Misdirections in a sunken economy

The newspaper man tells me that if I buy today, I'll be happy tomorrow.
"Know everything there is to know, all on one page." He showers me with a gleaming white wide smile.
I stare at him, the newspaper man selling subscriptions. I had been searching in my pocket for my grocery list and he blindsided me as I walked into the store. He looks like a newspaper man, or what I think newspaper men should look like. Parted hair, mustache, brown jacket. I expect him, almost, to be chanting, "Extra! Extra! Read all about it!" Extra loud. With his extra white teeth. And extra wide smile.
"Sports. Politics. Crime. All for a low, low price. Today only. What'd ya think?"
I tell him I'm a newspaper man, too, leaving out that I'm not the kind he is. Not with that smile.
"And where do you work?"
I tell him.
"Well, than you need a newspaper, friend."
"I'll read it online. Can't afford print. Not in this economy."
"Now, that's a hell of a thing for a newspaper man to say. You need to support your own. You're doing your industry a disfavor."
I want to explain to him what the industry has done to me, what disfavors the newspaper business has done to this newspaper man. But his smile is disarming. Extra disarming.
"I'll read you online." I walk away. "Especially in this economy."
I buy the knock-off brand everything: milk, applesauce, sugar. I use my plus card and the register tells me I've had $1.57 in savings today.
I wonder if the store brands even taste decent and laugh because this economy is devouring me from the soul out.
Later that day I'm speaking to my friend the technology man. He knows a lot about this world, the circuits of it all, the wires. He's guiding me through the maze of the Internet.
Than: "I hate my job."
"You have a job," I say. "How can you hate your job? In this economy, you should be happy to have one."
"You don't understand." He tells me, followed by the pent-up frustration of the proletariat workman: the hours, the pay, the environment.
"But pay is pay. Everyday."
"I'm tired of not being happy."
It's always the one's who have the most who complain the most.
I cut him off, almost insulted and tone showing it.
"Stop bitching. Worry about something productive, like getting a girlfriend. You should really worry about getting a girlfriend. Show us you're straight for once."
He pauses and it's cold.
After we end the call I curl on my bed. My mouth feels grimy, dirty, rancid and I need to brush my teeth.
I really enjoy brushing my teeth. Gets the plaque out. It feels good to clean out the grime.I spit the toothpaste out, rinse, smack, meet my own gaze in the mirror and just stare. Then I wash my face.
It all makes me so angry, this sunken economy. The misdirections. The mismanagement. The mistakes. I never knew money could make me so frustrated.
My stomach suddenly feels upset and I get a glass of milk, two percent.
I stand at my window and look out.
On the lawn there is a peacock: shimmering blue, emerald tail with opal spots, evergreen feathers as a hat. The green sticks out the most in the gleaming sun.
What an odd thing to be standing in my lawn, I think, but think that it's not so odd when you think about it. Just another bird. Could just as easily fly away. Can they even fly?
It stands and stares and maybe it meets my eye; I'm not sure. Then looks the other direction, walks away, emerald tail rounding the corner of a fence.
What a beautiful creature, I think.
Outside clouds grow. The sun is bright but the gray glides over it.
The day light gets dim. Through the window I watch as the silky blanket devours the sun and I close my blinds as the rain starts to fall, echoing through the room with me in the middle.
I wonder if I paid the heating bill this month. The day's getting cold.