Something I came up with while waiting for the microwave to ding at me. Credits go to BOSCH microwaves for the inspiration.
The Sound of Waiting
Like most people, Irons had spent half his life waiting for something or another. He had become used to the act of waiting, even grown to enjoy it in time. In fact, even his nickname had been coined in the moment, in that particular instance he had been spending most of his high school football career on the bench with 'a face etched in iron', waiting for his no doubt glorious moment to come.
And it certainly had been the definition of glorious. It was the end of his penultimate year, his teammates had been faring poorly in the league, a constant low level white noise of bickering, gossip and cuss words seeping into the cracks of what coach Hackner had somewhat optimistically called team spirit.
Irons hadn't been involved with that of course. He was dependable, never part of the chorus of complaints that followed an announcement of extra laps in the rain after a loss, even though he didn't play in half the games. Naturally, there was a reason he was never in the games. He neither had the innate talent that to him seemed to manifest itself unfairly at random in the other boys, nor the engine like work ethic to compensate, instead opting for some middle ground that most found themselves in quite by accident, though the impression garnered from others somehow indicated that he was there of his own free will. He was well liked amongst the others, stoic, quiet, never overly unpleasant. Everyone's friend, though not overly so.
So when the fallout of Harry's latest taunt about Greta had resulted in a hospital bill of several thousand dollars thanks to a career ending haymaker from Steve, Irons had been drafted to serve. It was an opportunity he would take full advantage of as he led the team to six victories in eight games including a last minute winning goal at the hated private school rival three miles down the road, past the cow herds of the strange farmer who only ever wore yellow and seemed to have taken a unusual liking to him.
Next season he would captain the team, (a choice made partly out of circumstance, not that the coach would admit that by the end, preferring the narrative of inspired decision making.) They made promotion, with Irons scoring twice in the final and make his parents perform the rare act of screaming in delight, something usually reserved for his siblings.
Unfortunately life does not always adhere to such wonderful moments for long, and soon he found his life had slipped ever so slowly back to solid ground, the waiting room in which he would sit, ready for the next time the door would unlock and the pretty secretary call him by name into the next room, whatever that was.
Meanwhile, the sun had decided to go on and keep orbiting the earth in the same old manner it always does, (something to do with a promise it once made,) and one day it woke up to find Irons no longer the same boy of yesteryear. He had done as well as most of those in his town did, having completed a degree in marketing from a well respected university in the south of his country, full of preppers from the school he so decisively beat to promotion, (a fact he mentioned on no less than thirty three occasions,) before finding employment at a branch of an up and coming insurance firm back in his hometown that dealt with clients as far as South America. While others had hurriedly tried to piece together old school notes and show a semblance of Spanish speaking capability, Irons had opted as he always had done, to wait for a more suitable opportunity since languages were never his strong point in school besides the word for beer, (which he even knew in Japanese.)
Despite his good faith which he never let go of in the following decades, those opportunities did sometimes take a while to manifest themselves, a complaint he would make often on the way home to the old farmer, still in his yellow attire despite the years. The conversation had it’s own set formulae, a shout across, an exchange of pleasantries, small talk about children, (he had none,) and wives, (he had one,) before Irons would bring up the latest grievance. Still, you could never say that he complained too much, sure sometimes the conversation was a shade darker than usual, genuine fractures straining to make themselves seen in his carefully constructed philosophy. Despite this, he would always end with the phrase, ‘Patience is a virtue,’ and perform his best smile. The farmer would in these times often try to relate some old anecdote, trying to draw upon his extensive life experience as a child may draw water from a well, though this usually ended up being more confusing than illuminating always somehow ending up with a story about cows. Not that Irons listened all too much of course, it was hard to follow him at best, not least when the anatomy of cows was concerned, and anyway, Irons didn’t need him to, just the act of release made him feel much more chipper.
One day, the farmer made the mistake of asking why Irons had stuck with the nickname. It took a full twenty three minutes for Irons to finish the script, a story he had always been immensely proud of and had memorized down to the smallest detail, even having the correct price of the hospital bill.
The story of those fourteen months had meant much to Irons. It was the moment when he rose to the occasion, leaving the sound of raindrops which accompanied him on the bench behind, overcome by the cheering of his teammates as he was held aloft on their shoulders. Daisy had said yes, Mum had gotten him his favourite team shirt with his name on the back. He still wore that to the gym. It was success, it was victory, it was vindication. Perhaps that’s the real reason why he still clung to that name from so very long ago. Irons was a name that was forged in the sidelines, not in the moment of triumph, but by rain and the sound of waiting, before that which once he had waited for had finally arrived.
End
Patience is a virtue, but does virtue alone make success?
