(3)

A message on my telephone's answering machine:

"Hi Simon.  I'm calling to let you know that the store will be closing at the end of this month – two weeks from today, in fact.  We just aren't making enough money to be able to stay open any longer . . ."

I can't say I'm much surprised.  There have been so few customers at the newsstand lately I've been going crazy with boredom.  Neither can I say that I'm exactly heartbroken.  I've grown to hate this job.  Which is mostly a matter of me standing behind a counter selling people lottery tickets.  Spend 10 bucks & win 7.  Spend 7 bucks & win 3.  Spend 3 bucks & win . . .  (But ah! the thrill when you do win!  I should know; I've won more than a few bucks there myself, lost more than a few too, bored out of my skull & with nothing better to do . . .  But there was always that chance, however slender, however absurd (but isn't life itself absurd? yes, it is), that the very next ticket would be the ticket, the one that'd put me over the top, over the rainbow, forever & ever.  Always the chance that I'd be the one, that special, lucky one . . .)

I have enough money in the bank to last me a few months, & of course there'll be my gvt-issued unemployment checks; I can count on those for a while.  One month – maybe two.  Happy days.  Time.  Time enough at last.  Time to sleep, time to read, time to think, time to dream.  Time enough to get angry.  Time to write protest letters (stop animal exploitation NOW!) to gvt agencies & set them to quivering in their boots (sure, sure).  Happy days.

But when money becomes scarce, the old worries grow.  How am I going to survive?  How, simply, live?  No money, no luck.  Money = luck.  Luck = freedom.  Freedom = time.  And round & round they go, the voices in my head:  "You must get a job, Simon.  You have to . . ."  "I know I know I know I know but how?  Where?  What can I do?  I'm fit for nothing.  There's nothing I can do.  Nothing I want to do.  Nothing except change the way things are in this world.  And to change the way things are in this world, one must have power.  I have no power.  I have vision, but no power.  I have given up all possibility for power . . ."

"You must get a job, Simon.  You must, you must. . . ."  "I know I know.  Money's running out.  Money = luck.  Luck = power (the power to live) . . ."

And time grows short.

I'm a misfit, that's the truth.  A misfit & a miscreant, in thought if not in deed.  A misanthropist, except towards those who think as I do.  I have seen too much, known too much, understood too much, felt too much.  Too much, too much, too much . . .

:help: