AUTHOR: Beth TITLE: Scene DATE: 1/12/2005 10:03:00 PM ----- BODY:
Watch as the day ends as the day began...grumpy and somewhat sleepy.--Tim
This time of day, my feet have begun to feel like hooves, and I stump along on creaking knees. This time of day, self-pity sets in as I walk along the icy sidewalk, plagued with deep frothing ice puddles, my footsteps echoing along the canal. This time of day, as the faceless security man somewhere in the upper reaches of the building eyeballs me via the security camera, buzzes me through, my eyes begin to feel as if they've been coated in Krazy Glue. Upstairs, I write the story, show the copy editor the photograph. No, we can't use it, she says, crop's all wrong. I put the photograph back between my notebook and the papers I fold around it, slide the whole package as far as it'll go into my coat pocket. Okay, thanks, I tell her. Make a note not to lose the business card with the address. How should I send it back? Easy enough to plop it in a No. 10 envelope, stamp, throw it in the outgoing mailbin at work. But I don't want it to get bent. Not this photograph, with the men, New England gentlemen all, in trucker caps with the names of battleships, Boston "B's", Pat Patriot, clustered around a pyramid of boxes. The American flag nosing its way into the side of the picture. The boxes are to go on airplanes, the airplanes are to touch down far away in someplace like Riyadh, from there loaded in canvas covered trucks, and somewhere in tents outside Fallujah American soldiers will have toothbrushes. Nope, I decide, placing my hoof-steps carefully on the sidewalk, fingertips never leaving the glossy edge of the photograph in my pocket. I'll put it in a padded envelope with some cardboard, with a label that says DO NOT BEND, take it to the Post Office, pay the postage. I'll do this right. It's the least I can do.