Procrastination

James woke up with a start. He turned and looked at his watch. Damn. Late again. He pulled himself off the floor, moving drowsily, eyes closed. The bathroom was mercifully just two feet away. He made his way across slowly. He saw himself in the mirror, 3 day stubble and bleary eyed. He smiled at his own misery. The toothbrush looked so far away: the same old scenario ran in his mind. `To do, or not do do ?'

That had always been the question. At birth, James had inherited two extremely lazy genes from both sides of his family, and ever since is found it very difficult to do anything requiring any form of self-discipline. Recently, he had tried to break out of his mold, and promised his soul a reward for every commited action he took. The lazy devil on his left shoulder, however, had all the trickery of a divorce lawyer. Taking advantage of his sleepiness, it began its silver tounged dialogue earnestly: `James, you are an extraordinary man. You are a genius. Your ability can't be measured by how many times you perform little menial tasks that all the boors of the world use to occupy their time. it's only a quarter to 1, James. why don't you go back for a short nap ? let that creative subconscious fire up some juices. so what if you don't use them ? didn't einstein himself say imagination is the most important formula for success ?'

He looked again at the toothpaste. the guy on his right, the good one, was much sparser in his speeches. `Look, James, I don't have time to sit around like two-horns and write elaborate speeches. I have work to do, and I suggest you get down to it too. For your good.' not the greatest salesman, James thought. he squeezed the tube of toothpaste and applied it on his brush. the devil was now blabbering at full speed, going on and on about the relaxing pillow and the comforts of sleep-

James' hand flew up to his left ear. The toothpaste filled up his ear canal beautifully. The devil's voice sounded muffled now, and kind of funny, but it was still trying its best. `Ironically, he works much harder at his job than the good one.' He applied the blue and red gel again, and began to brush from side to side. Ahh, the sweet taste of success. He began to move about the back molars with musical rhythm. Chh chhh. Chh chhh. Chh chhh chhh. Chh Chhhh Chhhh Chh Chhh Chhhh Chhhh Chhhh. A little dance seemed appropriate, so he began to do a little tap and jiggle routine. A full-blown solo act ensued, as feet and torso tried to keep time with hand and brush. `Eat your heart out, Elvis.'

An exhilerating few minutes later, as he rinses his mouth, James cleared the toothpaste from his ear and realised he could still hear the devil's voice. But now, it was much softer, much quieter. It felt as if the devil had run out of energy. `Screaming through a wad of toothpaste will take its toll on anyone,' he said to himself with a smirk. `Now, Jamie boy, to the Food-mobile.'

Even with such success early in the morning, the day didn't get any easier. Every single deed to perform was Herculean. Polishing the shoes, cooking at home, making calls to his girlfriends, paying the electricity bill. At home, everything was done for him. He was the black fattened sheep of the family: accused for all the troubles, yet pampered beyond prize-winning yews. As he result, he learnt to help no one for nothing and be dependant on everyone for everything. When he finally decided to move out, it took him nearly a week to pack his own bags and 2 more to accomplish it. Even then, all he brought were severely crumpled shirts and sweaters-the only pants he had were on his legs when he left. A slight hindsight.

The devil knew how to turn this into a positive too: `You were born great, James. A thinker. A mastermind. Remember the term, absent-minded professor ? Well that's you, James. Did Niels Bohr or Rutherford keep count of how many bills were red-flagged ? Do you think the world will care if you remembered to pack trousers when you are lifting the Nobel prize for Physics ? This will be a story your students will tell each other about you. Hell, it may well turn into a famous campus legend at Yale.' James had to admit, the devil was a crafty talker. Give him a short moustache and he might have looked the spitting image of Hitler. Maybe the Fuhrer had a voice just like this yakking away in his own ear, telling him `You're not killing innocent people, you are saving innocent future children from going hungry. Less people in the world, Addy. More for everyone else.' Would have made a hell of a debater.

Things had changed a lot since then. The toothpaste was a miracle worker. His new job had lasted 2 months, and the absent notes had almost dried up. Of course, Two Horns had refused to quit outright. James had really begun to respect the guy: ain't just any voice who could keep bravely screaming lie after lie while being drowned in mint-flavored flouride. Irony of ironies, on some days the devil's will to go on, actually spurred James to get to work. James kept it to himself though; the poor guy was such a hard worker, it would really hurt him to find out.

Still, things hadn't completely settled. Every day was a new war, no many how many wars he'd won. James begun to wonder if his system didn't understand the meaning of habit. But it worked for him, and for the first time in his life, James could look into the mirror and be happy about who he was, not who he was going to become someday. That was something.

James woke up with a start. Damn. 11:31. There went the day. The feelings seemed to come back. The devil cleared his throat. His sermon began in earnest-

`James!' It was the good guy. `Forget that loser. Get to work. You don't need to listen to any of us anymore.' The devil made a sarcastic reply, and the argument began. James took a deep breath and smiled to himself. The bickering continued, but he paid no attention to it. Let's get to work, darling. The world is my oyster.

`Let's eat.'