Vance accosted Kimon. “Wake up,” Vance says, “and smell the coffee.”
Kimon, surprised, turned his head, a quizzical look on his face. “What do you mean,” he said. “I am awake. I’ve been so since 11 in the morning. I’ve had two Nescafe ice coffees since then.”
“Yes, but are you really awake?” retorted Vance. “I have been telling you over and over. Don’t you understand? Can’t you listen to me? Don’t I make sense? Wake up!”
Kimon surveyed the face of his interlocutor and momentarily reflected on that impromptu discussion but still did not have a clue of what was going on. Irritation crept on him. It was four p.m. and he was famished. He absolutely had to have lunch soon and then get his zzzzs before going out that night.
It had been a great day until this rude interruption by this person trying to “wake” him up. No, correct that. It had been a great month, a wonderful decade. Kimon could not believe where he had started what he had going for him. By sheer luck and, why not, winningness, he coasted through university without opening a book. The chicks, those partying nights, they were all so many, and he could not make time for study groups or essay writings.
He never believed studying in the university would help him in life. He did it because his parents pressed him. And he was right. His simple “pass” grade meant nothing. He got everything he wanted because he asked for it. He claimed it. He deserved it and they gave it to him. His parents. His grandmother. His dead uncle. The sleazy mayor. All of them. He was cool.
Who the hell was this guy nagging him? “Piss off, buddy. You don’t make sense. And what is to you if I am awake or not? Maybe I like my dreams. I bet you anything my dreams are sweeter and jazzier than yours. Maybe you’re envying me. Your dreams suck and you don’t want to let others dream what they deserve.”
Vance considered the little speech, disappointment creasing his face. “Maybe you’re right,” he said. “Your dreams may be spectacular. But they never last forever.”