22 Minutes

by Daryl Crass Water (a few days late....again)


He looked at his watch for the hundredth time in the last 22 minutes. It looked back at him confirming what he already knew. It was one minute later than the last time he had looked at his watch….8:52. The bus was now 22 minutes late, and by matter of default, so was he.

He pulled out his cell-phone to call a co-worker for a ride. The whole thing was an act, like going through the motions. Like looking at your watch actually helping the bus to arrive. His cell phone never had reception in this area. One of those oxy morons of life. Like a car that can’t take you anywhere or an umbrella that doesn’t keep the rain off. He even did the obligatory robot dance of holding his phone in six different places around his body, searching for a signal that he knew wasn’t there.

Prichard Park was 3 blocks away, and it has great cell phone reception. Two more looks at the watch confirming it was 8:53. He stood up and loosened his tie, glancing at the three other people waiting for the bus. He gave a little nod and started walking. Crossing the street and moving casually in the direction of the park. All three people took a break from alternately looking at the road and looking at their watches. They were stunned to see one of their own throwing in the towel. Surely the bus was right around the corner… maybe one of them should save him?

It was hot this morning. The kind of hot that flashed warning signs of a blistering afternoon yet to come. The heat was already radiating off the asphalt as he came to the next corner. Looking left then right, never forgetting that second look to the left, he crossed Mitchell Street on his way to Prichard Park.

At the next corner he pulled out his cell phone. He had two phone calls to make. One to a friend, asking him for a lift to work, and the second to work announcing his tardiness. Life’s little grind. The day in and day out procedures that had to be followed. The time-clocks and people who all had to be greeted appropriately. The cell phone in his hand became heavier and heavier as he got closer and closer to the park. He had a desk full of work waiting for him (at least he thought there was a desk under all those papers). No matter how much he got done, the piles never seemed to diminish? When he got to the park the phone became lead. He couldn’t even find the strength to lift it. He just stood there staring at the jungle-gym. The monkey bars, the slides, all the bright colors of youthful play!

He was frozen at the edge of the park, so full of laughter and possibilities. He heard a noise behind him on the street. The air hydraulics of a breaking system that belonged only to busses. It passed behind him in a loud rumbling mess of discontented passengers, graffiti scarred walls and bubble-gum laden seats. The bus was just enough noise to mask the sound of a single cell phone hitting the asphalt by his feet. Shattering like a mason jar Molotov Cocktail full of his daily grind and paperwork. An explosion of all his duties and monotony. Battery cases flying left paperwork flying right and a little ACME cartoon cloud of dust where he was standing, as our hero took off, at a dead run, for the swings!