There’s at least one in every train. Wearing an ill-fitting gray suit, schlepping a Tumi knockoff computer case and lunchbox, he appears on his way to some accounting or contracting job at a federal agency.
His face wears the vapid look of someone who has let life beat him down. With a bit of a pot belly, no muscle tone to speak of, and clearly losing the war against a receding hairline, it seems clear he is just existing.
I shouldn’t judge, but I do! Does he make mad, passionate love to his wife, bending her over a table on a whim? Does he spend his weekends sipping wine and savoring a good meal? Does he have an intriguing hobby that is the envy of his friends?
I see none of that. I see someone who is counting the years to a retirement filled with boredom, taking the occasional trip to the Outer Banks, where instead of reveling in a glorious sunrise and fresh breeze, he’ll sip his beer while overcooking a burger on the grill. He’ll wish he was home, away from the crowds and screaming kids, spending money he doesn’t have.
It’s a sad life, the life of The Bureaucrat. I want him to turn his frown into a smile, tear off the tie, and break free of the chains that tie him to his desk.
Do it now. Do it today.
Author’s Postscript — This was written a few months ago while riding the Washington (DC) Metro during one of my frequent visits to the Nation’s Capitol for work. For nearly half of my federal career I rode these trains, where I was able to observe the human condition. Some of these trips provided inspiration for the occasional post (see I’m no poet, but …). Now that I’m retired and catching up on my miscellaneous ramblings, this one felt like it needed to be put out there.
©Judy and Greg Romano – All rights reserved.
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