A man with hollow eyes hovering above large black bags sat up at the beckoning of his alarm. He sighed and turned the shrill noise off, annoyed at it and the rising sun which mocked him in its greeting of the day. Another pointless day, just to survive but not live. The man didn’t even think as his worn body went through the dull motions of getting ready for work. Soon he left his unkempt house without any hurry.
The gas station he worked at was small and barely functional. He knew a few regulars who came in to buy their pack of menthols or camels and that was about all he did in a day. Today would be no different, slog through his 8 hours, return home, eat, sleep, wake up. Never anything new, never anything different.
That was what he thought, but the small man who walked in the station nervously had other plans. His shaky figure approached the man who stood bored at the counter. Threats soon started spewing from the mouth of the diminutive specimen. The man at the counter shook as he followed the instructions to the letter. Put the money in the bag, put more money in the bag, don’t stop putting money in the bag. Money, money, money. Bag, bag, bag. Money, what is money? Is it even real? Life is dictated by these slips of cotton with ink on them. The face of a once great man showing that this particular slip is worth twice as much as that one, or even ten times as much as that other one. Money money money money.
The short fellow was not satisfied with the pace of the man putting money in the bag. His spit flying into the cashier's face as he shouted more threats and made his hostility known with the welcoming muzzle of a gun dancing around in the mist of spit. His threats went nowhere as the man behind the counter got lost somewhere in the situation, either in the terror and fear he felt, or perhaps he was still wondering about money? Either way, the short man was not happy.
“HEY MAN, WAKE UP!”
Sunken eyes opened just as the complaints of his alarm started making their way toward him. His vapid eyes stared straight at the ceiling as the modern rooster grew louder in indignance. He didn’t want to slave away at work today, he decided to call off. A rundown gas station like that was bound to get robbed any day now anyways. The problem was that he had nothing else to do. There were surely no activities in his dingy apartment, so he put some headphones in and went on his way.
The streets around his house were torn up, but he hoped he could find a bar or something. He walked a couple blocks before being assaulted by the smell of cigarettes and alcohol, with the faint thumping of dance music echoing in the alley. Who knew that there was a strip club this close to his house? He unashamedly walked into Euphoria, becoming a part of the early crowd who got a show of the less enticing ladies. The man’s glazed eyes took in the view, but did not become any clearer.
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He sat there in silence, one of the multiple lonely men who sat around looking at women who were exploiting them for money. And all they got was a show, something practically worthless in this technology focused age. He wondered if these people were like him, drifting through life, reacting to events but never causing any. He cleared his mind of the clutter that was men and focused on the more important subject, women. The stripper in front of him knew what she was doing, she glided around the pole with the grace of a gazelle traipsing through the safari. She needed that skill, because her looks certainly wouldn’t get her far. The man wondered how she came to be in this position. Surely she was qualified enough for a job at a crappy gas station like him, stripping at her age can’t be her get rich quick scheme. Does she even question what she’s doing at this point? Is she like him, going through the motions, never even thinking about what could be and just struggling through what is? Her life can be boiled down to stripping at this point.
Or maybe it couldn’t, after all, he doesn’t know this woman. Perhaps she enjoys parading her semi-nude body in front of the lustful eyes of wastrel men. Maybe she has a home filled with people or things she loves, things that make her optimistic in her outlook of a new day. The man's eyes misted over in his thoughts. Realistically though, what were the chances of that? She was probably at the same level as these schmucks who came in to leer at her body for money because they can’t get a woman themselves. But who am I to judge? After all, aren’t I a part of the same pathetic cycle? He decided to just enjoy the show, watching the up-down motions of the woman. Up-down up-down down-up, neverending, constant, like life, but at least this was slightly enjoyable.
His thoughts were interrupted by the hazy figure of a man saying something in his face. The man saw the lips moving but heard nothing. Shapes that should come together to form comprehensible sounds resulting in naught but amusement for the tired man. The figure was angry at the perceived attitude he was given, starting to stamp and snort and stomp and snap and swear in front of him. The man could not bring himself to care in the least, mind tantalized by the sweet nectar known as alcohol. The figure did not find this amusing, resorting to a slap in the snout and a shout.
“WAKE UP!”
A pair of eyes stayed hidden behind the safety of their lids despite the constant nagging of an alarm. What if he didn’t wake up today? Would that be so bad? What if he never woke up? That sounds delightful. Just for today, he decided he would try not waking up. Maybe he will do the same tomorrow.
“WAKE UP!”
Heavy eyelids fluttered open at the beckoning of a soft hand against his cheek. He knew who this was, but not why they were here. The warmth he felt made him feel good, quieting the thoughts that always seemed to rage beneath his surface. The owner of the hand noticed his actions. They smiled, a glistening scene that pierced the muddled shroud surrounding the man. Perhaps it was time he woke up.