This week’s writing exercise is about putting oneself into another’s perspective. To process the disgusted, self-righteous, and defensive feelings I had of a memory of a man, I decided to write from his perspective in hopes of understanding his motivations.
It’s Friday. Two of my boys are dropping by work later. I can’t forget to order more fish from the stocker today. And also, I gotta talk to Henry about his performance when he’s closing the restaurant down. It’s the second time this month. I can barely say a thing with his Mom working with mine at the law firm and all.
I can’t believe I did it; I own this place. James got everything handed to him, but me? I didn’t take an effin’ thing. No university education, thank you very much; just me keeping my nose clean and working hard.
All those years. Saving every penny from the hardware store cleaning to buy my uncle’s rickety-ass pickup at 16. I didn’t look back after that, did I?. Roofing, drywall, stone masonry, fuck, what didn’t I do?
The American dream is alive and well, boys. It’s an hour to closing down shop, and I flip off a couple of caps and push them to Jay and Rog, stopping in before a night out together.
A pretty thing is in booth 8, and she’s lingering around longer than most. I take her card when she comes to the register to pay, and she’s interested. Yes, sir. Of course, she is. My boys are chatting her up, pushing her off to me like the good friends they are, “Yeah, come out. We’ll be shooting pool,” they say, “Get Chase’s number.” She’s punching my number in her phone. Man, what a hottie. She smiles, looks down, and back up again—what a look she’s giving me. I can barely keep it in my pants. She walks out, and her tan legs and lean arms are all I can think about as I look back at my boys. She’s driving away, and they’re telling me, I got this one in the bag; it’s obvious.
Going On 40 