Summertime Shift
Here it was, another Wednesday―Humpday for us Monday through Friday folks―and, as usual, my fifty-eight-year-old mind was in a million places. I was mired in morning traffic, inching along the main drag toward the city, as if the vehicles ahead of me feared going too fast, lest their cooling systems overheat in the stifling July temps. My truck’s digital display read eighty-five-degrees, and it was only seven o’clock. The forecast called for near-record highs today, and I prayed the office A/C would cooperate, rather than cut out as it often did on the hottest of days.
So far, I had a sales meeting at nine, a marketing meeting at eleven, then three other commitments to fill out my afternoon. Hell, even my lunchtime included a Zoom meeting I was required to tune into as I negotiated through my usual salad and turkey wrap. And those were the things I knew about, never mind the myriad turns the day could take in-between the highlighted time blocks on my Outlook calendar. Humpday was starting to take on a less pleasant meaning that had nothing to do with climbing over an imaginary camel’s back and sliding toward the comfort of the weekend.
The three cars in front of me took the next left, leaving an unexpected stretch of asphalt breathing room ahead. I was about to gun the gas, but instead slammed the brakes when a kid came out of nowhere, pumping the pedals of his 10-speed for all he was worth to cross my path and that of oncoming traffic. Tires squealed, horns honked, curses were lobbed. He’d somehow ended up on the opposite side without a scratch, then continued his urgent mission, oblivious to the chaos he’d just caused.
With my heart in my throat, I checked the rearview to see an SUV uncomfortably close to my rear bumper, its driver scrunching her shoulders and holding up her hands, while mouthing her own curses, which were not hard to read on her lips.
The brief drama subsided, and the line of vehicles resumed its torturous trek. I blew out a breath and double-checked my mirrors before I continued toward work. “Stupid kid,” I muttered, and shook my head. Traffic soon snarled again, and my mind returned to the boy who’d almost bought the farm a moment before. The snapshot burned into my brain came into sharper focus.
He was no more than twelve-years-old, with shoulder-length blond hair. A blue towel was wrapped around his neck and his shirtless back already sported a dark tan, only a couple weeks after school had let out for the summer. He’d bungy-corded a fishing rod along the length of the bike’s frame, and a plastic tackle box clung to the rack behind the seat, wrapped in its own bungy cord. I envisioned meaty nightcrawlers wriggling in a cupful of dark soil, packed into a small Styrofoam container, and sitting alongside artificial lures, monofilament line, swivels, hooks, and the rest of the usual suspects one needed for fooling fish. A front rack held a bottle of water and a paper sack, undoubtedly filled with a PB&J sandwich and bag of chips. The cutoff jeans and plastic sandals he wore completed the picture.
A new thought hit me as I continued to reflect on the pulse-pounding episode. During the few seconds he’d entered and exited my life, I realized his whole day’s agenda was right there with him, and a comparison spreadsheet opened up in my head.
I’d start my workday by listening to how we’d missed our second quarter projections and viewing the strategy for the third quarter correction. He’d start his day on the riverbank, where he’d cast a line and watch for any sign of his red and white bobber jerking up and down as it floated near a submerged log.
After an hour or two, when even the fish were too hot to bite, he’d plunge into the same water to cool himself off, while I’d loosen my tie and crank on a fan to help with the failing air conditioning unit.
My fingers would frantically tap notes into my laptop after meeting number one, then I’d get another set of notes ready for meeting number two. His feet would pedal his bike to the next fishing spot, a shady deep hole destination only he knew about.
His PB&J/chip combo would taste amazing, while he’d lean back against a large boulder, feeling the breeze dry his shorts after another dunk. My bland salad/wrap combo would taste…bland, as I slumped in my office chair and listened to the latest pep talk on everyone giving 110%.
During my afternoon slog of meetings, he’d meet up with some buddies at the local ice cream stand for a large cone, then they’d all race around town, popping wheelies and riding hands-free, before heading back to the river to spend the afternoon jumping off a rope swing.
At the end of the day, I’d drag my butt to my truck, strap in, and roll down all four windows to expel the suffocating super-heated air built up inside the cab. The young daredevil would flaunt traffic rules on his way home, fishing gear and wide smile securely in place after a satisfying summer day.
Two intersections and a few minutes of mental calculations later, and with no end to the traffic jam in sight, I put my left blinker on, pulled an illegal U-turn, and floored the gas. As I removed my tie and undid the top two buttons of my shirt, I tapped the voice icon and instructed Google to send a text to my boss, alerting him to a personal situation requiring my immediate attention, and that I would need the day off to take care of things. I’d no doubt hear it from him the next day, but that was tomorrow’s problem. Today, right now, with the distant shadow of my younger self morphing into the young boy’s joyous silhouette, I needed to shift my priorities, if only for a day.
I drove toward home, a boyish thrill coursing through me as I pictured a day spent on the river, the wind in my face and a bobber floating lazily along the water. Heck, maybe I’d run into the boy I’d almost run into and we’d share fishing tips before eating our PB&J in companionable silence.
Now, where did I leave that fishing gear…?
Thank you for tuning into this week’s post. In case you missed its thinly-veiled message, this was really a PSA to remind you to seek balance in your life, and to not take things so seriously. My story is meant to make you smile, reminisce, dream, and reconnect with your younger self. The writer, management, and any known affiliates cannot be held responsible if this spurs you to take a personal day, call in sick, or otherwise reorganize your own priorities in this short ride we call life, but if this happens, you are entirely welcome!
And whatever you are, get out there and be a good one 😊
-Dave
