Familiarity Breeds Contempt
Closing the door behind me, I made my way down the flight of stairs that led from my house to the gravel pathway outside. Upon reaching a turn, I stopped and stole a quick glance down Clemington Street. “Same shit, different day.” I muttered to myself and crossed the scarred road towards Starbucks.
Work started at eleven but I was usually out of home by eight. Following my daily routine, I walked over to my usual seat at Starbucks that was adjacent from the glass windows, receiving a view of the place I hated most.
“The usual,” I yelled over to Frank, my most trusted waiter.
“Sure. Same shit different day.”
When my ‘White Chocolate Mocha’ arrived, I took a sip and observed the boring street of Clemington.
The busy road was filled with incessant traffic. Amongst the traffic were red buses packed with people wearing ‘panic’ on their faces. Men and women late for work strutted past the window in their El Padre coats, shooting hateful glances at me, obviously jealous of my idleness.
By nine, the rush hour had cleared off and the river-like flows of Hondas were replaced by streams of slow-moving Mercedes. Behind each wheel sat Mr-I-Am-The-Boss-So-I-Take-My-Time.
I took another sip of my mocha and resumed observing the ugly neighbourhood. Old, worn-out terraces lined the pavements, each standing about three stories high. Wilted lilies and roses ‘decorated’ the gates that guarded each apartment. Disgustingly red mailboxes were positioned at crooked angles from the entrances of each apartment. Tall palm trees planted outside the houses loomed, impaling dark silhouettes over them. The litter-strewn pavements were colonized with little piles of dog turd, giving rise to a stench so foul that I thought I could actually see wafts of pungence pulsing from it.
At ten, grumpy housewives began exiting their homes to walk their dogs. Leashed to their owners, the ill-tempered bulldogs and border collies growled at any moving thing in sight.
I finally rose from my seat half an hour later. Finishing up the mocha, I zipped up my jacket, grabbed my suitcase and made my way towards the exit of Starbucks.
“Pin it to my tab, Frank,” I waved before pushing open the unnecessarily-heavy glass doors and walking out, leaving behind me the only nice guy in the neighbourhood. I then started towards the old building of Bartley Brothers where I would spend the next eight hours working. Same shit, different day.
29/4/03
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