It was one of those mornings. Dave had these periodically. There may be some debate about who Murphy was but it’s not advisable to deny the veracity of his Law. Despite all attempts to insure success through simplicity, redundancy, and thorough preparation for every possible contingency, it was still possible–if not probable–that Dave would brush his teeth with A & D ointment, dribble pee down the front of the toilet, wash his hair with conditioner, pour sour milk in weak coffee, and be forced to deal with an invasion of ants all within twenty minutes of waking up.
He was genuinely afraid of leaving the house at that point. The infinite number of things that could go wrong hung over his head like the sword–no, like the nuclear ICBM–of Damocles.
“Are you ready to go? Where are your shoes? What are you doing?” Del asked.
“I’m paralyzed by fear.”
“Well unparalyse yourself, I’m going to miss the train.”
Dave grasped that he needed to move forward in time and space, that suspension of motion would not stop the flow of events. He just felt safer on the couch and shoeless. What harm could befall a man without shoes? One died with one’s boots on, not barefoot. He’d dreamt that night of the Fates, spooling, weaving, and cutting the life cord, uncaring and cold in their inhumane calculations. Of course he’d also dreamt of a talking falafel giving sage advice from inside a to-go box, so perhaps it was best to ignore the dreams and just get on with it.
What might happen the rest of the day was beyond his scope of control. The best he could do was try to stay within himself and remember that when life gave him burning hot pokers in the eyes, well, he’d at least be getting some cool bionic eyes as replacements.
“I wonder if I’ll have telescopic vision,” Dave said.
Del sighed. “I’m sure there is some plane of existence where you make sense. Just get you shoes on. We’re late.”