Bronco and Me
BY MADISON FAY
Here I am on this stringy bronco surveying the landscape. He paws at the carpet impatiently, but I’m not ready to go yet. No sir, not in the least. I relish this. Yes sir. Far as I can see are toppled desks and grey cubicle walls tossed and bent, mocking their former symmetry. Fans still spin, whirl, whirl, titillating the corners of papers upward. There are creaks and short exhales. Tisk, tisk. Crouched under desks like shaky little field mice. They’ll never know the corporeal pink strands of dawn, no way.
This was no easy escape, you see. Nope. I was like them, yes. Rising in darkness to the dull beat, the pathetic lub-dub of the urban valve opening and closing. Then you can dither away the hours in your Staples® Sealy® Posturepedic™ Geneva Leather Executive Chair (if you should be so lucky, yes). Next there are liters of frothyboredomrelinquishinggoodness so that your pillow feels so soft and warm and maybe there’ll be an unknown arm or tongue. Several hours later….lub-dub, lub-dub, lub-dub, lub-dub…
Oh boys, I know I know I know. He’s quivering now, oh yes. He knows. This is it. I just have to look one more minute. It’s not like saying goodbye. No, I’m giving thanks, see? I’m thanking the bundles of adipose tissue. The big guys. The rule makers, yeah; the eternal neck-tied dictators of argyle socks, evoking the supreme law of the new gilded age.
“Thanks guys. I never knew until we met. It’s good now. I got it all figured out, see?”
But I know they don’t want to look at me. That’s fine, just fine. We’re leaving now, bronco and me. I think if we head East on 27 we’ll hit the sea.