The First Farewell: An Ill-Advised Series
5
A remembrance of the first (geographic) farewell.
“All stalkers to the front, NOW!”
At least that’s the way it sounded. That’s what we called ourselves, night stalkers. Sounded much cooler than guys who worked third shift putting groceries on shelves.
We reached the check-out to find Wendell, the old, crabby night clerk, headlocked by some bum screaming to empty the till. The fellas’ tackled him at the waist, Wendell slipping free as he went down. I was five seconds behind them and saw the dogpile.
A robber. Man, this was the most exciting thing to happen in a while, and not just here at work. My live-in girlfriend had become a cold fish, after taking a job as receptionist. She used to be into me and my poetry while we were in college, but these days it was all about her boss, a real artist, the kind with a loft, a gallery and a PR person. Discussions on art often turned to him, his money, his potential. Our connection seemed less important than on-paper worth.
I used to have potential, too, baby, but someone had to make us some money in this crummy little town ‘till that teaching job opened up. I write poetry, too. Maybe you’d know that if I could afford the PR.
Henry yelled for me to help, landing a right to the guy’s nose. Thick blood spat on the linoleum.
I’m going to come home one morning, and she’s going to be gone.
“Get over here!”
The last remnant of my potential will be digging her nails into that joker’s back, dreaming of tropical vacations and feeling damned lucky she dropped me when she did. And I’ll be right here, showing up for minimum wage, cleaning some fool’s blood off the floor.
“Mike!”
So what?
What are you going to do about it…loser?
I ran over to the bum’s head and sat down. I pulled out my box cutter and put it hard against his neck. “It’s over”, I said. The bum stopped his struggling. “It’s over.” Even on whatever drugs this guy was on, he could see what six guys and a box cutter meant. I looked up to hear Jimbo let out a yell that got us all.
It was no lie. It was over - my job, my woman, all of it. Not two weeks later, I packed the car and headed North. I left everything I knew for more: a better lover, a steady flow of self-esteem, and happy to say, no need for a PR person.
A remembrance of the first (geographic) farewell.
“All stalkers to the front, NOW!”
At least that’s the way it sounded. That’s what we called ourselves, night stalkers. Sounded much cooler than guys who worked third shift putting groceries on shelves.
We reached the check-out to find Wendell, the old, crabby night clerk, headlocked by some bum screaming to empty the till. The fellas’ tackled him at the waist, Wendell slipping free as he went down. I was five seconds behind them and saw the dogpile.
A robber. Man, this was the most exciting thing to happen in a while, and not just here at work. My live-in girlfriend had become a cold fish, after taking a job as receptionist. She used to be into me and my poetry while we were in college, but these days it was all about her boss, a real artist, the kind with a loft, a gallery and a PR person. Discussions on art often turned to him, his money, his potential. Our connection seemed less important than on-paper worth.
I used to have potential, too, baby, but someone had to make us some money in this crummy little town ‘till that teaching job opened up. I write poetry, too. Maybe you’d know that if I could afford the PR.
Henry yelled for me to help, landing a right to the guy’s nose. Thick blood spat on the linoleum.
I’m going to come home one morning, and she’s going to be gone.
“Get over here!”
The last remnant of my potential will be digging her nails into that joker’s back, dreaming of tropical vacations and feeling damned lucky she dropped me when she did. And I’ll be right here, showing up for minimum wage, cleaning some fool’s blood off the floor.
“Mike!”
So what?
What are you going to do about it…loser?
I ran over to the bum’s head and sat down. I pulled out my box cutter and put it hard against his neck. “It’s over”, I said. The bum stopped his struggling. “It’s over.” Even on whatever drugs this guy was on, he could see what six guys and a box cutter meant. I looked up to hear Jimbo let out a yell that got us all.
It was no lie. It was over - my job, my woman, all of it. Not two weeks later, I packed the car and headed North. I left everything I knew for more: a better lover, a steady flow of self-esteem, and happy to say, no need for a PR person.