postal

Dear Jim,
I am writing again to remind you there are worse things than Death.
Sleeping has been fun again as of late. The sore throat and fever are finally gone so a full eight-plus night is once again possible. It's the subject matter of the dreams that have really made it a hoot, though. Two out of the last three nights I've had dreams similar to "Die Hard" movies, only I always have a partner and I'm not balding. Guns, terrorists, public places in need of rescue: these are the things that swirl in my head at night as I try to save the day, in my fantasies at least. Last night's sidekick was a guy from work we call Rambo since he has a veritable arsenal at home. We had the stealth mode hand signals down and everything, duct-taped the clips of our automatic weapons back-to-back like in the movies to make for faster reloading. But somehow I was always running out of bullets and scrounging for more magazines on the ground that usually turned out to be empty anyway. I'm not sure if this is supposed to symbolize some sort of self-perceived sexual inadequacy or if I'm really just paranoid about shootin' blanks in a fire-fight. Either way I was always alright in my dream, Rambo had my back and that's always a good thing.
Which really isn't too far from the truth. Eddie's been good to me, one of the many father-figures I've met in this silly union business who has replaced the absent sperm donor. Edward "Rambo" Staff III, doesn't get much manlier than that. He's given me everything from recipes for vennison, to tools he has extra of and knows I need, to tips on wooing women and sexual positions that only older men have had the time to discover. Not having raised his own child for whatever reason (I never really asked), it seems as though he's another who passes the torch to his apprentices to fill a void similar to mine. I'm one of the few "Kids" he'll agree to work with, him being such a meticulous craftsman of the pipe trade and all, so it's an honor to be deemed a valuable commodity to the company in his eyes.
Which is why I know he'll be disappointed to hear that they're shipping me out to another job this week supposedly. It's a long story that you've probably heard in bits and pieces over cocktails and soapboxes, Jim, so I won't reiterate all the details. Apparently, though, my employer became angry when he found out that I took five days off last week due to my illness. I had a serious throat infection that only allowed me to sleep two hours a night and prohibitted me from speaking. Do you think I wanted to lose a week's pay? Sure, I could've done what most guys do and went to work sick. I wouldn't have been worth a shit and would've gotten my coworkers sick, though, so I opted to take one for the team by staying home, rolling around in bed with sweaty fevers flipping pages of books between the sheets. It was no vacation, trust me. Well, my boss didn't see it the same way and decided a few days ago that he wanted to punish me by sending me to the housing job across town where the benefit package is a fraction of what it usually is for a commercial job. I worked the last phase of that project for the majority of last year and took the hit already; the vacation check I'll be getting May First which is usually a few grand is only going to be a lousy forty-eight dollars for Christ's sake, all because of the lesser rate being paid into my benefits fund. That's a hit I'm not willing to take again. Besides, I've already mastered the mindless art of plastic piping a la crawlspace. I'm learning new aspects of the piping industry on the courthouse renovation job I'm on now, which is the point of the apprenticeship program after all. I don't want to be one of these useless slugs who comes out of his time without really being able to call himself a mechanic. Those are the guys who sit on the bench waiting for that job that never comes. No, that won't be me, dammit. If this arrogant prick wants to play God now that he can afford to write a good paycheck on time again for the first time in a year then I will be forced to stick to my guns by taking a lay-off. There are other contractors out there, I work out of a hiring hall whose job it is to find work for me. In the meantime I'd collect unemployment and work on the side and wind up making double my normal income anyway without even working a full week. So, Jim, if you know anyone who may need some plumbing and/or heat work done in the coming weeks...
But enough about me for a minute, how the hell are ya? Oh, really? Well that sure is unfortunate if I do say so myself. I tried to tell ya, but you didn't wanna listen. Yeah, that's what she said. Good talk.
What is it with these band names, Jim? All of these ominous phrases stating some kind of urgency, some sort of debauchery, maybe a bit of John Wayne Syndrome in there. It's getting to be ridiculous. I think a band should name itself with one to three words. This music of today isn't changing the world, it's just dropping teenage panties. And any "musician" who says he picked up an instrument for any reason other than pussy is a fucking liar, right? We seasoned veterans do it for the love of the game at this point, of course, but those initial teenage years of fumbling through clumsy chords and feeling our fingers hurt from the strings were only inspired by the desire for otherwise unobtainable ass. It scares me to think we'll be too old for this someday, the second we resort to playing covers to get gigs we'll know and have to get out.
People like them deserve each other. That's all I have to say about that, please take the hint by not asking such a personal question again so shortly after the quake. You know I'm not one for being candid, but even this greenhouse pulls the shades once in awhile when absolutely necessary.
I hit the books pretty hard this morning, it felt good to do it by choice instead of necessity now that I'm no longer deathly ill. I let the rabbit out of her cage to romp around my room for awhile. I felt bad because I failed to set her free yesterday since I wasn't home for long. I don't get us, Jim. We can feel guilty for not giving a pet it's exercise/play time while reciting our sins of the last six years without as much as flinching. Somehow what we've done to people in the past isn't as big an issue, at least not in the forefront, as littering or not doing the dishes promptly or being late with a credit card bill. People are only people and deserve what they get since people are the ones who made us the way we are, right? Hurt people hurting people, justifying it all with the weird way God wired us. It's really gotta end, man. Maybe it finally has this time.
I'd love to stay and bore you some more, but I want to go clothes shopping. Sometimes the second-hand T-shirts just don't cut the mustard. And I need to get out into that fresh air so I can smoke a cigarette. Feast or famine, brother. You decide.

Your equally disgusted compatriot,
Dave







Currently reading:
"Alcoholics Anonymous" by, uhhhh, some dude who used to be a drunk I'm guessing (I found it at the Goodwill and couldn't resist).