The Morning...

Our tired philosopher made his way to his desk in his office, which was also his living room, his storage space, his TV room, his pretend detective room, his failed Wolverine no-win-in-big-games room, after he had put on a strong pot of espresso in a can coffee, and after he took care of his most pressing need, after a night of drinking Italian lager.

His wooden desk was so littered with papers, bills, medical news, assignments, research notes, magazines, an Irish flag hanging from the blinds, the globe turned to South America, while the grey sun tried to make it into his "office." He heard his teenage son sniffle in the next room, which reminded him that he did have a son and other responsibilities. His son did not look like him and sometimes he wondered where he came from. But this was no epiphany.

His son was intelligent but lazy in school and smoked cigarettes but sleep most of the time, while the father dreamily eyed the globe for Uruguay or La Espana Verde. He lit a clove cigarette after more coffee and asked where the next case would take him, or which female student he could next fantasize about: some woman must have fuller breasts which need squeezing... That word squeezing; you could almost hear the word and action.

Well anyway he thought we are all like the bums on the street: coffee in the morning and liquor the rest of the day. Philosophy had no cure, but teaching was the sinecure.