The drones work hard before they die,
and give up on pretty little homes

In my 12th hour of consciousness. Sentences are fragments, thoughts scarcely more. A truck with a happy bug on it. Having nights off is fun for a few days, those being the ones before the days in question arrive. I accomplished nothing at work. We're opening an hour early now. We start closing an hour later this week. My boss explaining that no one has to stay until 1am unless their chores aren't done. This was a response to an associate's request to not work that late. The associate works 40 a week at a bank in addition to this job. He sounded like he had just heard about his parents' death when he called. And all I could think was "heartless." Reading Eggers in my car to escape. Eating a sandwich and a half. Praying no one catches me scribbling things on scrap paper because they'd just ask what I was writing. Then I'd have to explain things. I was able to picture myself falling to my knees and bawling today. The expression on my face and everything. Telling my boss she did something wrong. Here is my foot. It is down. And then I'm more or less told that I am out of the loop. She isn't wrong. Etc. She's had a hard week. She worked 5 hours today. She had to go home. And I pictured me. Ramming my head into a wooden pallete. But I come home, deposit dropped, shift fulfilled. Return a phone call to someone. Tell them they had the wrong number. And this makes me feel good about myself. And now I am off to eat with company I take comfort in.
In twelve hours I'm born all over again, today comes with.
posted by beta at 12/11/2002 05:48:00 PM