And the Day Was Monday, I remember it well ..

[=Q=]

It’s a floppish sort of day.

You know ... floppish.

That feeling where you just want to flop onto the bed. Or the couch. Or bean-bag chair. Any soft and inviting surface where the full WHUMPH of your body would not be a problem. You know the type. The clouds are hanging just a tiny bit lower than they normally would, threatening to belly-split at any moment and cover the little ant-people with loads and loads of rain. Mwuahahahaha ... scurry little ant-people, flee to your mounds and your things-to-do! Alas, the clouds are made of stronger stuff than normal today. And so, the little ant-people walk around ... going hither and yon. About their business with coats in hand and umbrellas at the ready ... just in case.

And in this floppish day, somewhere out there ... lays a man. He’s not a particularly remarkable man. Average height. A smidgen on the chubbier side (though if you were to ask him, he would bluster and huff and insist he’s not ANY sort of chubby). I’d do well to pick him out of a crowd, even if I were searching for him. And on this floppish day, this particularly nondescript man has, indeed, flopped.

It takes a very forgettable man doing a forgettable thing to be noticed. Perhaps this is the crux of fame and fortune. Boring people doing boring things but at the right place? At the right time, perhaps. But lo, nothing remarkable on the clock; the hand has only just now struck 6:46 in the evening. The place, however, might be a tad ... off. Where does this man do his trivial thing? Why, nowhere ...

... nowhere except the middle of a road.

The middle of a road. The most dangerous part of the road, you see. For in the middle, you have oncoming things on BOTH sides. I shouldn’t have to tell you this, for those of age would freely admit it’s MUCH safer off to the side. At the very least, in one lane or the other. How does one choose which lane to be in? ... it all depends on which direction one is going.

Choosing a direction, now THAT’S the tricky part. Where are you going, Mr. Common? ‘Oh, I haven’t a destination in mind. Just flopped; it seemed the thing to do.’ A-ha! The plot thickens! This might very well be the key to it all. If you have nowhere to go, then there is no direction that will get you there. Tell me, without a direction ... does one simply stand in place all day? ' ... no. You can do many things without a direction. You can stand, surely. But you may also lay. Or sit. Or even hop on one foot, if it suits you.’

His answers are matter-of-fact. To the point, with no hidden meaning. But ... one gets the feeling that there may BE a hidden meaning underneath the no-hidden-meaning speak. The man’s eyes have not broken contact with the sky as he’s speaking. It’s a pecuiliar sort of thing; speaking without looking at someone. One would expect to at least be looked at while being spoken to. What, sir, are you looking at so intently? 'The sky.’ ... clever one, this forgettable man. What do you intend with the sky?

He pauses, as if to mull the question.

‘Why ... no one INTENDS anything with the sky. You look at the sky, you see it’s there and it is there to be looked at.’

...

A funny one, he. But before another question can be spoken, his smiling voice continues on ... babbling like a gentle brook. ‘I look in the sky because it is there to be looked at, but there’s many things that can happen when you look at something. The most often-type thing that happens is you get a sense of other people running around. Because you feel it all around you. But then ... it spreads. It spreads farther and farther until you feel people that may not be where you are. And you know you can feel certain people that you know, because you know them. That is how you know you feel them: because you know how they feel.’

‘I’m feeling a certain person. She isn’t here with me, obviously. But I can feel her feeling me at the same time that I’m feeling her. She might be looking at the very same sky that -I- am. ... it’s different now and it’s no one’s fault. She’s gone through a great many things and I’ve gone through my own things and those things have made it sort of ... well, things will thing and that’s what they do.’

The gentleman’s words ring of truth, even if it is only a truth in his own mind. A truth that, were you to hear it yourself, you could almost believe to be just that. True.

‘We’re supposed to meet up in a little while. Maybe not the most meetingest of places to meet, but it’s a place. And the place is as good as any OTHER place, because both are places and people meet in places and there you are I suppose. I’m nervous. I’m nervous and I’m looking at the sky and it’s helping me not be nervous because I can feel her, but then you asked and now I’m nervous again so I’m going to stop talking now.’

Blink.

And he does. The unremarkable man returns to being unremarkable, not saying anything and just looking at the sky in the middle of a road. The feelings shining through his simplistic words and phrasing, I can’t help but feel a bit for the flopped man. It was NEVER intended for him to feel bad enough to stop speaking, though the awkwardness is very apparent.

The seconds drip slowly, molasses slow and sticky. You get the feeling that Mr. Generic is finished answering questions, which is good because that leaves him more time to relax. But now you’re nervous because the two of you are there and no one is speaking. It’s a very very weird situation. ‘Do you suppose the sky knows? Maybe that’s why it’s a floppish day. Maybe we’re all supposed to be flopped today. And the sky knows and it’s telling us to be flopped. Do you flop here often?’

No ... no I can’t say that I do. I look around and I’m in the middle of the road, not flopped although I get the distinct feeling that maybe I should be. ‘Pity that; there’s plenty of room.’ He smiles at me and I find myself smiling back at him. Infectious, this regular man who I’m beginning to suspect is not so regular. May I flop here?

‘Mm. You can flop here.’

‘It -is- a floppish sort of day ... ‘