Here is the opening to a story that I have been working on.

Some people obsess about what will come when the sun declares itself anew; shinning on its longtime lover. Waking her up and simultaneously putting her to bed. It is always tomorrow somewhere, just as it’s always yesterday; and in between many people are wishing for one or the other. That’s where this story, like many others, takes place; between yesterday and tomorrow and all Richard Neal has been doing is trying to get one by racing away from the other. But he will soon learn the importance of what so many of us take for granted; today.

It was a little past 7 in the morning when our Richard was getting ready for work. He followed a routine not that different from the average. Breakfast. Shower. Teeth brushing, you get the idea. But what made this morning’s routine a little different is what was on Richard’s mind. It was a longing for this day to be over. Not because today was going to be any harder than his usual day, but because tomorrow marks his 35th year of being “Richard Neal, New Cranesburg City Taxi Driver” and he’s never missed a day. In 5 years he will become “Richard Neal, Retired New Cranesburg City Taxi Driver and Full Time Fisherman.” At least that’s what he thinks. What he doesn’t know is that by this time tomorrow he will become, “Richard Neal, Deceased New Cranesburg City Taxi Driver, aged 55 years, son, brother and uncle and of course, a lover of fishing”. Services will be held at St. Augustines Chapel on 49th street next Tuesday at 2 p.m. Family and friends unable to attend can send their condolences to his sister, Becky Neal-Hill of Lancaster Ohio. Or, if they are so inclined, they can send donations in his name to St. Martin’s Homeless Shelter on Camden Ave. New Cranesburg, New York.

After each part of his routine he couldn’t help but say to himself, “I’ve been doing this for exactly 35 years.” After one last lace of the shoe, Richard leaves his modest apartment and begins the six block walk to the taxi company.

The streets were bustling with busy worker bees going to their respective hives. In this sea of maniacal order there would be many like Richard who are following a routine for the last time and are on their last walk to day-jobs that they have planned on leaving so they could start living. A woman, twelve blocks away, curses her stilettos; which are about to snap as she crosses 3rd Ave. causing her to fall in the path of an ambulance on its way to East Cranesburg to pick up a 47 year old man suffering from a heart attack at Vinny’s Pasta Palace. Needless to say, help will arrive too late. You can blame the woman, but anyone who makes that kind of breakfast decision probably had it coming.

Three stories above the Pasta Palace lived a young boy, no more than 14, who the day before, lifted a pill bottle from an old woman’s purse while riding the subway. He didn’t know that Depakote was a medication for sufferers of epileptic seizures. All he knew was that they were prescribed, so they must be worth some money. The former owner of the medication, 63 year old Janice Whitefall, frantically searches for her pills in her one bedroom apartment. After one last search of the cupboards yielded no medication Janice slammed the door closed, causing a poorly placed Statue of Liberty statuette that she had purchased for her grandson to fall flame first on the top of her head. She spent a little extra money on her grandson this time and opted for the cast iron model. The trajectory combined with the weight of the more expense version of Miss Liberty had caused this symbol of freedom to become stuck, half-way, in the top of her head; think Planet of the Apes only up side down. She would seize one last time.

That statuette was bought at a little magazine and knick-knack stand simply named Joe’s. Richard Neal stops at Joe’s every morning on his way to work, grabbing a newspaper and quick conversation with Joe himself. Joe was a man in his mid-forties, a little overweight, with a wife and young son. Everyday for the past 13 years he owned and operated the shack that bore his name. To him, he led the best life there was to lead.

“Fishing?” Joe asked in a you’ve got to be kidding me kind of tone. “I’ve never understood what was so appealing about sitting around waiting.”

“It’s relaxing,” Joe says with a reflective smile, “no one to bug you. No noisy city, just you and nature; a six pack always helps too.”

“Well, to each his own. I wish you the best, buddy.” Joe was affable that way, “It’ll probably be a month or more before I stop waiting for you to come walking around the corner.” Joe hands Richard his morning news.

“Well, you’ve got another five years to grasp that concept.”

“Don’t let the fish get the better of you.”

“Never.”

And with that, Richard walked away from Joe’s (and from 7:45 a.m.) for the very last time.