First World Problems

I was not in a very good mood when I woke up. It had been a long night and my head was thumping as an act of revenge. When the alarm startled me out of my short sleep, I pounded the snooze bar and tried to steal five more minutes. Then five more. The third time I yanked the alarm clock from the wall and hurled it across the room, uttering a few alarms of my own.

It took everything I had to get out of that bed. I shuffled to the bathroom for a shower, but decided instead to splash some cold water on my face. It helped a little, until I looked in the mirror and saw how ragged I actually looked. I stuck my tongue out, both as an act of defiance and to see if it looked as dry and swollen as it felt. I wet my hair and ran a comb through it a couple of times until it looked presentable. I brushed my teeth. I rubbed some deodorant under one arm, but the stick broke and lodged inside the oval tube. With a curse, I fished it out, rubbed some on my fingers, and finished the job. I still stunk, though, and it took me a moment to realize it was my clothes more than my body. Rooting through my closet, I found the last clean button down. There were no clean slacks, so I found the least wrinkled pair I could find from the pile in the corner and slid them on.

I called for an Uber. They told me ten minutes. That would be just enough time. I went downstairs and out of building. There was a light rain in the gray dawn, and it left a mist in the city that mingled with the pollution and held it in place like a sinister hand. It was autumn and chilly, and I had left without a jacket, but it was only two blocks.

My head pounded as I opened the door to the coffee shop. It was good to be out of the smog and the rain, but the noise in the coffee shop simply replaced one bad situation with another. Bad music blared from speakers in the ceiling, and people had to almost yell to be heard over it. It was too much for this early in the morning. At the front of the line, an old lady was paying with coins, counting each one individually as she reached into a small purse. “Three thirty five. Three forty. Three fifty,” she said and then left her coffee on the counter as she shuffled to the side. The man behind her, who should have now been ordering, brought her forgotten coffee to her and escorted her to the door. Normally, that would have meant that he go to the end of the line, but the person behind him did not have the moral courage to step forward, so the good Samaritan made us all wait while he wound his way back to the front of the line and ordered.

It seemed to take forever, but I was finally next in line. At least seeing Lydia would brighten my morning a little. Lydia was the pretty red-headed barista that waited on me every morning. I had crush on her and she knew it. Once, I slipped a handwritten note in with a tip. My phone number was on the note. Lydia never called, but after the note I always got a little extra flavoring in my coffee, or a little extra whip cream. Once, she slipped my a free doughnut when her manager wasn't looking. Today, when I got to the counter, I was waited on by a pimply, skinny kid who did not look old enough to have a job. His name tag said “Stan.”

“Where is Lydia?” I asked. Stan shrugged his shoulders.

“Who's Lydia?”

“The pretty red head who works here.”

“Oh. She doesn't work here any more. Can I take your order?”

“Where did she go?” I asked, not really expecting an answer. I mean, how would Stan the pimply barista know?

The man behind me in line said “Are you here to order or ask him out?” So I ordered a coffee. Nothing fancy this time. I did not want Stan to put any whip cream in my cup. I figured I better eat something so I ordered a bagel too. I paid, but I did not tip Stan. Suddenly, I realized that the long line and delay had made me late to meet my ride share. Grabbing my coffee and the little bag containing my bready breakfast, I bolted down the street. Hot coffee splurted up through the little hole in the cup lid like an erupting volcano, its hot liquid scalding my skin before bouncing on my pant legs and raining dark stains on the fabric.

When I got back to my building, the Uber was gone. No doubt he got tired of waiting. That meant that I would have to take the bus and that I would once again be late for work. I waited for thirteen more minutes in the rain with a throbbing headache. Two sips into my coffee and I realized that the skinny little dweeb Stan got my order wrong. How could he screw that up, I wondered. It was a simple order. At least he gave me the right bagel. I took some solace in the fact that I did not tip him--nor would I ever.

The bus was almost full this time of morning, so I was forced to squeeze myself into a seat next to an elderly man who stank of urine and cheap cologne. His fingers were long and bony, and his nails were pointed and black underneath. His breath smelled putrid, and he was breathing heavily. As the bus lurched to a stop, the old man pitched forward with a grunt. When the bus started up again, the old man flopped backward in his seat. With each stop, he moved back and forward like a wave, spreading his acrid smell in the enclosed bus. I lost my appetite. I offered him the bagel. The old man just grinned at me through rotting teeth. He did not blink.

I left the bagel on the seat when I got off the bus. It was contaminated with old man smell. Still sipping my incorrect coffee, I walked the two blocks to my job. At least it had stopped raining. I shivered a little and tried to pick up my pace. I was late for work, and it was not my first time. In fact, some people might consider my tardiness to be a habit. My head was still pounding when I got to work.

My boss was waiting for me. He emphasized his displeasure by looking at his watch. “Twenty eight minutes late,” he said.

“I had to take the bus,” I told him.

“You stink,” he said, waving his hand in front of his face and wrinkling his nose.

I started to explain about the old man on the bus, but my boss interrupted me. “I don't care. Just get to work.” I brushed past him. His cologne smelled strong and rich, especially compared to the way that I smelled. “This is your last day,” my boss called from behind me. I did not even flinch. I finished my shift and clocked out. My boss hovered around me, obviously waiting for me to beg for another chance. I did not give him the satisfaction. I spun on my heel and walked out the door, my boss calling behind me. I did not want him to follow me, so I walked past the first bus stop and about a quarter mile to the next one. I waited, shivering, in the cold until a bus came. It was not the bus that would take me home, but it did not matter. I could hop a connector with little issue. I found a seat and reflected on my day. Hungover, hungry, no job, stinking of filth and city, I got off at a stop right in front of a bar. I had a nearly maxed out credit card and a few random bills in my pocket. Enough to get me drunk. I drank the first one in memory of Lydia. My day had come full circle.