The REAL Sugarhill Gang
In this world a man must either be the anvil or the hammer.
—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Sam Roberts | Sundance
always go down swingin’
Literature is the question minus the answer.
Dedicated to Bro. Ruhl & John F. Kelahan
Every morning was the same. Howard stirred just minutes before his alarm sounded at 6 a.m. He had always hated the dull droning sound his alarm produced, but a mixture of laziness and aversion to change kept it next to his bed year after year.
After a hearty stretch, he made his way to the bathroom. He stubbed his toe on the way in, as he did every morning. Howard would never understand what had possessed the brilliance that designed his building to raise his bathroom floor an inch higher than the rest of the apartment. “Assholes”, he mumbled to himself quietly as he attempted to coax the last bit of toothpaste onto his toothbrush.
Once his teeth were brushed, he splashed water on his face, and carefully spread what little gray hair he had left across his balding head. He looked at himself in the mirror for a few moments.
Who was this man with the wispy gray hair, and the crinkled, yellowish skin that looked like old newspaper? Who was this man wearing the pale blue eyes that had once belonged to him? Behind the stranger in the mirror he noticed sunlight beginning to slowly creep into his room and snapped out of it.
Howard went to his closet and selected a light-yellow, short-sleeve, button-up shirt from an impressive collection of pastel-colored, short-sleeve, button-up shirts, then grabbed the khakis he wore the day prior, and a tie depicting Van Gogh’s Starry Night.
Once dressed, he carefully navigated his way through the immense stacks of books, newspapers, and magazines that littered his apartment toward the kitchen.