A Sense of Urgency

Downtown:  A scene to be taken in; all about, all seeing, all pretentiously importantly the grand illusion.  I guess I don’t fit in much.  The temperatures have changed, and so have the garbs.  Rationality has changed, and challenged, like the weather; people seem a bit colder, more impatient, and angered by small subjective detail.  We can’t please everyone.  Know this.


Like biking to work at 5:30 in the morning is a sign that your associate’s degree is taking you places.  Like looking in the mirror and actually seeing yourself.  I thoroughly enjoy the places that I work for; however, I think individuals expect more, give less, and in general feel the need to be fed by silver spoon.  Riding my bike, I see this.  I have inter-looped that into the next story, like strands of DNA.


A life:  Day 1 (just a story)

I keep my shades on as I enter my house.  It is after work and a time for rest and relaxation, a time of personal solace.  I see a 20 something male in a tuxedo, ready to impress.  I say, “It’s not the suit, it’s the man in the suit.” to mixed reviews.  I think my criticism was taken with more than a shovel of salt.  I ponder.  I walk with my backpack of newly purchased “locally grown” goods toward the bedroom.  All is an illusion.  I push in the door, drop the bag on the floor and take note.  Bed still not made, room unkempt, and looking disheveled.  I hear the door shut and I know I am alone.  All of this, the backpack, the scolding, the past relations, will have to be taken care of with self-gratification, obviously masturbation about things makes it all better.  Like my mother says, “If you can’t please yourself, who can?”

Ah, triumph.

I laugh every time I hear the words spank and bank used in the same sentence, preferably together, connected.

It isn’t even that cold out yet, by Minnesota standards, and I can feel it coming in the bones.

The Scene:

Sun slices through the shades onto the floor about his feet.  Expanding and stretching into corners, over furniture, rugs, and clothing, the light exposed all.  

Time pressure sensitivity of his remarks does no good to those exiting the scene.  Tuxedo-person leaves with mounting stress about a job offer, and hopes, and positivity, probably, just life in general.  The stress is universal in this day and age, on earth.  

Mostly, looking for down to earth companions-help one another then help the other, type deal.  

Although, here we sit. 

We get the metropolitan area and all of its vices.  Likewise, the sun still shine through the window hitting the floor, there is no overcast today, as there will be on others, a man notes his bedroom’s chaotic nature…

Someone, a person, a male has just come home from a day of work-


I did not show up late and “out of it” as my co-worker did.  Funny, I put more importance in my job.  Paying bills has become a forced hobby, like someone who flies a model airplane and crashes 80 percent of the time; some days you take off and land just fine, others you crash and burn.  The odds are less in my favor in this scenario.  The catch is I can’t just quit flying.  The coworker laughs as he stands in his astonishing attire; pants ripped (mostly everywhere), no wallet, a lighter hanging above one of the pockets on his right side.  Tightest pants on earth, any tighter and they would cut off all circulation to everything below his waste.


Day begins and stripes walks in.  Stripes is M., M. looks up and gives a smile and a nod, words exchanged as cash is, and at this moment, Someone is happy.  An old face in a new place, or new situation rather, in this Rat-Race.  M. takes a seat, and out flows a conversation, another coworker pipes up and inquires about the dirt on Someone, “Tell us the dirt-” he says openly while laughing.

M. trails off into a story about how Someone basically forced her to watch a scary movie one time(and she hates those).  It was Paranormal Activity, which was not scary.  She says she only lived for blocks away, but she had to spend the night because she was so afraid to leave.  Apparently it was comforting.  M. then went on to explain how she slept on the floor, and the whole time Someone spoke quite plainly in his sleep.  She eventually shared the bed at some point in the night, and nothing happened.

I felt the dirt wasn’t even dirt.  I know a few people who know this.  I just hope no one gets smart enough to ask me questions in my sleep.  It may be hard to conjure up a falsity.

I usually speak in Japanese or Mumbles while I sleep.

Customers walked in and Someone got a lecture about chatting.  Then a lecture about urgency.  He heard haste makes waste though…  And then he thought:  Had I not been there, in that very spot, I would have missed M. and the story of my sleeping habits.  To have this information was wonderfully fantastic, everyone in the office, now, has a sense of my real life.  

Someone is somebody.

Scene 2:

We exist in a white area where parchment paper is folded, and folded correctly.  Smell of baked goods and coffee hang ubiquitous in the air, a fine air exists in this space.  The paper work (wink) reminds me of nothing less than rolling a joint, or of doing Papier-mâché and failing miserably.  I watch the sunlight expand and takeover outside, as the streets become alive with action of the Farmer’s Market’s unfolding.

Before Later:

M. Again:  A friend shows up.  Did you graduate Someone?  Yes, that is why I am working here (snarky remark).  She could hardly tell.  I know she is well off and very smart.  Was even called, “The Shakespeare of our Class.”  It was English, go fucking figure.  Funny how that works out, she is talented beautiful and doesn’t like how her employer treats her.  I couldn’t relate at the time.  I feel it is a treat to even be in her presence.  She says the males in her office don’t pay her enough and she does not enjoy their racism.  I agree and notice my boss giving a bewildered look as customer wait counter-side.  Someone is not doing his job.


A lot of talking, and not enough doing.  Caught with the ol’ pants down again.  Someone is in deep this time…

Scene 3:

Some of the customers leave the counter and walk out into the hallway, a few stay to be helped by a Cook and a Princess.


The Princess and Enchanted Stepsister leave to fetch peasants in another village of the Kingdom.  Many patrons enter all at once on mighty steeds.  M. has left and Coworker Slightly is doing “another menial task” charged to him by Her Majesty.

Her Majesty is beautiful, smart, and ever-present, except for this moment in time.  This very moment!  The Kingdom was being ruled by the Slightly-out-of-it and Someone presently, momentarily.  This is the instance of truth.  And but one concoction of mead and Chocolate fucked it all up.

End Intermission,

Scene 4:

What the fuck happened, Someone?  The Queen just sent a message from atop her lofty loft addressing a concern of the Duchess’s.  Somebody fucked up a Mead and Chocolate.

The Final Scene:

Hands are flailing, faces are not expressing elation, discussions occurs. 

The Princess’s cold and locked-on-target eyes explain everything.  They look at you.  Someone walks up at the wrong time.  He was distance-wise until he finished his charge of much importance.  The royal funds had to be tallied.  Tallied funds allotted, and words flew at Someone like pigeons from buses on Nicollet Mall.

Princess:  This is bad, this is very bad.  This is serious.

Slightly:  It wasn’t my fault.

Princess:  The Duchess complained of a said, Mead and Chocolate mishap, and individual’s hurried remarks, which were rude and uncalled for.  These must be brought to attention.

The lack of surprise was shown on my face.

Princess:  Performance reviews for all of you.

Someone:  I did what I could, also can I borrow a fiver?

Princess:  What!?!?!?!  What is a FIVER!?!?!?!

Someone:  I need five dollars to buy some stuff at the Farmer’s Market.

Princess:  Get the fuck out of here-

(Someone looks surprised about the Princesses disinterest in the Farmer’s Market)

End Scene:

Someone walked the business side of the counter.  He grabbed his bag and said with a smile, “Bye everyone, have a wonderful day.”  He walked down the street to the Farmer’s Market into the brisk wind and welcoming light.


How hard is it to make coffee one might ask.

It is not hard is the answer, but if you have to cover for two people and you are technically a writer rather than a customer service expert it might look hard, but it is easily pulled off, most of the fucking time…


Downtown is like this:  either you know someone or you don’t, like writing, you are in or you are out.  I try to stay in between.  Just kidding, I am fucking out.  I am not even a writer.  I am more like a non-stop critical shit-talker, or prefer to be, if you are so esoteric.  I like to be with myself a lot.


After Before Later and Notes:

Someone was dealing with some sort of facial injury at the time, from a sort of, blunt force trauma to the facial region.  That could have forecast the events of the situation.

Everything is written on your face; like a book, your face tells all and in most situations you cannot look at your face.

Figure that.

Perpetually positive; this is the key to everyone.  People are like, “you are so positive”, but what if I wasn’t?  Maybe if I was upset or down about something little how would that effect those already grief-stricken people around me?

I guess I try to lead by example, because that is all we can do.  Show by example.  Imagine taking a sample of that.  I have seen crazy people on the street, yelling and shit, and I wonder what they think later about their reaction and interaction later.  Just chilling is all right.

A sense of urgency in time: if it didn’t happen it wasn’t supposed to and if it did it was, so…  Think about that one, if you want…

Other Notes:

A Callaway jacket, in case you need to play golf in the Antarctic.  Ernest Shackleton would have been proud.  Nothing like the flashy people of downtown to ritz it up for the everyday average.  My day has been fantastical because of all of the upper class I encounter.

Racism in the counter cultures of downtown: I thought we were over this.  I thought we had all grown up and died.  I guess some of us are still out of touch and still alive.

We punch a clock.  Small things.  We sit in a backyard drinking a PBR before noon, alone, while smoking a cigarette to calm nerves of confrontation and situational misgivings.  Small things.

Believe what your eyes tell you, not what anyone else sees.

More showers than the Northwest.  Rash attack, brash, and ready to clash.

All in all it was a day for Someone.



About Terry Scott Niebeling

Hello, My name is Terry Scott, a human being with flaws. twitter: @sirterryscott Buy my ebooks: http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_noss_1/191-4788099-1818040?url=search-alias%3Daps&field-keywords=terry+scott+niebeling
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