In Search Of A Modicum of Dignity (Doot)
He was seven feet tall, but only when he was asleep.
A man of stature, as they say, who loomed over most average persons, and commanded respect through his stately posture and broad shoulders; moreover, a Greek statuesque, Herculean build made him, indeed, the most imposing figure in any crowd: that was, at least, how he visualised himself, at night, in bed, alone, unconscious.
This position, as it were, filled him with confidence and security in his goodliness and worth as a human being, as from task to task he swept and completed each with such tenacity and expertise that none could bear witness with closed mouths. There came no questions that questioned whether or not he was the best candidate for any job, and the offers for high-ranking, prestigious, well-paid, benefit-filled employment flooded in as though the levees barring opportunity from his life had burst.
He never sat home on any couch and moped about a dead-end job and unfaithful girlfriend; he never stared vacantly at the phone and wondered who would actual allot time in their lives to interact with his pathetic self; he never lingered at mirrors questioning whether he should part his hair one way or the other, and ultimately concluding that, no matter what, nobody would notice; he never sat on any closed toilet lid and juggled the thought of suicide around his mind. He was happy, there, in dreams.
He woke up, one day, and hung himself with the same brown leather belt he had worn to work for thirty-three years and taken off each night at five o' clock, hanging it on a hook by the mirror in his room that he straightened his plain, solid-coloured tie in front of before heading out the front door of his one-room apartment located in downtown next to an abandoned grocery store where drug dealers gave him wary glares at he passed on the way to his twelve-year old, rusted, white, mid-sized car which was, currently, in desperate need of an oil change and new brake pads that he was sitting on, waiting for his next four hundred dollar, monthly pay check to come in so he could spend most of it on the parts at the mechanic that had slept with his ex-wife before they divorced five years ago and she took his only daughter and repossessed half of his liquified assets including a really nice pair of loafers he dearly missed.
"How high's the water, mama?
Two feet high and risin',
How high's the water, papa?
Two feet high and risin'."
A man of stature, as they say, who loomed over most average persons, and commanded respect through his stately posture and broad shoulders; moreover, a Greek statuesque, Herculean build made him, indeed, the most imposing figure in any crowd: that was, at least, how he visualised himself, at night, in bed, alone, unconscious.
"How high's the water, mama?
Three feet high and risin',
How high's the water, papa?
Three feet high and risin'."
This position, as it were, filled him with confidence and security in his goodliness and worth as a human being, as from task to task he swept and completed each with such tenacity and expertise that none could bear witness with closed mouths. There came no questions that questioned whether or not he was the best candidate for any job, and the offers for high-ranking, prestigious, well-paid, benefit-filled employment flooded in as though the levees barring opportunity from his life had burst.
"How high's the water, mama?
Four feet high and risin',
How high's the water, papa?
Four feet high and risin'."
He never sat home on any couch and moped about a dead-end job and unfaithful girlfriend; he never stared vacantly at the phone and wondered who would actual allot time in their lives to interact with his pathetic self; he never lingered at mirrors questioning whether he should part his hair one way or the other, and ultimately concluding that, no matter what, nobody would notice; he never sat on any closed toilet lid and juggled the thought of suicide around his mind. He was happy, there, in dreams.
"How high's the water, mama?
Five feet high and risin',
How high's the water, papa?
Five feet high and risin'."
He woke up, one day, and hung himself with the same brown leather belt he had worn to work for thirty-three years and taken off each night at five o' clock, hanging it on a hook by the mirror in his room that he straightened his plain, solid-coloured tie in front of before heading out the front door of his one-room apartment located in downtown next to an abandoned grocery store where drug dealers gave him wary glares at he passed on the way to his twelve-year old, rusted, white, mid-sized car which was, currently, in desperate need of an oil change and new brake pads that he was sitting on, waiting for his next four hundred dollar, monthly pay check to come in so he could spend most of it on the parts at the mechanic that had slept with his ex-wife before they divorced five years ago and she took his only daughter and repossessed half of his liquified assets including a really nice pair of loafers he dearly missed.
"Well, it's five feet high and risin'."
posted by c.Jay Wrong at
7:23 PM
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