The Mandela Effect Part 1

Sinbad rolls over in his uncomfortable four poster twin bed to turn off his screeching alarm. His back aches from the springs if his mattress. It’s 5AM, and he has to be at work by 9AM. In another life he wouldn’t have to wake so early, hell he wouldn’t even have this job managing a failing bar to which he has a three hour commute. Sinbad rises from bed, but is immediately forced back down due to gravity and

“Bad knees,” he sighs, stretches, and finally gets up. Sinbad drags his socked feet across the linoleum to the small adjacent bathroom. He relieves his bladder, washes his hands, and prepares his toothbrush. Brushing his teeth, the ex-comedian looks out the tiny window; it isn’t even light out yet. He can see drunks stumbling home, and homeless people huddled in an ally.

“How did it come to this?” He says out loud to himself, mouthful of toothpaste suds. He spits, rinses his face and looks in the mirror. Bags under his eyes, extra 50 pounds evident in his his cheeks and jawline. His coloring is off, grayish, muted. Sinbad closes his eyes and looks away, unable to deal with the image of his own decline any longer.

Coffee. Miniwheats. Whole Milk. With his breakfast completed, Sinbad gets dressed. Medium wash jeans, ill fitting, torn. Dingy beige t shirt, Old plaid shirt, too tight to be buttoned. He makes his way out the door, and onto his first bus to begin his commute.

 

*Breaking Glass* It’s 11 PM, and the bar is moderately filled with drunk patrons, one of which just dropped a beer all over the floor.

“Shit!” He runs over with a rag and a bag, clears the scene of bystanders and begins to clean up the mess. Suddenly, a sharp pain errupts across the center of his palm, and he looks down to see a huge gash spewing blood. “Son of a…! Malcolm! Come over here and clean this up!” The busboy runs over to the now bloody and beer soaked scene as Sinbad runs to the back room with a dirty rag pressed against his wound.

He runs cold water over the opening as he fumbles through cabinets and boxes looking

for a first aid kit. Finding nothing of the sort, he grabs a bottle of cheap whiskey, a cleaner rag, and some tape.

“FUCK!” He screams as he pours a healthy serving over his ruined flesh. He wraps the rag over his hand and tapes it on. “FUUUUUCCCKKK!!!” He screams louder in a fit of rage. He flings boxes and kicks the safe. “Goddamnit!” He stubbed his toe on the safe. “Why?! Why have I come to this? What went wrong?! Aaaarrgghhh!” He is in a tailspin now, the man can’t even see a foot in front of him. His life is a joke, much funnier than any he has ever told. He hates it, he can’t take it. His anger is clouding his judgement and his vision. That is probably why he doesn’t register what is right in front of him, and when he does, he doesn’t believe it. Who could have ever believed it.

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