A premonition of myself in 30 years

A haggard man in tattered clothes stumbles on the curb of 14th and 4th and falls sideways into the wall of the building on the corner.  He slumps to the ground, back to the brick, and watches as his puffs of breath wisp away into the chill air.  Suddenly, the sensation of bugs crawling under his skin returns and he becomes visibly agitated.
 
One hit too many of the ol’ hallucinogens, he supposes.

Watching the patrons of the restaurant across the street, he smacks his lips and searches for morsels of food that might be in his expansive, yellowing beard.  But even this task proves to be too strenuous, so the man begins to drift into a light sleep.

“Hey!”

He opens his eyes.  A thirty-something gentleman dressed in a silk suit is towering over him with a sneer on his lips.

“Here’s a quarter, buy yourself a shower why don’t you?” the lawyer says, lumbering away with a sickening air of indignation.  

The haggard man’s eye (the one with the cataract, not the glass one) begins to twitch, and he yells after the lawyer:

“You know, I could have been an astronaut!  Yeah!  And I would be too if 30 years ago today my calculator didn’t run out of batteries at the beginning of an important orbital mechanics test!”