“Dang I Was Late” an Essay from the Millennials


I popped up onto my single-gear, threw my messenger bag over my shoulder, started skedaddling. Like a Vine, six secs later, I was moving. Dang.

I had to make it by opening. I had to, dang it. I shriddled down the lane; my beard was a Facebook avatar rainbow flag, flapping in the wind. I wouldn’t miss another cultural event like this, on the graves of my ancestors.

My specs weren’t UV-safe — just brown glass. I rode anyway. Lumbersexual.

My clothes were too tight. My skinnies felt like poppin’, even across my malnourished quads, and I could feel the seams ripping on my small vintage houndstooth button-down, which was my go-to despite my weighing nearly 240. Still I jazzed up the sidewalk, rubber burning. I had to dang make it.

Nerds with the shaved-sides-long-top hairdo were yesterday’s poseurs; I had the new sexy: shaved down the middle, long on the sides, like Larry Fine. My side-coif flapped in the wind, a Facebook avatar rainbow flag finding resistance against the flow, like a salmon swimming downstream when all the other salmon are swimming upstream, or like a metaphor running headfirst into sentences full of similes.

Did you see when that professional comedian said that joke about the person who wasn’t them? I spoke up on Twitter, got them fired from their job, divorced, ruined their life. Emoji.

I Zhrizzered across the crosswalk despite the fascist “no walking” sign on the pole across the street. I arched my back. Fire. Foster the People. Nobody hit me, but I bet they wanted to, the dang robots. Take a shower?

I skridded into the parking lot, wrapped a chain around my beast, lockered it to the antiquated newspaper stand by the door, waltzed inside, my faded and scuffed brogues kickin’ up sparks on the hot ‘crete. You vote, you cisgender traitor. My vote is my dollar, and it bought tickets to Foster the People.

I walked to the counter, cool as a cuke: “Gimme one of the new Cheesy Fritos Chili Cheese Chips Montezuma Cheese Dip Burritos, and a small Sangrita Blast.” My people came in after me, all their bikes chained to the same dying rag. “Give us one of the new Cheesy Fritos Chili Cheese Chips Montezuma Cheese Dip Burritos too,” they said.

Welcome to the new generation. Everything you worked toward the past 100 years is dead.

Taco Bell. Live Mas.

About Zack Newkirk


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