HAZY DAYZ

The fog was thick in my head, as I bid my husband good day, took my coffee and left the café.

Two miles down the road and I rammed the brakes through the floorboard, to keep from eating the cute little bug I apparently didn’t see stopped right in front of me; my bag slamming into the back of my seat, sunglasses and mints filling the dash, wedged against the windshield, too far for me to reach.

I pulled over and sat for a few then made my way back out into the flow; less than five minutes later it was déjà vu, only this time a giant truck that I probably would have just careened right under.

I got in the slow lane and let the world pass by; ignoring the horns, flying fingers and fists pounding steering wheels. I was going the goddamn speed limit, but everyone was in competition, racing to the red light, on their way to nowhere.

I found an empty lot, pulled over and parked. Sent a few texts then reclined my seat, noted the business sign beside me and wondered what in the hell a Yum-Yum Tree was.

Thirty minutes passed and the dizzy was subsiding, and since my boss’ response was “be safe” I thought it best to head on in to office. I pulled onto University, taking my time; the strip of Jacksonville I’ve come to call, Boulevard of the Bizarre. And even through my lightheaded haze, I was still focused enough to see.

He was 80 if he was a day; in his neon green safety vest, hunched forward, walking slowly, making his way up the median, of the busiest intersection in the entire city. Clutching to his chest, as if the only thing keeping him balanced, the six page Times Union, because that’s what it’s been reduced to, though it will still cost you a buck twenty-five.

He shouldn’t have been there, peddling for survival; he should be out somewhere fishing, along the banks of the river, enjoying himself, leisurely passing what time he has left.

Such a sad state most of us now face; forced to work until we die, after paying our dues the whole of our lives. Somebody should seriously do something about that, while the puppets on strings dance for the masters agenda.

9:00 a.m. and the parking lot already full; men you would think should be somewhere working; stuffing dollar bills watching strippers fuck brass poles. Paying for their egos to be hunched and stroked, and for the right price, taken to the back room, where she’ll do it for you till you cum; so long as you’re a good boy and look, don’t touch.

Two blocks down and the big building sits abandoned. The giant sign now torn in half, whipping wildly in the wind; thanking Jacksonville for 45 years of customer loyalty but sadly Liberty Furniture now going out of business; huge liquidation sale, everything must go.

Another half mile down on the right, they line the sidewalk waving their signs. 7000+ babies murdered by their mothers – Pregnant? Let us Help! And the pastor in his robes leading them in prayer; just a block away from Memorial Hospital, where a newborn was found in the dumpster, its mother long gone, unwanted, unloved, now a ward of the State.

They claim life begins at conception, and terminating a pregnancy is murder, yet they turn a blind eye to all the live children who suffer; continue their rants in the name of God, because everyone is entitled to take up a cause.

At the end of the day, counting the jewels they believe they’ve earned, for their crown of glory, gifted from the Lord. Not realizing that judging, demoralizing, demeaning and damning, will earn them only thorns and a guarantee of nothing.

I shook my head and re-stirred the fog, not to worry, I was nearly almost there. Looked in the rearview and saw the blackened sky, being chased now I was, by a wicked looking storm. I accelerated just a tad, hoping to beat the downpour; for there was no doubt I would crumble and melt away, if the rain were to catch and wash over me this day.

© 2011 Jill Terry

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About jill

Riding the current of life's changing tides, while capturing my journey in images and words... View all posts by jill

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