Day Twenty One
He was a smooth creature, that one. All black muscle shirts and oily ringlets. He never moved quickly, but kind of glided, or glid, whichever. Like a panther. Smooth and slow, like time didn’t touch him. He wasn’t gonna hurry. Not for anyone. His body was a temple. An orange-ish, spray-tanned temple. And around that temple hung a large, gold chain. And on that temple hung clothes borrowed from his teenage son’s closet. And he was coooool. He drove muscle cars with the tops down. Plural. He parked where he pleased. Whether it tore up large patches of grass or not. And when there wasn’t an immediately convenient place for him to park, no matter. He just stopped in the middle of the road and threw the flashers on. E-e-e-e-asy. He left for work long about 9:30. If he felt like it. If not, then ten. And he was the boss. He told other guys what to do. And they did it. And he was rolling in dough. You could tell by all the cars he owned. All the cars parked on the grass. He smoked like he was on-screen. In fact, he did everything like he was on-screen. His life was a movie. He had this living thing down. All the chicks dug him. Of that he was sure. All the guys wanted to be him. Rules? What rules? Rules did not apply to him. Not even the law of gravity. No sir. He had that thing beat. And he was an Adonis. A looker. An eyeful. So hot his shirt buttons could not contain him. And he just sauntered. Just moseyed. He glided and strolled. From one coffee date to the next. It was allll business. Aviators and scruff. Why should he shave every day? He was the boss. He said what’s up. Period. Not question mark. You don’t know him? You don’t worship him? You don’t kiss the ground he walks on? Or perhaps parks on? No matter. He doesn’t have time for you. He has time but not for you. Let’s be clear on that point. So the next time you find yourself eating dust, choking on lingering cologne, or perhaps wiping residual orange from a door handle just know, you were almost in the presence of greatness.