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Hold on just a minute. Don’t you dare go. I see that look, like your shit don’t stink. Well, let me tell you, you got another thing coming in life. You think you can’t get knocked down to my stool just as fast as you sit down on yours? I had shit together, man, and you damn better well believe it. I had a job, I had my kids, I had my ol’ lady. But that shit don’t last. All of that can be gone faster’n you can blink, buddy boy. Listen. I worked at the furnaces my whole goddamn life, day in and day out. Maybe not some college kid job with peeling white hands and a bunch of bullshit on paper every day, maybe not some sort of high-rise penthouse Yessir Nossir job, but it was a good one and it paid the bills and it was all I fucking knew. Well you know how furnace jobs go, son? You know what any sort of labor in this country go? I’ll tell you—overseas. Gone. Zipped away. Like you don’t mean nothing, and you don’t, like you were the asshole the whole time and we got tired of making shit. Next thing you know you cashing the last check because you ain’t one of the boss’s favorites, so you get kicked out the door. Now, your lady, what’s she doing at home? I’ll fucking tell you. She’s working at the hair place, you know the one I mean, looks like someone’s house with a sign and a bad pain job, she’s working at the hair place near the house practically part-time, making whatever fucking money comes out of tips. So she gonna bring the bread home? No way. See how much you think that young thing loves you once some years pass and you come home and tell her you got shitcanned and there’s no way to pay for shit. Sure, it don’t happen all at once like that. No, no, they bleed you slow.

There’s that first fight when you finally work up the nerve to say that you aren’t gonna be going off to work anymore, with all the “what will we dos” and the “how are we gonnas,” and you manage to convince each other that everything’s alright and that there might just be a tight time while you’re looking for a new job, using whatever she’s got to fill in the difference in the meantime, and praying you got a little saved away in savings and that the car don’t break down. Then, like a thousand tiny little cuts, that first fight has little nasty babies that tear at you one at a time until all you and she fucking do is fight over money, fight over jobs, fight over anything else because at the root it is still the same damn fight. Because there’s no work for you or anyone else in the whole town, and if you’re lucky, and I ain’t, you can find some job delivering pizza with kids half your age or some shit.

Oh, can’t serve me anymore? Just water? Better make it a double, then, son, and keep it coming. 

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