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Keep moving.
It had seemed like such a sweet deal. There has to be something salvageable, right? It can’t all go down the crapper. I’ve done so much work here. I look around the place; it looks like I haven’t done a thing.
The place is still a mess.
When I read the ad last year, my first thought was “Too good to be true”. I was right but it wasn’t like I had many options at that point. Unemployed for over two years, no more unemployment benefits, a lousy hundred dollars a month in food stamps and a gig cleaning up vomit at the local punch palace for drinks and ten bucks an hour.
What’s that? That’s no way for a man to live.
I know what you’re thinking, but you’re wrong. I’d have done any kind of work; I’m not proud that way. Who’s gonna hire a 48 year old white guy with a plate in his head? Right, right. I don’t have to tell every prospective employer about the plate but somehow it always works its way into the conversation. Not just job interviews. Sometimes I think the plate wants everyone I meet to know its there; it’s like I’m talking about my experience with front end loaders and then here comes this whole line of crap about the accident and how it was all such a freak thing and the crazy ordeal with the hospital and how the first plate they tried didn’t work.
