George Proulx awoke to a banausic morning. This particular Tuesday morning, George dreaded getting out of bed; not to say that he didn’t dread getting out of bed every morning he had to work. Thus is the life of a cubicle worker.

             While dragging himself into the shower, George decided he would go out for breakfast that morning, since he was out of artificially fruit flavored cereal. (He never really understood why “fruit” was included in the name of such cereals, since the cereal tastes nothing like fruit, but he didn’t bother to ask.) George was the sort of man that did the majority of his day’s pondering in the shower, since his job required tedious attention to small percentiles.

             Once out of the shower (and dressed, mind you) George locked the door to 36C, his apartment in Queens, and walked across the street to a small coffee shop owned by a tiny Greek couple. He was fond of the couple, so despite the fact their food tasted as if it was scraped out of the bottom of an oven, George frequented the piazza.

             On his way to work, George tittered over an argument a couple was having in subway car. “I don’ want choo to sell dat no mo’!” exclaimed the short, round woman. The lankly man replied with a simplistic, “But I make mo’ money than they eva paid me.” George disliked people who did not use proper grammar, especially when the words are incorrectly pronounced, but he still found it amusing.  Mr. Proulx didn’t consider himself conceited, but many people on the subway that morning thought him so.

             After his ride on the metro, George walked two blocks to his building, the Southern World Trade Center. He was still quite groggy, and because of his grogginess, walked into the revolving door at the entrance, which made him feel incredibly unintelligent.

            Shortly thereafter, on his way up the elevator to his cubicle on the thirty-second floor, a man sneezed on George by accident. George was not fond of this action, whether purposeful or not, and strongly considered punching this man in his sickly face so that he would bleed all over his grey suit (that bore a striking resemblance to George’s mother’s bedroom carpet), but he restrained himself. George tried to stay away from violence whenever possible, partially because he believed it was the better thing to do, and partially because he wasn’t fond of the hospital.

             Once in his office, George started working on his TSL reports (which George considered utterly useless, but he was paid to do them) and at about 8:40, George decided to take a short break, and went to the restroom. While in the restroom, George heard (and certainly felt) a large crash. George thought someone must have finally cracked and thrown one of the computers out the window (themselves following close behind) as George often fantasized about doing; or that the building’s window washers had a mechanical failure and had slammed against the side of the tower.  Amazing, how a few moments, several hundred surprised shouts, and a hundred death rattles can change a person’s mind so quickly, despite never seeing what was happening.

            On any other day, George would have been back to his cubicle by 8:50, after stopping by the break room for coffee. He would have chatted (and in a few isolated incidents, even flirted) with his fellow coworkers about petty things such as the weather, the neighbor’s bothersome tomcat, or even the failing economy. George would have given an obliged laugh to an obligatory bad joke, and been on his (not-so) merry way. He would have finished his work at 5 o’clock, and left the building by 5:17 to catch the 5:30 subway back to Queens where he would walk to his apartment, cook dinner, and fantasize about the life he wanted.

             Had George called in sick on that Tuesday, or over slept, or even if he had simply gone down to the lobby to use their restroom (only to find it broken), things would be different. He would have met the girl from the floor below, three apartments to the left; who was a struggling painter and piano player from Phoenix, Arizona, by the name of Callie.  They would have bonded over their shared liking of both Puccini and Daft Punk. Their wedding vows would have channeled Shakespeare in ways that brought the guests to tears. Eventually, George would have been bestowed with the honor of chasing monsters from his daughters’ closet; which he had a peculiar ability to do exactly that with his mere presence.

           Had a chilly breeze brushed his shoulder, he would have gone inside to grab his coat. Because of this delay he would have missed his train, thus he might have taken a walk while waiting for the next metro and lost track of time. He could have run into a friend from college who spends his days telling all the somebodies and nobodies in Central Park that he loved them (an occupation that has given him six broken ribs and a cracked jaw, along with a perpetual state of well-being). This sequence of events could have inspired George to give up his unsatisfactory desk job, instead joining said friend, and together they could have started a movement that changed the world's way of thinking.

            Yes, George, like all of humanity (along with every day), possessed sempiternal potential. Alas, he never realized that potential.

            George had always wondered whether or not explosions felt like slow motion when experienced in real life. Much to his dismay, they didn't. Nor does one's entire life flash before his eyes when on the verge of death. No, on that fateful day, George discovered what flashes before one's dying eyes are regrets; along with some of the best memories, but certainly not all (there would be far too many memories to experience within a jet-fuel fed explosion).