The weekends were less exciting to him than were the weekdays. On Saturdays and Sundays, a hollow feeling washed over him and he struggled to make it through those days. Time was spent with the T.V. filling his musty wood-paneled apartment with welcoming sounds, going to the Men’s Club and sitting there alone while the rest of the men were with their families, and going through the weekend paper, methodically. At night he would warm up some old pasta from the night before and check/recheck his lotto tickets while still allowing that T.V. to add some dialogue into the apartment.
Weekdays however, were different. He had a routine that he really enjoyed and with this being Monday, he had five amusing days in front of him. Getting out of his apartment and heading over to the Club was his first priority. At around 8am, the first wave of straphangers would make their way to the subway and this was the first of two highlights of his day. Born and raised in this neighborhood and having left only once, for the war, he had seen the dramatic change to the neighborhood occur right before him. Today’s commuters were composed of twenty and thirty somethings who had little regard for tradition. They seemed to be slightly unconscious to their immediate surroundings…which he found curious. What were they constantly entertaining that made them seemingly exist outside of the present? Life seemed a little overwhelming to the younger generation he thought. Their distracted faces, the way they dressed, the young couples, this all kept him in a stupor until about 10:30am when the parade subsided.
Midday was mostly spent at the Club eating lunch, going over neighborhood gossip, watching t.v., and playing either pinochle or breaking out the cribbage board. Recently though, he felt the need to slip home and try to grab a few hours sleep. Nights had turned into restless endeavours and at his age, sleep was a necessity.
However, once 5:30pm came around, his favorite morning routine started its second act. He tried his hardest to read their faces, seeing if he could decipher those expressions to come up with certain conclusions about their day. He thought about all the meanings of the word “communication”. He was never mistaken as a poet and this form of interaction suited him just fine. Eventually, the procession from the subway to the various apartments came to a slow trickle.
On this night, as the dark clouds started their march over the neighborhood, and everybody made their way home for dinner, he thought it would be a good idea to head to the deli and pick up a few Lucky 5 scratch-offs for the long night ahead of him.
