When the clock struck ten, Joe’s day began. Joe breathes, and feels alive.

Exhibit one. His slippers lay neatly by the bottom left side of just his bed, where he sat contemplating the things he had to do that day. The contemplation never lasted very long. He sat silently on the edge of his bed with his face in his hands until he had to breathe once again.

 Exhibit two. The television set on a stack of neatly piled encyclopedias was an outdated model. The kind of television Joe owned could only be found in landfills or thrift shops or in a trashcan by a trailer park. You can imagine black and white film flickering inside its ancient portal, or at least re-runs of Three’s Company. When it was ten fifteen, Joe pressed the power button where he would watch eagerly, the same video cassette that has been in that built-in VCR for the past twenty years. Exhibit three. A pretty lady with dark hair and a red dress appeared on screen with her hands on her hips when she said, “How to Dance Latin Ballroom, Part One”. She smiles. He smiles.

Eleven o’ clock brings us to exhibit four. Two toothbrushes sat in a yellow plastic cup by the sink in Joe’s bathroom. One was blue, the other red. Joe took the red one, and left the blue untouched. At eleven o’ two, the red was beside its blue, once again. He looked in the mirror, a ritual habit since he could remember. For a seventy five old man, he looked alright. All his hair was long gone, but his skin was dark, toned, and healthy. He realized that he could no longer walk around real people with his shirt off anymore, like he did when he was in his twenties, proud and alive with a full head of hair. His arms sagged, his stomach sagged, and Christ, his breasts sagged. He looked in the mirror, at his wrinkles, at his white tuffs of hair left stranded on random spots of his shiny, bald head, and wondered where it all had gone.

Exhibit five. The gas station Joe lived and worked at has long been abandoned. Joe has never actually witnessed a presence of an automobile and wondered the existence of gas at this so called gas station at all. The “gas station” stood in the middle of miles and miles of goldenrod fields. The nearest town was ten miles away, where Joe would go every couple of days to enjoy the presence of humanity. Today, just so happened to be one of those days. Lady in the pale blue dress and permed hair is exhibit six. Five feet tall, lover of Motown, and creator of all things delicious and baked in a five mile radius, she was Joe’s 9nth girl friend since his wife had died. In a month or so, she will disappear from Joe’s life, for one reason or another, just like the rest of them. He was surprised he even tried anymore, but sometimes, the loneliness became unbearable. That- and the fact that her presence floated amongst every woman that bore the slightest resemblance to not only her beauty, but her character, her voice, her laugh, her eyes, her eyes.

Exhibit seven. The Lantern was Joe’s favorite bar where his mere presence brought everybody cheering and smiling and lifting their mugs up in the air where slops of messy beer splashed on the sticky table tops. Joe no longer drank, no longer smoked, and no longer played pool, but enjoyed being around the young people who did. It reminded of him of the person he once was, and the person he had become. And he was relieved.

Exhibit eight. His stories were never completely true, but nevertheless, brought laughs to the people around him. He would often tell “The Tale of Bearclaw” which was based on the time he and his wife spent a weekend at the woods where they lost all their possessions to a bear that raided their tent. In his stories, the bear had his wife’s prized jewelry in his possession and Joe, with all his muscle and courage managed to defeat the bear in a one on one battle where the only weapons he had were his bare fists. In reality, him and his wife simply drove away and spent the next few days without clean clothes, luxuries, or blankets. They had nothing, but it was okay. Nature’s horizon and unwelcoming wilderness became a warm living room with a burning fire place, when you knew that all you really ever needed, sat by your side in the passenger seat. But nobody in the bar liked to listen to that story.

Exhibit nine. Joe’s blue bike became his best friend. To him, his bike symbolized both freedom and imprisonment. Because when the clock struck eight o’clock, the sun begins to fall and the fields of golden rod become invisible to the naked eye and the wind will emerge and he would stand up on his pedals and watch the world pass by him, just like he did when he was young. The light of the moon is hidden amongst the lights of the street lamps that repeat rhythmically along the empty road, in the landscape of the empty fields. The moonlight was her. And because the moonlight was her, every passing streetlamp pulsated blood trembling memories of her character, her voice, her laugh, her eyes. The blue of the bike was her, because blue was her favorite color, because Lady’s dress, bore the slightest resemblance to the color blue, that was the reason, that was the reason for it all. Because of the nights they spent dancing on the grass, and the days he would watch her move her legs, her hands, her hips, to the strategic steps of Latin Ballroom. Because of the hours he spent by her bed while she slept, where he would like to think that she was dreaming of him. Because of the things she wanted to do before she died. Because of her dreams, her hopes, her desires. Because of the morning she passed away to cancer. Because of those years where she wasn’t there. Because of her beauty, her character, her voice, her laugh, her eyes- her eyes. Those were the reasons for it all.  

Exhibit ten.

Joe’s paper hands, complicated and fragile, were able to hold his face, as his sat by the edge of his bed where he contemplated about the things he had to do tomorrow. His contemplation never lasted long.

It is ten o’clock and Joe’s breath escapes from his lungs as he elevates his head.

It is ten fifteen, and Joe breathes.