Pardon the Delay: The Heart of the Worker

August 3, 2015:

7:37 AM. Damn, how in the world will I get to work on time? I just got out of the previous one no more than fifteen minutes ago. I know it’s not my fault, but who the fuck is going to explain that to my supervisor? I can already hear the condescending droll in the back of my mind, “You are a waste of money. I have 300 other men that can take your place. Where’s your mind, Ethan? Don’t you care? I’m sure your family’d be pissed that Friday’s paycheck’s gonna be the last in years.” And the pleading begins, only to be shut down by, “Fuck off and don’t waste my time.”  Generic answer for the even more generic worker ant I presume. Guess it was another day. Another emotionally draining black and white day of basic survival. But today is a different story. I am sure of it. I punch out of the dull grey apparatus at five o clock prompt, only to speed in my jalopy down the greyed and blacked commuter freeway. Left on Rogue. North on the turnpike for 30 miles. And voila, the smell of rank disposables clutch the air like smogs clog the sun. The other half of my existence. Without an utterance, the obese rice ball in a suit points to my section. I open it, and there they are. Mounds of old toys, appliances, and any other refuse for me to carry from one side of the yard to the other. Load. Unload. Load. Unload. No benefits for me, just your usual $400, if you’re lucky. Sometimes eight hours, sometimes 12. Three days and less than an hour of sleep. I guess this is happiness for you. The daily struggle to one day find that shred of happiness. It is 8:01 now, haven’t left. And you know what? Pardon the fucking delay. 


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