When Jack wakes he usually takes a swallow of Old Crow in order
to clear his head, he also adamantly believes that doing so aids his digestion.
Today he takes two pulls from the bottle top the nightstand. Jack rarely allows
himself this pleasure, but today he feels will be an unusually tough one. Let
it be noted, however, Jack is self-disciplined enough to never take a third.
He draws
his tall, lean frame from bed, stretching out muscles that feel overused, but not
over-burdened for his body is used to real work. Being outside, lifting,
moving, bending, shifting. Sweating in the heat and getting burned wherever the
sun has found exposed skin.
Stepping
towards the bathroom mirror Jack notes that his stubble is likely too short to
bother with shaving. In spite of this he does it anyway, clearing the stout,
stubborn hair that might detract from his handsome beard. He doesn’t touch the
beard, knowing full well that unless under military order, no respectable man leaves
the ranch without at least a mustache.
In the
shower he doesn’t linger, washing efficiently and toweling off just as quickly.
Personally,
Jack doesn’t download apps, would be hard-pressed
to figure out how to send a tweet and
couldn’t spell Kardashian if held at
gunpoint. He’s busy with what matters most to him, people, his people.
The man
catches a glimpse of his fresh face in the reflection of the fogged mirror. Jack
seems distant, even to his own reflection, though there’s too much work ahead
today to give it any introspective thought now.
Jack is
a man out of time, out of place. The world around him occasionally seems ill-suited
or ill-furnished to contain him. With most he’s distant, but trusting of those
that deserve his trust. He can count all his friends on one hand, and is
intelligent enough that he doesn’t pad the number with the unreliable, lazy or
uncaring.
Dressing,
he doesn’t yearn for more because he has everything he needs at his fingertips.
He’s sure of this because he either worked for it and bought it free and clear,
or made it by his own hand. He slides into a modest suit. After adjusting his
tie the man is seen, slipping a chained watch into its vest pocket, but only
after carefully winding the timepiece.
After
procuring a thermos of coffee, Jack exits his home through the front door.
Solitude broken, he is forced to take in the world so that he does not take it
on.
Jack
sees other people, families clamoring to get into their SUVs, children glued to
tablet screens while mothers try to talk on cell phones and load up necessary
supplies to get everyone out of the house. They are their own white noise,
self-fulfilling and self-serving. They pay him no mind, so he takes heed.
Sighing,
he looks into the distance, and sees a metal skyline ringed with pollution;
smoke stacks pushing smog into the air to the point where not only are the
clouds obscured, but one might also question if the sky truly is still blue.
Although Jack isn’t quite close enough to hear the interstate he sees it in his
mind’s eye; clogged with traffic, all its inhabitants trying to advance in vain.
Jack wonders if they realize the futility in the chase, or if they even
understand what they are chasing anymore. Or moreover, did they ever know to
begin with?
Part of
him wants to go back indoors; it all feels so unnaturally repulsive. However,
he doesn’t, he marches forward because he has obligations, and he is resolute
in fulfilling them.
With melancholy
in his mind, Jack does allow himself the respite of thought. And as he looks
out over all this stuff, all he can wonder is, Why does better have to be more complicated?
