Jay Launders is walking through an array of mismatched buildings. Some are short and wide, others tall and intimidating.  The only characteristic that seems to consistently appear in this neighborhood was the lack of operative windows.  Even this seemingly unifying attribute brings no semblance of conformity to the street, quite the opposite, for though no windows are fixed and functional, many eccentric windows decorate the buildings surrounding Mr. Jay Launders: Some are shattered, others boarded up, and others still are far too filthy for any light to be able to pass through them.  Any other matter of constancy and order would bring comfort to a man like Mr. Launders but, alas, the consistent lack of clear, useable windows in the neighborhood is yet another haphazardly manicured finger playing the orderly strings of his nerves like a banjo.

Beads of sweat adorn his stony face, threatening to spill on Mr. Launders’ perfect suit and leave a stain of evidence: concrete confirmation of the existence of emotions in his file cabinet brain.  Mr. Launders tightens the sweaty grip that keeps his briefcase from escaping his hand, preparing to turn the last corner.  Every step tears into his calm, unbattered physique, threatening to ultimately break it.  His heartbeat slows from a polka to a march as the stairs to the terminal come into focus.

His mood has now become that of a sun’s in the early morning after a night of nothing but violent rain.  The sun inside him is warming the wet grass, evaporating the dewdrops which the rain had left on his pallid visage.
BAM- A masked man slams into Mr. Launders, dragging him into an alley.

“Gimme all your s***!” whispered the masked man.  The gun trembled in his unsteady hand as it set itself into Mr. Launders’ ribs.
“F***… Jesus Christ; what the f***?!”

The masked man looked down, his eyes widening as they discovered Mr. Launders’ briefcase. He gestured with his gun and Mr. Launders hurriedly opens the briefcase, scattering weeks of work haphazardly on the asphalt.  The masked man rifles through and quickly realized the heap contained nothing of value.
The masked man once again turns his gun to Mr. Launders,

“Gimme that ring,” he looks behind him and all around as Mr. Launders scrambles with his wedding ring.
“Hurry, damn you!” the masked man cried, discarding stealth for the sake of his fury. He reaches into Mr. Launders’ coat, taking the wallet from a pocket and opening it.  He looks up to see a glittering piece of jewelry in a sweaty, outstretched hand.  The masked man grabs the ring from Mr. Launders, pushing him to the ground and retrieving $64.22 from his wallet before running off.

Phillip Carver places his items from his cart onto the conveyer belt.  He watches as diapers, toothpaste, socks, and tiny shoes, among other items, travel along the conveyer belt to the cashier scanning across from him.
“How are you today, sir?” the cashier asks.

“Oh, I’m just fine, thank you,” Mr. Carver answers.  He takes out his wallet, retrieving the cash and handing it to the cashier.
“Are you hiring?” Mr. Carver asked.
“No, sir, I’m afraid we’re over overstaffed,” replied the cashier.

That is no surprise to Mr. Carver, after witnessing almost every business except for Wal Mart go under during the recession and being struck with the fact that there are no jobs anywhere.  He returns his wallet to his pocket significantly lighter than it was before the shopping trip; every dollar was spent.  Tucked between the leather flaps of his light wallet as he leaves the store are only a sentimental photograph and some jangling change.
Change.  That would be nice.  Memories project like a movie picture show on the inside of his eyelids as he closes them, settling on the last seat of the bus.  When he opens his eyes millions of years later, Mr. Carver witnesses colorful pictures flash by, coming into clarity when the bus stops and then whizzing by again.  Bright words and symbols dance in jubilation around boarded up or shattered windows.  The bus slows and Mr. Carver allows a sigh to escape him, grabbing his cargo and exiting the bus.  As he steps onto familiar asphalt he counts his blessings and continues the trek home, 22 cents jangling in his wallet whilst he goes.