What happened to me? I once promised myself I would never work for money,
that I would join the Peace Corps, that I would live in beautiful, inspirational places.
Instead, I had been in Detroit for ten years now, at the same workplace, using the same bank, visiting the same barber.
I was thirty-seven, more efficient than in college, tied to computers and modems and cell phones.
I wrote articles about rich athletes who, for the most part, could not care less about people like me.
I was no longer young for my peer group, nor did I walk around in gray sweatshirts with unlit cigarettes in my mouth.
I did not have long discussions over egg salad sandwiches about the meaning of life.
My days were full, yet I remained, much of the time, unsatisfied. What happened to me?
“Coach,” I said suddenly, remembering the nickname. Morrie beamed.
“That’s me. I’m still your coach.” He laughed and resumed his eating, a meal he had started forty minutes earlier.
I watched him now, his hands working gingerly, as if he were learning to use them for the very first time.
He could not press down hard with a knife. His fingers shook.
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