Save the Last Dance for Me

It became the kind of day that felt more like an out of body experience. The strong gusts of wind literally move a middle aged man across the parking lot. His broad shoulders harness the load of a bulging briefcase but it is a saddle that grows heavier with each passing year logged on the job. The keen observer can detect stress on his once carefree face. His gait is slower then it once was. He recognizes his untimely disquiet on this anniversary date.

He remembers back to when it all started. Twenty years ago today he was hired. The drive home from work prompts more reflection. He pipes classical music in the cabin and it provides an apropos soundtrack to his memories. He dwells on the mile marker to his career and the road traveled. He tries hard to untangle the memories of a thousand clients. He recalls his rare skin disease and each of the four homes occupied by a rotating procession of wives and children. The flashbacks are much like time spent on Earth. An hour and a half later, he is home before he knows it.

Not twenty steps inside the front door, he finds waiting for him an urgent message to call work. The fire he had been battling with a water pistol finally exploded. He looks up at the clock which reads quarter till Friday night. He tries to stand tall but his eyes momentarily close to seize the irony of the moment. His mile marker lauding twenty consecutive years of service was premature because the work day was not over. He crumples that little piece of paper in his bare hand before trashing it. There was no reason to celebrate because its riddance felt like a twisted blend of damnation and liberation. When work never reaches completion, it is difficult to derive sense of accomplishment. For achievement is a dance with oneself and its song can sound no better than muddled muted attrition.