All Apologies, but I’m neck deep in this shit.

Scott relished his morning coffee and his “Today” show. The coffee prepared his mind for the day and imparted a delightful, lingering, rich flavor on his palette for some time afterward. His wife, upon hearing him stumble downstairs to operate the coffee maker remarked how droll it was to refer to the honey-golden tinged black beverage as “my coffee.”

—People love their coffee!

The dog followed him from room to room, spreading her smile and her breath as she walked. Her nails clicked along the hard wood floors. That’ll be the death of them, he thought.
—Squeek! said the girl cat. She swished her tail and spun at his pant leg. Must be out of food again. I bet an orange dog ate it. Where’s the boy kittie? Cuteness Columbo and Sweetness A La Mode.

The sidewalk stretched before him. Covered with a canopy of green. Pretty city. Islands of buildings popping their heads up from their green carpet feet. Life living ruins. Warum nicht?

The walking was good. A stroll, really, with fine weather. This tree is beautiful. What kind is it? Should one plant those in the fall? If so, I really should. I can never enjoy it, but the Future will. It’s one of the only things we have going for us in this city.

A gentle breeze cooled his brow as the sun warmed it. Clear sky above. Azure dome under which we all stand, subtly different by location. She was standing under it too. But somewhere else far away. A German Shephard sniffing around some trash. Huge and fat, he slinked toward Scott, requesting a patting. Scott complied.

The neighborhood pleased him. A mix, he thought. Everything good about the City, only a little bit of the bad. Did he like Atlanta, though? Trav remarked that he did not. He explained it was a brutish elder sister, cleaving supermen from her breast. It’s a’ight. A jogger passed, dog in tow. Sprawled hips. Displasia? Shouldn’t run, he tought. Ten more pounds and then I can run. I miss the running. The obsession with it. The energy. The sense of accomplishment. The fitness. The girl’s long face jiggled as she passed. Her snotgreen tank top soaked in sweat. She followed him with her eyes. I wonder if people get shaded out by me in my sunglasses. Can she see my eyes? Do we know that we are looking at each other? Briefly. The playground for daycare and a giant group of children. Sounds like monkeys on crack, he thought.

A bicycle wheel hissed for attention. A child on a BMX bike. Smiling and up early. Hey mister, are you going on an adventure? I wish! I’m going to work! Oh, I thought you was on an adventure. He turned his bike away and Scott continued walking. Is it an Adventure? My job is not, that’s for sure. Is the walk? I guess I can see where he though that. This backpack, larger than it should be, filled with the trappings of geekdom: laptop, pager, phone, charger, Sun books I remember when I used to go on adventures. With Garrett. To the mountain in the desert. Roofing hammer in my belt loop as an axe. Scott Allen beating us senseless in the tumbleweeds. Scratches and dog barks. BMX handlebars slung far forward. The blow bringing instant tears. The cockeyed method of riding. One pedal high, hips aloft and cocked at the opposite angle of the bike. Brake handles rotated extra deep. Adventure. Adventure People. The sandbox ever-flooding on biblical scale. Johnny West atop a tugboat. Sloshing snoopy slippers through the puddle, his yarn ball nose poking above the surface. Mister West, standing with a his hands atop the rake handle, garden gloves used as a pillow for his chin. You’re going to get a lickin’ from your daddy if you don’t stop that. The fence with the plastic in-between the chain links. The end of his world. The end of the Adventures back then. Now he’s far from home.

He made his way around the long curve and into the cluster of shops at the end. Should I stop for coffee? An espresso? The money will leave, but the pleasure will arrive. Non-functioning car. Long walk. He entered the coffee shop to a blast of heat. Even hotter in there than out here, he thought as he took his place in line.

Nobody orders drinks here. Just coffee. No espressos. Not cappuccinos. It’s very prol. Why does the storage have to be in this room? What could we do to improve this? Why would I want to? He got to the front of the line, eyes on the menu board, and requested a small Americano. Did I not even look at the barrista? I’ll have to make a point to be friendly when I pay. Time to continue on the road. These people who pulled up in their cars will see me sweating along the sidewalk as they drive into the City. Step after step to MARTA. A trio, seated on the couch, with trivia questions. Longest basketball shot? 90 feet, another exclaimed. Correct! Longest home run? 685 feet, said the other again. By who?

At the bar, another man, on his way out, exclaimed “Micky Mantle.” I know that, but I don’t know how far.

—isn’t there something special about that home run? Didn’t it, like go out of Yankee stadium or something?

—I don’t know about that, but I know he hit it. That’s a record that’ll stand for a long, long time, I’m sure.

Another at the bar said, I’m sure some younger, stronger guy will beat that.

Just wait until I play third base for the Braves.

There’s always somebody younger, stronger, you know?

The espresso only took five seconds to pour. No wonder it sucks here, they don’t follow the Golden Rule. It came out only slightly creamy. Too short of a brew time. What kind of machine is that? The grinder seems perfect, the machine needs adjusting.

Sweat began to make itself known on his back where the backpack hung. The platform ahead across a broad lake of sun exposure. This building blocks the breeze. I’m cooking here. The sun was all around, reflecting off the building, the sidewalk and beaming from the source itself. BellSouth employees smoked on the back fire escape. So that’s a BellSouth building. They should convert it to condos. Union folks, I can tell. It sure is a different color of collar, this job. The strikes. Oh thank God I didn’t have to go to North Carolina and crawl under snake-infested houses back then. Heat on a pole, wearing climbing spikes, splicing together the lines. Linemen are noble? Linemen are well paid.

Finally, an end to this heat. The platform was cool. The signs for this train are blue and the line is blue on the map. Why don’t they call it the blue line? Only East or West on the loudspeaker. He could hear the old NYC subway driver he liked so much: “let them off, please, let them off,” he’d say in a quick, imploring manner without seeming urgent before sliding open his window and giving directions to tourists. He wiped the fog out of his sunglasses with his shirt sleeve and put them back on. They fogged again instantly. The wait seemed interminable, but the headlights of the train poked through the slight haze just before he lost his patience. He took a sip of the Americano. Now how much was left. Wasn’t that book called Default Reasoning about Spacial Occupancy? He stepped on the train.

What was the deal with derivitives? I remember learning them for the longest time but then they ended up being really simple. Isn’t calculus really just the chopping up of things into infintely smaller pieces in order to get ever-more precise? I think that’s what I took away from that, he said aloud, before catching himself. Don’t become one of those people that talks to himself on the train, he thought. But then he was instantly thinking of the lesson. Spinning an infinitely small slice of an area under a curve around its axist o compute the volume of, say, a funnel. How many beers can I fit in this beer bong? Steve-ha. Beer Bong.

The ride was quick to Five Points. Georgia State displayed none of the talent to which he was accustomed. At least there’s Peachtree Center station, he thought, home to the longest escalator in the Southeast. Wasn’t it Robin’s theory that Portland has “little man’s syndrome?” I think so. It has the second largest or second best or smallest or second-most-unique of everything, and makes a big deal out of it. “This is the second-largest bronze statue in the U.S. after the Statue of Liberty.” “This is the second-largest urban park in the United States.” “This is the smallest park in the world.” “This was voted the second-best urban space in America.” The train stopped perfectly. I placed myself well again. First down to the North platform. Instantly down these stairs. How many times have I stepped here?

On the platform of the train, a puffy, Jewish man paced along. Was he Jewish? Or was he Arab? Whatever he was, he sketched Scott out. Sifty eyes. Pacing. Bulging waistline. Zionist. Palestinian. Arab. Too broad of categories upon which to base a judgement. He was a Westerner. In the South. North Avenue is only one more stop. One more stop to endure this stench. Aunt Glo used to say “Negra smell.” What the fuck did she mean by that? Did she honestly think people wanted to hear that? Why do religious people have to end up being responsible for most of the terror in this world? Up this escalator. Is religion just mass hysteria? Didn’t Halane’s dad say that? Obviously old methods of Control, but now a zealousness can ease a crippled mind. But how can you argue with the fact we have consciousness? If the universe was created by a big bang, what came before that, huh? Your arguments are no more valid than this: What makes you think that your consciousness is so special that it should exist forever? Show your badge. She always smiles.

Jane Fonda said the South was Third World. I agree. It’s better than most places, though. Look at this culture, in the shopping plaza. People in the West think they know diversity, but they’ve never seen anything like this.

The elevator was hot. Several people, annoyed at the stop, made way for him to enter. A woman, clutching her fast food breakfast, smiled briefly as she shuffled toward the elevator wall. The bag of food was slowly wetting with grease, forming little continents on seas of white paper. Paper continents. This elevator smells delicious.