The Man In The Moon
by David A. Tyler
I'm standing in the middle of a car on the N-train. The guy sitting in front of me is clipping his fingernails and they are flying haphazardly in various directions. Lovely.
I get off at my usual stop; grab a bagel (a schmear), some coffee, and head towards the office. I fumble with the snap-back-sip-n-save lid and the cup slips out of my hands, hits the pavement, and splashes scalding liquid up my side.
I bend over to clean the mess and I'm speckled with street-sludge residue compliments of a passing delivery van.
I'm now very dirty, coffee-less, and have no desire to go to work.
So I don't.
I walk up the street to Central Park, grab a bench, and lay down to take a nap. Trees and sun slide to the outskirts of my vision, and my entire world seems to collapse. I do the same thing every day, and I do it so I can afford to live for the next.
Today is different.
I nap. I get up. I eat. I get the paper. I go back to my bench. I read the paper. I nap. I get up. I'm hungry again. It's getting late.
Life has defining moments. My defining moment was over a hot-sausage and mustard in Central Park. The moon is full tonight, sends light over the entire horizon. Seems there is a whole other world out there, and the man in the moon is laughing at me... calling my name.