I was walking down a staircase in the Target Center, when coming up the other direction and directly in my path was an older gentleman. There was nothing specifically notable about him except that the paper he was reading seemed to be the same color as the hair that sat atop his head. He was your regular old-fashioned working man that had come to the cusp of retirement and failed to make the leap to leisure from business conquests, all though I doubt very much with his décor that he was doing any concurring in the business sector at all.
One could surmise from his wide striped blue and white shirt that he had fallen short of his Wall Street dreams and had to settle for Junk Bond Way. His comfortable but completely out of style shoes told the tale of his coming of age a few years past his prime in an industry of under achievers who had been, none the less, downtrodden. Fashion was no longer the means to an end goal of some illustrious career but now only the law and a meager attempt at comfort.
As he rounded the bend of the stairs and began his ascension directly at me he paused from the newspaper glance up at me. You could see in his eyes the not altogether dissatisfaction of finding me in his sight but rather the general malaise of someone who has become accustomed to being disappointed.
He found a man where he had hoped, perhaps even dreamed, that he would find a women. With pouting lips and long blond hair being almost lost alongside her stiflingly blue eyes. He had even thought of the slender form almost lost behind two large rounded breasts and hips that told the tail of a glorious, even worship-able backside. All this he had hoped against hope to find rounding the corner on one of the stairs.
After all, he only took these walks on the off chance that he might find someone to share his time with, his soul with. That was the purpose for these damnable walking-style work shoes.
What he had failed to notice in all of the 45 years he had done this walk was that there was never the woman of this dreams coming down the stairs at him. Even if it was a women who could hold some kind of candle to the one he had pieced together from various magazines in a sophomoric collage during his college years, they were never alone, never giving him a chance to talk to them, strike up a conversation and a relationship.
After 45 years he hadn’t grasped that the failure wasn’t in his appearance or even his dreams but rather in his plan. Bumping into a women hardly makes her want to chat and who ever wants to have a meeting on a stairwell that lasts long enough to find ones “soul mate”, if the term holds an validity in reality.
Today was no different than any other day had been. Perhaps less blonde hair and breasts but the same unavoidable failure. Tomorrow as he straps on the same comfortable shoes and buttons up a similarly striped shirt, perhaps it will hit him that unless there is some considerable change in his routine his is doomed to replay the exact encounter of today but without the same visuals.
As he looked at me I could see the overwhelming dissatisfaction in himself. Yet, as it came to his opinion of me, its seemed as though he thanked me for not being hideously deformed. At least that is what I saw.
One could surmise from his wide striped blue and white shirt that he had fallen short of his Wall Street dreams and had to settle for Junk Bond Way. His comfortable but completely out of style shoes told the tale of his coming of age a few years past his prime in an industry of under achievers who had been, none the less, downtrodden. Fashion was no longer the means to an end goal of some illustrious career but now only the law and a meager attempt at comfort.
As he rounded the bend of the stairs and began his ascension directly at me he paused from the newspaper glance up at me. You could see in his eyes the not altogether dissatisfaction of finding me in his sight but rather the general malaise of someone who has become accustomed to being disappointed.
He found a man where he had hoped, perhaps even dreamed, that he would find a women. With pouting lips and long blond hair being almost lost alongside her stiflingly blue eyes. He had even thought of the slender form almost lost behind two large rounded breasts and hips that told the tail of a glorious, even worship-able backside. All this he had hoped against hope to find rounding the corner on one of the stairs.
After all, he only took these walks on the off chance that he might find someone to share his time with, his soul with. That was the purpose for these damnable walking-style work shoes.
What he had failed to notice in all of the 45 years he had done this walk was that there was never the woman of this dreams coming down the stairs at him. Even if it was a women who could hold some kind of candle to the one he had pieced together from various magazines in a sophomoric collage during his college years, they were never alone, never giving him a chance to talk to them, strike up a conversation and a relationship.
After 45 years he hadn’t grasped that the failure wasn’t in his appearance or even his dreams but rather in his plan. Bumping into a women hardly makes her want to chat and who ever wants to have a meeting on a stairwell that lasts long enough to find ones “soul mate”, if the term holds an validity in reality.
Today was no different than any other day had been. Perhaps less blonde hair and breasts but the same unavoidable failure. Tomorrow as he straps on the same comfortable shoes and buttons up a similarly striped shirt, perhaps it will hit him that unless there is some considerable change in his routine his is doomed to replay the exact encounter of today but without the same visuals.
As he looked at me I could see the overwhelming dissatisfaction in himself. Yet, as it came to his opinion of me, its seemed as though he thanked me for not being hideously deformed. At least that is what I saw.
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