There was puke in the garbage can.
No bag, no-holes-thank-god, white garbage can, food crusty splatters, in the kitchen.
The kitchen,
rushed into so fast the chipped rotting tiles were forgotten about and then remember so hard that
the first charge card of five expansive, punishing charge cards was opened so that so many nice rugs, carpets could be
bought to cover it up. Some of odd shapes and cuts, and many nice, chemical covered, slightly soft.
There was puke vomit that sat in, laid, rested, waited, in the garbage can.
There was throw up in the kitchen and it was stinking from the garbage can.
It was stinking
and Child Protective Services of Michigan (of the $40,000 a year
with full benefits kind (of the
“We regret to inform you”, no, no job, kind)) would have
taken us away from ourselves, kicking and screaming
because the garbage can and the throw up smell,
it comforted us. It came out of our charge card and our bodies and
we didn’t want to let it go or throw it away because
we weren’t sure what we might lose so
we kept everything that we could.
* * * * * * * * * *
We didn’t keep our jobs because they punished us and we were better than them. We were
better than sexual harassment and
better than secret shopper hair ass meant. So we didn’t keep our jobs.
And because we didn’t keep our jobs, we didn’t have any money to keep and the
little we had felt so little we didn’t try to keep it, we instead
tried to spend it so we drank and drank because we didn’t have jobs and
we didn’t have money, only puke in the garbage can to keep and we kept it.
You lost your job one day. We were finally okay.
I had two jobs that didn’t pay that together
amounted to just barely okay and I was sitting
on the couch that day in the sun and you
walked in twenty minutes after you left in your
jersey, your ugly fucking boxy jersey that we
planned to write your name on the back of out of cartoon-letter-dinosaurs,
you came home in the sun and you looked stunned and you
told me they fired you and I didn’t believe you and then I didn’t believe them because you were
so good at what you did and you worked yourself so hard. (And that’s why you’re an asshole now at work–I was
the same way for awhile–you take on the management style
of the people who shit on you until you find a way
to be yourself and humane.)
We didn’t keep our jobs. (to be cont.)