A Sobering Drunk Conversation

It's been a few months
since we've spoken.
Funnily enough
he too has a phone
that goes one way.
Seems a common theme.
Still, it beats the alternative.
I'm not one for faking nice
when the weather ain't so pleasant.

"How ya' been, brother?"
he drawls into the mouthpiece.

"Hurtin' like everyone else
in our local,"
I reply in the tone that comes
naturally to a jobless craftsman.

"I'm not so great either," he tells me.
"Things up here ain't no cakewalk."

I ignore the double-negative
and snort into my cell. It's hard to find pity
for a guy who's been working sixty hours
per week for the last six months.
Then there's that pretty little wife
and two young kids waiting at home
for him when he does finally return.
A dagger to the hilt in the thigh
for that.

"I know a lot of guys who'd kill
to be in your boots," I remind him
somewhat peeved.
There's a fine line between brotherly
empathy and ignorance.
He may have crossed it
aided by the six types of liquor
swirling in my stomach.
Long Island's quite the melting pot.

"You don't know what they have me doin'.
I'm fitted with a respirator, wear a full body suit
with gloves, a face shield, glasses.
None of my skin's exposed.
The chemicals I'm working with
can kill on contact. They eat through everything.
Even bone."

I take a swig while he does
two hundred miles away.
That's one hell of a way to earn a living.
Makes your standard crawlspace plumbing
look like a smelly vacation.

"Jesus, Johnny," I call him
by the wrong name.
A few drinks ago I would've remembered
he prefers to be called Jay.
"Does your old lady know?"

"Not the extent of it. She'd make
me come home. No one else
wants to do this job. It's the only reason
I'm still here. We need the money."

There, he's got it. The elusive pity
of Michael David Vahsen. Someone
admittedly has it worse than I do.
"Well, if they're ever looking for
a few good men feel free..."
I tell him, unsure if I'm
kidding or serious.
He assumes the former
and takes the conversation elsewhere.

"I'm going on the road
down south next year,"
he says. "Power plant
shut-down work.
You want to come
with me?"

"I'm there,"
I tell him.
"I've always wanted
to work on a Southern accent."

"When this toxic chemical job's done
I'm going to Tennessee and West Virginia.
They'll have work there at the nuke plants.
Do you want to come along?"
He punctuates the offer
with a belch that'd start an avalanche
then repeats himself.

"Next year I'm going..."
but I cut him off before he can continue.
It's as though he's telling himself at this point.
He's deeper than I am tonight
at least as far as the bottle's concerned.

"Take it easy, Jay," I say
before cordially hanging up.
There's one truth that rings louder
than any hotel room alarm clock:
Someone's always got it worse.