Everybody Procrastinates

When I walked into the room my friend Miguel was pacing, obviously agitated.

He didn't notice me at first.

Sweat dripped off his forehead; he was mumbling to himself.

He was almost past me when he looked up in surprise - his eyes were wide, his skin was pale.

"Joe - what are you doing here?" His voice was louder than it needed to be.

I told him I had called, was up for a beer or two together, but he didn't answer. So I took a little risk and drove over, gambling that he might be home.

The shades in the room were drawn. It was late afternoon so it wasn't really dark; I would describe the effect as murky.

I said "I though we could pop out for a beer and see what's what. I was bored."

Miguel never stopped moving. Diagonally, from one corner of the room to another. Horizontally, from wall to wall. Moving slowly,  kind of shuffling, with a blank look on his face like no human should ever wear.

It was odd.

He said "Maybe later, I gotta get some shit done."

This knocked me back a bit - Miguel was no go-getter. He was as laid back as they come.

I asked "What do you need to do that can't wait for tomorrow?"

He became visibly more agitated.

He shouted "That's the fucking problem with the world today - everybody procrastinates. Nothing gets done. Lives get wasted. What's the fucking point?"

It was suddenly apparent to me that I needed to be delicate.

I said, gently, "OK, listen, we don't have to go out. We can just chill, just talk. Let's dial it back a bit."

He said "Fuck that. And fuck you."

And in one smooth motion, he reached for the gun in the ankle holster hidden by his pants leg, pulled it out, jammed the barrel of the gun under his chin and blew his brains out.