The regime we get we deserve.
It’s a lovely day in the neighborhood, far from the shenanigans in D.C. I watched the live feed of the tarp going up. It’s still up, so I’m moving on. Nothing to see here. The circus is still happening. I would go out and sit on the street corner with my sign, but it’s 95°F today, and I’ve lost my desert tan.
The writer’s group met on Friday for it’s every-other-week write-from-a-prompt delusion. Three of us showed up. Here are the five words, followed by what I wrote.
Fog
Never
Need
Collide
Tree
Harold’s family erected a cross at the intersection where Harold had collided with a tree in dense fog. A dozen or so crosses already marked the spot, so Harold’s family had to settle for the spot they could get, even though it wasn’t all that close to the place where Harold bought the farm after a few too many at Tippy Canoe. Harold had never been all that picky, his wife Jill had noted, and his son Bob wasn’t inclined to carpentry, so Harold got what he got.
On the first anniversary of Harold’s demise, his family brought a picnic lunch and spread out a blanket next to the cross.
Harold’s wife Jill examined the cross and turned to their son Bob. “Couldn’t you have painted it or something? It looks like crap. So disrespectful to your father.”
“At least I spelled his name right.” Bob held up his phone. “Shut up, it’s almost time.”
Jill looked around. “I don’t see him. Harold! Harold, we’re here. Where the hell are you?”
A faint voice came from down in the ravine. “I’m down here, you idiots. Wait, I need to float up.” Harold’s shimmering form appeared by the picnic basket. “Did you bring beer with you? I’m parched.”
“What were doing way down there?” Jill asked, sounding a bit peeved.
Harold said, “What are you doing putting my cross up here?” sounding equally peeved. “The truck lost it when I hit that tree. Didn’t the cops tell you? I was spattered from here to Sunday.”
“Ew, Dad. TMI.”
“What, squeamish, are you? Twerp. Never mind. Come on, did you bring me some beer?”
“Sure thing, Dad. Here’s a Bud. Let’s drink to the good old days.”
Harold tried to lift a beer but his ectoplasm failed. “Darn it. I guess I”m fading.”
“Wait, don’t go yet,” Jill said. “I need you to tell me where you put the life insurance policy.”
“Ha, ha, joke’s on you. I kept it in the glove compartment. It’s probably in the junkyard. Whoops, gotta go. I’m fading. See you guys next year. And move my cross, would you. Just bump that other guy down the hill.” Harold faded out of sight.
“Come on, Junior,” Jill said. “Pack up the stuff, quick.”
“Where are we going?”
“To the junkyard, of course.”
I used to drive a school bus in Gresham, which is a suburb of Portland. I endured one academic year before I bailed. It was one of the more difficult jobs I’ve had. I drove problem kids in the short bus out in rural areas before we had GPS. I got lost a lot. One of my routes took me past a particularly dangerous intersection. Multiple crosses marked the site.
Remembering my bus-driving job got me thinking about other terrible jobs I’ve had. Each time I remembered a crappy job, I said to myself, well, at least I don’t have to do that anymore. I said that phrase after I thought of my short-lived waitress job. I said it after I remembered my retail jobs. After my hellish personal assistant job. After I sold my soul by painting art to order to go with someone’s decor. After my 10-year self-employment sewing debacle. After my market research jobs, my nightmare nursing home activities director job, my back-breaking warehouse temp job, my 10-year teaching “career.” My endlessly tedious editing gigs. There might be more but that’s all I can bear to remember right now.
Have I ever had a job I didn’t hate?
I was born retired. That’s the story of my life.