He'll never be a rich man, that's a given, that's completely obvious, but it doesn't bother him. If he wanted to be a wealthy man he would have majored in engineering instead of criminal justice. If he wished to be well-off he would have married Suzanne Chandle sophomore year, because she would have said yes, because he thought he loved her and basically because she was loaded. Carlton Lassiter didn't care about the money, not one cent of it; he cares that his choice of employment makes a difference, that he helps people and that is completely worth the meager paycheck.
There's no chance he'll be a Formula One driver, though he still harbors fantasies about taking turns at ridiculous speeds and squeezing out of the window of a tiny car into the waiting flashes of photographers. He'll never know the champagne shower or how delicious that first sip of milk is.
It's entirely too improbable to believe that he'll ever have a jacuzzi in his home. It's more of a feminine wish, but he can't help it. He loves jacuzzis, they know how to work out his muscles better than a professional masseuse. Lassiter has always wanted one, but he's not a man of extravagance and will never fulfill that particular urge. Even so, he sometimes cracks open catalogues and peruses the models and pretends as though he's going to get one installed, yes, next day, just for the thrill of the moment.
I won't ever be able to eat Junior Mints, which irks him because his ex-wife used to order them all the time when they would go to the movies; he never understood the draw. He will never be able to chew Doublemint gum. Bottom line, he can't eat mint.
Carlton Lassiter is fairly certain that he was never in love with his wife, and he's also fairly certain that he'll never get to experience that. When he was young, he was certain he would be able to get by without having it, without wanting it, but now that he's older, now that he sees people around him having children and taking family vacations to the east coast.
Example A: Cheif Vick.
It's like she's throwing it in his face or something and it makes him sick. He still can't seem to bring himself to date, to go out and meet women. Someone once recognized him at the grocery store (as a detective) and said he was interesting and wanted to know more about his profession and all he could say to her was "You're blocking the gluten-free bread products."
She'd been a looker too; a shame, really.
He gets the feeling that he'll never, just never...
He doesn't want to think about it and so he grabs a beer out of the fridge and cracks it open, thinks about all the things he says he'll never do and resolves to do them and almost signs up for not quite there yet.
He can come to terms with some things, but certainly not that, not yet.