The Patriot

I could smell myself. You know that pungent aroma you get from not taking a shower for a week; that kind of smell. It wasn’t my odoriferous assault that snapped me back into reality though, I’m rather sure it was the sight of my shoes. The leather was a bit scuffed as I had been wearing them since my last job interview. I hadn’t gotten a call back since I had gone into California Health Group for my interview exactly one week ago and I was relatively sure they weren’t going to call me back at this point, despite the fact I had called them every day since then. My tie hung loose about my neck, I was rather surprised to find I hadn’t lost it yet. My shirt was un-tucked from my black slacks. It had been a rather nice shirt at one time, white and pressed, now stained with sweat and dirt. It had accented the nice dark blue tie my daughter had gotten me for a past Fathers Day; maybe that’s why I hadn’t lost the tie. The hand that was free from a half empty bottle of Cognac reached up to rub the week old growth on my face, I would have thought myself a pitiful sight at this point if I had really bothered to care about it. The air outside was cold and crisp with a slight breeze, as only an autumn night could be before it began to rain. You could smell the dampness in the air and it almost made the thick smog that hung over the city breathable; another cigarette would be welcomed at this point. I pulled the pack from my shirt pocket, flipped open the top and pulled the last one out with my lips; damn, I was out of money to buy more. Tossing the empty box behind me I pulled out my lighter and flicked the flint with my thumb sending what seemed like a blazing light up for just a moment, but with my first puff of smoke it was gone just as fast as it had come, leaving the dull glow of the ember at the end of my smoke. It often baffled me, the times I decided to reflect upon my life, but I suppose this was a good a time as any. I had been so sure of myself, so confident that this was my way out. In the failing economy I was sure that a job interview was a sign that things might finally turn around for me. I had kissed my daughter on the head and she had looked up at me with that glimmer of hope in her eyes that her hero, her daddy, would make things better; ah the trust of a child. My wife wouldn’t even look at me as I left; she hadn’t even touched me in months so it came as no surprise. Too long had I been a disappointment to her I suppose, being three years out of work can take its toll on a relationship as bills pile higher, money get’s thinner, and salvation seems bleak at best. It pained me that I hadn’t seen either in a week, especially my daughter as I’m not sure that my wife would notice that I wasn’t around. The thought made me thirsty so I put my bottle up to my lips and took a long pull from it, bringing it away in a gasp. Though I suppose time is rather irrelevant when you have no where to go, nothing to do, and nothing to show for a life of hard work and dedication. I obtained three different degrees, a military background, a spotless criminal record, and for what? I still had nothing to show for it except broken dreams, false hope, and an empty pack of cigarettes. Taking another drag from my cigarette I scuffed the cement with my shoes; who cares? They were already scuffed. I wanted to scream, I wanted to yell my lungs out I was so frustrated with the world, myself, my wife, my life. I looked to the stars, but they held no answers for me. They just sat there twinkling, dancing in and out of the rolling black clouds that threatened rain. My daughter had wanted to be a dancer, but when I had lost my job we didn’t have the money to continue her lessons. She said she understood; but I didn’t. How could a country as proud and as strong as ours break the very back that carried it by outsourcing jobs to foreign lands just to save a buck? By bringing in more foreigners then the country could afford and giving them the jobs, schooling, and housing that should go to American born citizens? Setting up programs that helped people from other countries and not our own, the land of the free and the home of the welfare check; this land was no longer my home. People like to yell that there’s enough room for everyone until there’s no money left to support that theory. That if I don’t like how America is doing things I should move to a different country. If I hadn’t loved America, I would have never served in its military, I would have never paid my taxes on time, I would have never exercised my right to vote or bear arms, or keep abreast of the news that was about my beloved nation. How could they say I don’t love my home, I helped build it. Just because I don’t agree with where things are heading, which by the look of it is down the toilet, doesn’t mean I’m not an American; it just means I’m fed up with the way things are going. I’m tired of being out of a job, tired of telling my wife and daughter I can’t give them the things they want or need, I’m tired of struggling. People like to tell you there is war over seas, but there is a different type of war on this soil; or maybe not so different. With my head swimming I looked out into the horizon as I began to feel cool, refreshing raindrops splatter against my face. I could hear the traffic of a million people with their own thoughts, worries, joys, and sorrows. The lights of the city seemed to swirl together with the smoke from my almost finished cigarette. Maybe tomorrow would bring the hope of peace and tranquility I so sorely sought. Maybe tomorrow would bring my wife and daughter the money they needed to go on with their lives, rich, happy, and full. As my foot left the edge of the building I was standing on top of, on my way down, I could only hope for a better tomorrow.