The Commuter

I'm obviously not fooling anybody, so I won't bother pretending this is the first time. But just like every other time I've played duck duck goose, the key to winning is getting your ass in the seat on time.

This is the sort of shit I tell myself to motivate. Time to move. Mooooooooooooooovvvvve. Come on, move. Alright, we need to try another tack.

I consider sitting up in bed and decide there's no need to be dramatic. I roll half way over and touch a toe to the floor since that seems moderate and I am all about moderation this morning. There's no need to pick a fight. We're all friends here. I retch a dark honey on my robe and the edge of my mattress. Some time later, I wake up with the side of my face in the pool of goop and see the clock. That actually gives me a boost and I end up in the shower where eventually some other stuff happens and then I put on a new shirt and arrive downstairs. Arrive. Yes, sirree. Don't know exactly how I came this way, folks, but it's sure nice to be here.

It occurs to me that driving to work will be facilitated by getting in the car, so I figure out how to do that and then off I go. About half way to the office I notice that the radio is off. The window is down and I'm on my second cig (I fumbled my first one out the window) when I notice that my wardrobe consultant screwed me big time. I am wearing brown leather squared toe penny-loafers with white athletic socks. That isn't such a tragedy, since Wal-Mart carries dress socks, except I'm late.

As I pull into the Wal-Mart parking lot I'm trying to make up a proper lie. It's a good thing I'm fully awake, because this part, friends and neighbors, requires subtlety and might I say, talent. Even a certain je ne sais quoi. If the lie is too small, then I have inexcusably rolled into work over two hours late without calling and I am toast. This is especially likely, in part, because it's not the first time this week that I've been more than two hours late. Nor perhaps the last, but let's try and stay focused. On the other hand, if the lie is too large, then I'll get screwed that way. So this is no job for a tyro.

Now I'm going through the socks but I'm multi-tasking, since I've got to keep my mind loose if I'm going to hit upon a lie of true genius. So I'm looking around, not rubber-necking, but my eyes are loose and easy, just taking everything in. Mind like water. Mushin no shin. Now I'm on my way back to the checkstands with 3 pairs of socks and a sweater (while I'm here!) looking for inspiration to come up with La Mentira BellGrande when I see the cover of this week's soap rag. I slide to a stop right in the middle of the aisle.