Summary: The Dangers Of Normality

Louis Hancock 523 words
9100 St. Charles Rock Road
St. Louis, MO 63114
[phone] [e-mail] The Dangers of Normality by Louis Hancock

Ah, the life of a working class American. A lifestyle sought after by millions around the world. A small house, white picket fence, a mortgage with a high interest rate- John Johnson seemed to have it all. Today was John Johnson's seven hundred and eighty-second day of work. Perhaps the most interesting and redeemable quality John possessed was that fact that he was fully aware that his name was dreadfully common. John was a tall, slender man of average appeal, with bushy eyebrows
that danced every time he talked. One of his most notable features was the immense gap between his teeth that made him whistle when he talked, in a frequency that made dogs bark loudly. In addition, he wore thick rimmed glasses and owned seven different colored pair corduroy pants - one for each day of the week.
John woke up this morning to the sound of his alarm which he snoozed exactly three times. One at six-thirty, one at six forty-five, and one at seven. Today, John would experience sharp pains between his hip and his lower back. “Could this be arthritis?” John thought. Who knows. It seemed that every day some divine entity would roll a pair of sadistic dice, pick some part of John’s body, and then attribute pain to it. Oh well. John limped his way into the kitchen where he fixed himself a cup of cereal. John was a big fan of eating things out of disposable cups. In fact, I don’t think John owned any utensil that wasn’t disposable. After throwing away his plastic cup and spoon, John performed his daily rituals: getting dressed, brushing his teeth, and praying to whichever entity he thought would listen. He was ready for work. As John exited his townhouse he noticed a shopping cart filled with a disarray of seemingly random items. Standing next to it was Merrell - a frequenter of John’s neighborhood. Today, like many days before, he waved at John, complimented him on his shoes, and then asked him for money. And today, like many days before, John walked by, without saying a word. John’s bank account was growing, but his sympathy for Merrell was not.
John made his way through the streets of Seattle, the way a dad would if he was late to his daughter’s orchestra recital.
It was eight-thirty and the subway would leave at eight-forty-five. It was a hot day, and he could feel his armpits beginning to itch. This most certainly meant that he was about to sweat. Great. John being a very dapper individual decided to slow down in an attempt to prevent himself from sweating any further. Now, strolling his way to the subway, John began to notice the people around him. He took particular notice to an elderly woman struggling to maneuver up the steps of her home. For a split second he thought about helping her, but then he remembered he had to make it to his seven-hundred and eighty-second day of work, so he kept
walking.
On the subway John was absolutely appalled at how little people were paying attention to the fact that he was reading.
John was a cultured man and he wanted everybody to acknowledge this. He made sure to position himself so that the golden lettering of the title glimmered in the dim subway lighting. He then took a good look at the pages he had left to read, and skimmed through the pages he had read. He was quite proud of what he had read, although it’s not entirely known whether he had actually absorbed the words of Shakespeare. Nevertheless, he could mark this book as read, in about, let’s say, twenty-pages. Overwhelmed with the anxiety of his impending departure from this particular train, John bit his nails. John was slightly addicted to biting his nails, he was well aware of it. “The first step toward recovery begins with acknowledging the problem.” he said sarcastically. He was glad though that it was nails and not alcohol, or cocaine, at least his nails were free of
charge. John got off of the subway train, made his way outside and noticed a dog laying on the sidewalk. This dog seemed to be injured as it refused to move for neither pedestrians nor the sun that was beating down on its back. Upon further inspection, he realised that it only had two legs, and they were on the same side of the dog’s body. How strange. John soon began to wonder why no one stopped to help this pathetic creature - why none of the tens of people that have walked past even looked in its general direction. “I should probably try to help it.” John thought. But then his wrist watch began chiming, it was nine O’clock, so he kept walking. He could’ve helped the dog, but no. For John had more important things to do today, because today was his seven-hundred and eighty-second day of work.