the Future

Wednesday night. 8 p.m. Dive bar. Tin cans of cheap beer. Nothing to do but envision the future. And there it was, for me, or so thought the Refugee. An apparition appeared before him, a grown man in a button down shirt. This, to him, was a revelation, because I was wearing a button down shirt of the same color - blue. Do you understand the world this man, the Refugee, inhabits? One so closed off to anything resembling aspiration and wealth, a world so bleak and devoid of responsibility, he sees another person who may have a regular job in an office and thinks a strange blip in the space-time conitinuum has opened before him. He blurted out, with the enthusiasm of a man who just underwent a religious epiphany and is bringing forth a previously unknown cosmic truth, "that guy is you in thirty years." There was probably a swear and a stutter in his sentence, but I'll edit for clarity. I accepted his proclamation and nodded kindly. Yes, the Refugee, I sometimes wear nice clothes to go to a thing called a job. So does this guy. You've seen the future, and it's me. Nodded kindly, again, and then began a sad rumination on the Refugee's impending disaster called life. Simultaneously, the Refugee and I pictured a bum who panhandles on the corner of my work and we waited for him to pass. Though he did not, the wisdom of the collective unconcious had told us who the Refugee will be in 30 years, and he smells and is asking for change. Not too unlike the Refugee of today.

You might think that the Refugee's misfortune is due to a lack of trying and ambition. But, this is not true. Surprisingly, the Refugee has dreams, though they will inevitably fail. He wants to own a restaurant and be a chef. In pursuing this dream, the Refugee and I were waiting for his current restaurant to empty so he can use the kitchen and attempt to make a dessert acceptable for the restaurant's menu. His business acumen was so keen that he assured me the restaurant would be completely dead that evening and the kitchen open. Of course, he was completely wrong. So, we waited in a bar, the only other place the Refugee feels slightly at home. We sat and contemplated just how assured the Refugee's failure is. Something like 97% of all new restaurants go out of business within the first 2 hours of opening. So, good luck with sharp sense of people and their desires, the Refugee. I hope the dessert came out well...