Asking the right questions

 

It’s like my brain is a soggy sponge.  I sit here squeezing out thoughts, wringing them onto this page, waiting – like you, to see what it’s going to be.

I wish I had something worthy to jabber on about, but so far that’s not the case.

I could, I guess, write about the Ascott building across the street, with its doorman, and fancy cars coming and going all the time.

I walked in there once, a few months back.  The doorman didn’t want to let me in, but I told him I just wanted to see the lobby and I’d leave.  He watched me the whole time I was in there.

The fancy marble floor echoed my steps as I entered.  There were a few overstuffed chairs here and there and soft music coming from somewhere. There were pedestal ashtrays next to the chairs and one table with magazines and a copy of the New York Times laying on it.

I didn’t hang around, the doorman watching me all the time was creeping me out.  From the sidewalk I looked back at my building.  I could see my window but not at all into my apartment.  Mostly a reflection of this stuff across the street.

How odd it would be to live over here, with the old men who smoke pipes and wear vests.  I wouldn’t mind having a chauffeur.  What a hoot that would be.  A human GPS.  I wouldn’t have to know my way around or drive in this traffic.  I’d just say where I wanted to go and then relax in the back seat.  I could get used to that.  I’d have no concern about the rules of the road, parking issues or anything, just trust in my driver to get me there.

I guess I would have had to plan for that kind of life back in high school.  Maybe my guidance counselor could have steered me towards becoming rich.  I obviously asked the wrong questions.  They seemed to view me more as the chauffeur.