-shooting before any actual work got done, especially on Monday. He'd make it up, stay late, assume the persona of good employee, the golden son, the chosen. He wondered as the bus exited the freeway if he'd sleep in tomorrow as well.

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