Gary Weldon

A Life Well Lived

Jules brushed his hands roughly across the front of his jeans and pulled the cuffs down over his weathered brown loafers. With a small dollop of hair tonic, he ran his fingers back through an unruly thatch of wavy brown hair. He straightened his collar, peering in the mirror with furrowed brow, not feeling convincingly presentable. The rumble of the garbage truck on the street below signaled that it was time to head out, or risk missing the Q bus. Standing with one hand in his pocket and the other gripping the rail above, he gazed out of the window as the city came to life with the ambient noise of car horns and sirens and the indistinguishable chatter of fellow passengers. He struggled to find even a modicum of enthusiasm to push his way towards the door as the bus approached his stop. That journalism degree is certainly paying off, he thought, twisting one side of his mouth up into an indifferent grin. Being a copy editor wasn't very exciting, but it was a start. Having left the tranquility of Northern Kentucky to work in Manhattan after college, it didn't take long for the reverie of big city life to evaporate, leaving only the crushing reality of student loan debt and a growing distaste for ramen noodles. He shared a flat in Queens with a Macedonian expat and a nightclub promoter who frequently interrupted his slumber by burgeoning through the door at 3am, often accompanied by friends in various states of inebriation.