The adjustment is the real killer.
Going from a daytime routine to picking up the wrenches and climbing behind the wheel of the truck, driving into the night so you can blast some holes in walls and maybe get something done to appease the chums in charge. But that’s later, when you’re on the clock. Right now, laying in bed, it’s all about posture and how much light gets into the bedroom. How loud the shit neighbors downstairs decide to scream at and beat their shit kids. I swear she must literally strangle that little tadpole any time he gets just a little bit annoying. Usually she just blasts her music for the entire apartment building to hear and ignores her ugly little spawn.
The landlord is supposed to be around at some unannounced time to replace the toilet and I hope it’s today so I can tell her to fuck off. Not in a rude way, but in a nice pleasant way. I’m a nice, pleasant guy, after all. I did develop some semblance of manners since my formative years. I’ll answer the door completely naked. That’ll scare her the socks off her gnarled, decomposed feet for sure. But Sarah is going to work now so who is gonna rub me down until I fall asleep (if I fall asleep)? Hank sure won’t. He’ll only scream and yell at me because he’s the one who tells me when it’s time for him to eat. Hell, maybe I’ll just put on some music. Miles Davis has a hell of a horn and it’s a swell thing to hear any time of the day.
In the mirror I can see my tired eyes, but that’s okay. I’ve got this job that pays somewhat decently, at least on the weekends. It hurts every part of my body but that’s okay too; I know a lot of people who can’t feel anything at all, or at least people who claim to (it’s a side-effect from having a silver spoon shoved up their ass their whole life). They say they’ve become numb to the world and that may be true for some of them. I don’t know for sure but I don’t think anyone is truly numb. Even dead people feel something sometimes; you can hear them in this part of town, screaming and groaning in the night. There’s a romantic quality to being stuck, I guess. To feeling like you’ve seen it all to the point that you could be stricken blind and you wouldn’t care, because you’ve seen it all. People romanticize being downtrodden and burnt up too much, being perpetually drunk and depressed and misunderstood. No matter what anyone tells ya, it’s not a pleasant experience. It hurts every day. The joints first, then the muscles, sometimes both at the same time. And then your courage is afflicted, until you look in the mirror and start to think it’s all just part of growing older. And then you’re really stuck. You’ll say you can’t live any other way, but if given the chance you would.
The boss (my old boss, he’s been fired for over a month now, yea you got what you deserved you fucking piece of shit) says to me: “this will probably be another two-nighter,” and he says it proudly like it was his decision, or maybe he wants me to think he’s being empathetic and we share some inside joke about work pains. “You can handle it I’m sure.”
I imagine what it’s like to be him. To go home to his ugly wife (if you ever saw this guy you’d know for certain that there’s no way in hell he’s married to anyone with a membership in the upper echelon of “physically attractive”, by law, by common sense, she has to be hideous, absolutely atrocious), and she’s got a wrinkly neck and a mole on her temple the size of a quarter. He’ll climb out of his perfectly-ironed office clothes and slip into those button down matching pajamas. He probably reads before bed, using a gilded bookmark he picked up at Barnes and Noble in the stationary section. The kind with the stupid yellow tassel. He gets up in the morning at just a minute or two after six, after sleeping all the way through the night(because of the ambien, most likely), turns on his phone and sees my text: a great big cartoonish middle finger. But he just laughs because he thinks I’m kidding with him. He thinks we’re on that level. He turns to his ugly wife with the wrinkly cunt neck and oversized head mole and says: “Oh that Matthes, he’s one of the real funny ones.”
I get back to the shop after the install just as he’s pulling in and he asks me how I got so dirty. I tell him this is what happens when you really work, when you work for real and he just laughs. He asks if everything got done and I say fuck no, we’re going back tonight. It was just as he suspected: a two-nighter. He says: “I knew I picked the right man for the job.” And throws me a thumbs up.
He falls into his leather swivel desk chair and hits the ignore button on his ringing phone. He says: “They never stop calling. They call when I’m asleep sometimes, do you believe that? Don’t they have any common sense? I’m about to quit my job.”
I don’t have to hope anymore, because like I said earlier, the motherfucker was fired.
They’re hard-pressed by their own superiors, they’ll say. And maybe they are. Maybe their hate comes from somewhere else.
My boss (the one who was fired) says: “Let me know when you’re going to work so we can document it, let me know when you want to work harder. Not a lot of the guys around here do that willingly, so we need to document it when it happens, so the higher-ups know. They need to know where their money is going.”
They need to document everything.
They didn’t agree with the bootlaces I bought the other day because they’re afraid they’ll snap too easily. Suddenly they care about my well-being because of a bootlace. That’s what it always comes down to: bootlaces, and they still haven’t ordered my new work pants. They keep saying me getting fatter around the waist isn’t their responsibility.