He spent too much time in the shower
with a full suit and tie wardrobe. Blame the office
Christmas party becoming a strain on his heart
and then becoming just a panic attack on an elevator
that went down past the basement and then sideways.

Blame all those mysterious children’s letters
to Santa Claus from 1934.

Blame Sheila from the fifth floor
and the recent pregnancy scandal that caused her
to either quit or disappear altogether.

What they do know is that
he stayed until the janitor forced him out
early the next morning. They also know that he went home
and spent a couple of days sitting in his shower with the hot
water asking impersonal questions while he tried to get
his cell phone to work.

The only thing
they don’t know
is where he got
the money for a cab
ride to the airport.

He was broke, after all,
betting everything back in November
on a football game where they first had to clean
the tape before it would play in the VCR.

This nervous breakdown of his
had started simple and much earlier
than the Christmas Party. People were amazed
he still had a job. Never mind the fact that he showed up
with a shaved head and a laugh that made anyone around him
suddenly check their silent cell phones for text messages.

He was way too happy
to be alive, and it was only a matter of time
before something dramatic came around
faster than the streetlights can normally focus.

It’s just that no one
expected him to turn up at the airport.
Not a single honest soul expected him
to haul ass down the runway to try and catch
the 9:15 to Phoenix, Nevada with his bare hands.

You know what,
he almost made it, too.

At least,
he was determined enough
with that scream of his eyes, eyes packed shut
and hands gripping at the thick air for every inch
that might help pull him forward.

Lunatics have all the luck,
or so some of them say.

01/30/2010

Posted on 01/30/2010
Copyright © 2024 Gabriel Ricard