Focus, Focus, Focus
"All the people I've known who have been successful, have been able to really focus on what needs to get done. They haven't been that smart, well some of them, or even educated or known people, but just totally fanatical to one point." Eugene works in stocks. He is originally from Russia, but one of the few Russians who has been able to shed his accent almost completely. Occassionally I hear the ghost of an accent, but rarely. He is balding, he lives in New Jersey, he is divorced, he never ever wants to remarry, and he can not explains what he does really with anything vaguely approaching coherency. I accept that he "just works with stocks."

What am I supposed to be focusing on? I am supposed to be focusing on grading papers for monday. I am supposed to be focusing on getting into a different job. I am supposed to be focusing on cleaning my apartment so that I can invite people over. I am supposed to be focusing on getting into grad school. I am supposed to be focusing on getting published.

But instead I am keeping Eugene company while he waits to meet his mother.

Monday, having failed to correct all my papers, clean my apartment, find a different job, get published, or be accepted into grad school, I am fighting my way up the subway stairs. People are swarming on the sidewalks clipping by in high heels and polished shoes to get home and order take out. At the top of the stairs is a six year old girl, hair in french braids, head thrown back, eyes closed. She holds in her arms a large bundle of pussywillows, larger than her by a foot, and she is running her fingers up and down the bouquet, stroking it as if it were a cat. A few tunnel visioned people almost step on her, swerving at the last moment, but she remains completely undisturbed.

I forget about the papers and the apartment, grad school and the job, and focus on what is left of the sunset and the cool breeze nosing its way under my jacket to cool me as I walk home.

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