Okay, the disposition is the following.
You haven’t finished school with high distinction. You haven’t spent 5 years getting your Business or Law degree in a relevant university. You haven’t got a relevant job. You’re renting an apartment the size of a shoe box in a relevant suburb close to the city. And, most painfully, you can’t properly explain what it is exactly that you do for a living, when asked in bars by relevantly interested, but also quite bored women, who use way too much perfume.
All of this still does not mean that you, my friend, are irrelevant.
To prove that, all you need to do is to wake up around 10 am, eat your dry cereal (because you’re out of milk), put on the only expensive suit you’ve got (which, thanks to the electronic stock system’s error, you’ve bought with 90% discount), head straight to the downtown area and cruise around big business centres right up until lunch time.
And then you will finally bump into someone you know. If you’re lucky enough, it will be your high-school sweetheart or, even better, a childhood rival. Most probably, they’ll be in the middle of their ritual 15-minutes-lunch-race, all red and puffy. They’ll stop suddenly, recognising you, looking like a goddamn men-style magazine cover. And they’ll ask you, nervously giggling, their eyes glowing with envy, what it is that you do nowadays, looking razor blade sharp in your suit, and aren’t you’re supposed to match it with appropriate dress shoes and a shirt, and not a pair of sneakers and a polo?
You’d hold a good pause and then answer with your voice cheerful and full of steady power:
“Oh, that!.. Well, I’m way past the formalities nowadays. Because you don’t HAVE to have a reason to wear a good suit, haha! But you know what I’m talking about. You’re the same, right?”
No. They are not. You know it. They know it. And they know that you know it.
They would stare at you incredulously for a moment… And you’d look back at them with a smile their fathers might have given them had they ever won their big football game or piano competition. And then you’d see something in their eyes; something Genghis Khan and Alexander the Great were to witness a lot. An absolute defeat.
Ten minutes later, you’d pick up your bike from the dirty alley, where you’ve secretly left it before, and you would ride home.
The wind would be blowing in your face, making your hair tremble in the air. Your armour would be shining under the merciless sun. Your sword, soaked in your enemies’ blood, would be slapping on your thigh, somehow making you content.
You would wipe your face with the fold of your dusty cloak and say what Alexander the Great would probably say in the similar circumstances:
Photography by: Max Lemesh