my hands dried
The other day I ate a big hamburger and drank 2 coca-colas at the sort of place that businessmen meet to discuss important deals. 80s rock was assuring me of all kinds of glowing things; I was confronted with my addiction to love and saw visions of myself sailing away. The girls were all wearing shirts that proclaimed their love for beer, a declaration that I surmised was made more to reflect the thoughts of all the suits as they looked over the drink list rather than the trim coltish women making their living on tips. As I was leaving, drying my hands in the washroom, it occurred to me that people leave America, or at least this part of it, so they can feel like their lives mean something. The first college I studied at was full of people that didn’t want to go on eating gourmet hamburgers all their lives. They wanted to go do the serving in remote places—to do something bigger than themselves. All those talented and remarkable people with one thing in common, they welcomed sacrificing their comfortable lives in the land of plenty. My hands dried, I left and started my walk back to the university.
