Travail

Everywhere I look—and nearly everywhere I don’t, as well—people are working.

The roofers roofing next door, the painters painting across the alley, the gardeners gardening down the street; everyone’s busy with their business.

I go to the store, and there, the cashiers are cashing; I ride my bike down to the beach, and lifeguards are lifeguarding; I walk the dog and from the open windows of houses up and down the street, I hear people on Zoom calls zooming with their clients and co-workers.

A house is being built across the way: there are plumbers and electricians and sheet-rockers and a team of guys whose job it is to build a retaining wall with huge concrete blocks; the architect and developer study the building plans spread out on the hood of a pickup truck.

If somebody takes a lunch break, they go to the corner store where the owner works sixteen-hour days; a delivery truck driver wheels in cartons of potato chips; everyone’s doing something.

I head over to the library and even though I do self-checkout of my books, the librarians still have to catalogue and shelve; no rest for the weary, as they say, nor much of any, either, for those who got a good night’s rest.

Some journalist has worked on the story I read on my preferred internet news source; some writer has worked on the book I’m reading for pleasure; even the advertisements I try to avoid are the work of someone somewhere working on them.

The bees are busy pollinating; the crows never stop their scavenging; the ubiquitous bunny rabbits nibble on the grass all day long.

Everything I take for granted: my desk lamp turning on when I flip its switch; my toilet flushing when I push the lever; my garbage going away on schedule every Friday; all this because somebody’s working, doing their job.

And what about me?  I’m clearly not working, which apparently works for me.