Tuesday, April 7, 2015

Untitled Real Jobs


I had a lot of jobs that felt like this.

Middle of the night, massive empty cubicles where I punched numbers into computers.  Wandered corridors because they needed someone there in case the phone rang.  Got paid cold cash to wait in a huddled line all night for official doors to open.

Florence, only qualified to play or to teach, once did supermarket inventory in the middle of the night.  Hands trained to wring out the nuances of the saddest music in the world, placing Del Monte cans neatly on a shelf.  It paid the bills as she put her life back together.

And the one file I kept from my father's papers was the chart of the 162 jobs he applied to after being given the shaft by a company he had shown up to for 25 years, rain, shine, grim, broken, bereft, lost, still providing for a family that was no longer one...

He finally got a job with the city through blind testing and worked until it was time to retire and get a bit of a pension.  She finally got enough paying piano students that paid the bills and allowed her to dance with the girls she liked.

And after the many odd decades I trundled through, I looked at all that wide open barren space and decided to fill it with story.