I work alone. I like good thick walls. There are times late at night, my naked and sweating body covered in the dust of dry wall, granite, hot filaments of steel and ceramic fibers, where I reach the ecstasy you only see on the faces of saints in the paintings of the Dutch masters. I don’t fuck around.
If you ask the police—who I work closely with when I am called to a crime scene to soothe the bereaved animal companions of crime victims—they’d call me pathologically aggressive. If you ask the bereaved animals, they’d have the opposite opinion. Both are correct.
I mentioned Chris, earlier? Anyways, Chris and I were in an HR-approved relationship, as sometimes happens among success-oriented young coworkers. We shared a passion for business and an inability to leave the office, for fear of “falling behind the pack” and subsequently being slain
That said, f*ck everyone in the Good Samaritan Hospital ICU who called my illusions “jarring” and “unsanitary”. Secondly, f*ck that security guard and his big ten-dollar words like “trespassing” and “drunk and disorderly”.
The night Sheila gave me her copy of the employee manual with a nude photo of her in it I knew. Another ship would sink burning into the sea just like before. In that empty parking lot alone with that picture I knew I was a doomed man. My wedding ring in the cup holder of my sedan, I nearly bit a hole in my upper lip.
It’s my ability to soothe murder victims’ animal companions (never use the word ‘pet’, it’s offensive) with the dulcet tones of my virtuosic euphonium playing that has me on the police department’s text alert system.