I run out of that building and I see… the sky. I see all the things I love in this world. The work, the food, the time to sit and smoke. And I look at this pen and I ask myself, “What the hell am I grabbing this thing for? Why am I trying to become something I don’t wanna become when all I want is out there waiting for me the minute I say I know who I am?”
Will you let me go, for God’s sake? Will you take that phony dream and burn it before something happens?
I spent six or seven years after High School trying to work myself up, being a shipping clerk, salesman, business of one kind or another. It’s a measly manner of existence. To get on that subway, on hot mornings in the the summer, to devote your whole life to keeping stock or making phone calls? By selling and buying? To suffer fifty weeks of the year for the sake of a two-week vacation? When all you really desire is to be outdoors with your shirt off. And always, to have to get ahead of the next fella and still, that’s how you build a future.
There were a lot of nice days. When he’d come home from a trip; or on Sundays, making the stoop; finishing the cellar; when he built the extra bathroom; and put up the garage. You know, Charley, I think there was more of him in that front stoop than in all the sales he ever made.
