Well, I finally got it...I finally got the night to myself. Sadly it's due to the fact that work sent me home since I'm sick...give it up for the common cold! So because of that I've been sitting around my chair all evening just thinking, laughing at cartoons, and well...thinking...
The Thinker
Alone he sat, half past eleven as the summer breeze blew past him. He was alone, the parking lot empty, the machines that causes noise and product during the day...silent. Alone he sat, on a pile of wood. There was the older man, a worker through most of his life. A terrifying individual if you did not know him. He had a salt and pepper beard, it used to be all black. His hair had thinned out, a scab was at the top of his head, he cut it installing a air conditioner for his family the week before. Beside him sat a lunch box, the same lunch box he had, had for years. Before this blue and white box came along, he used an old black tool box to fit his meals into. The air was humid and warm, still nearly seventy degrees outside as he waited for his ride. His wife would be there shortly, for she worked in another factory just across the city. His shirt covered with sweat, his jeans slightly ripped, and his brow covered with dirt all he could think of was, "Is this all? Is this all my life is to be?" His eyes darkened with the fears of just the recent past. His wife had nearly died on him, multiple times, he had already lost one house because of disasters, his wife was laid off, and he, just the week before was looking at losing his own. You see, the plant he works at used to be open 24 hours a day, non-stop, and one by one the shifts of people were laid off, told to go home and never to return. Eventually it was down to that man, all hope had seemed lost and by the next day as he went to work expecting that pink slip...it never came. Another push of the breeze brought the man back to reality. A drop of sweat ran down his weathered face. His hands were cracked from constantly being dried out, his skin always a dark tan from being outside working on his house when he wasn't at the plant. His shoes had holes, his hat was faded and torn. His eyes, tired and bloodshot, not just from the work of the day, but from his life in general.
The constant work, the waking up early to fix his step-son breakfast. At one point the man would go to bed at 3:00am and would wake up at 7:00am just so his step-son would have a warm breakfast before going to school. Sadly though, the "thank you's" or "you're the best", never came. He had worked his entire life, and for what? Redemption of his past? Satisfaction of the present? Hope for a future? No one truly knows except for the man sitting on the wood, alone, waiting for his ride. Many would come to say that grown men never cry, however, the writer will state that when this man is alone. This man of 6'4" stature, salt and pepper beard, dark tan, weathered face, of roughly 290 pounds is alone on those nights, waiting for his ride, he weeps bitterly hoping that one day his ship will come in, that deep down he would be recognized for his accomplishments.
One day the writer will go up to the man, the thinker and place his hand on his shoulder and will say, "Thank you" and, "You're the best". After the writer goes through the process in which he is no longer a writer, but a thinker...
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