Every day is the same bullshit.
I drag myself out of bed, hung-over from the night before. As hard as I try to be quiet, I end up waking Sig. She clings to me when we sleep, and I can't get away without her noticing. She doesn't say anything. Most people would probably think she's still asleep. But I know better. Her breathing changes when I wake her up.
I turn on the shower, only to be hit in the face with frigid water. It doesn't get much warmer, so I have to wash quickly before my balls freeze off. The plumbing in this building is fucking terrible. I doubt there's enough hot water for half the residents in this building. It seems I'm never part of the lucky half. That must be another part of my punishment.
I'm running late, so I skip the cereal and just have a cigarette for breakfast, lighting it on our 1970's, avocado green stove. I take one deep draw, and then exhale through my nose before stepping out the door into the hallway. My landlady always complains about my smoking through her halls, but I don't give a damn. I'm always on time with the rent, so if she wants to kick me out for smoking in her hallway for ten seconds, then go ahead. She wouldn't be able to find anyone else willing to live in this shithole. Not at the god awful rates she's charging.
I step outside, only to be smacked in the face by the bitter cold breeze. Gritting my teeth, I make my way to the bus stop. It takes one cigarette to get to the bus stop. Then I sit on that uncomfortable wooden bench, letting the wind from Lake Michigan roll over me as I mutter "Fuck Milwuakee." I don't know why anyone would choose to live here.
I wait, patiently. It seems like all I ever do anymore is wait.
The bus rolls up, always late. Luckily, most people are asleep at five in the morning, so seats are plentiful. I sit toward the back of the bus and close my eyes, my hangover relaxing from throbbing pain to dull ache. Six stops later, I stir from my trance and get off at Robertson's Novelties, a large nondescript factory building where we make everything from ice cubes with flies in them to magic trick paraphernalia.
Some might think it's a fun job. They'd be wrong. These people wouldn't know humor if it hit them in the face. I was the king of comedy, the lord of legerdemain! I could make their best joke look like little more than a whoopee cushion. Their most amazing magic trick would look like pull quarters from the ear of a god damn ten year old. Not now, though. Now I just go about my job, checking the quality of second-rate gags from nine to five.
There are a few guys I talk to at work. It's not really that I like them or that we hang out. I just talk to them in order to pass the time. As we inspect the flood of fake dog shit, joy buzzers, and other junk, we'll talk about our lives, our families, our pasts, and our plans. The chubby guy with the receding hairline, Marvin, starts out by talking about his brats. "So my youngest, Clara, just started riding her bike. We bought it for her a few years ago, but you know how kids are with presents right? Rather play with the wrapping paper than what you get them."
I nod, still looking down at a rubber shit.
"Well, she finally started showing an interest in it, so we took the weekend and taught her how to ride it. You want to know the funny part?"
I sigh softly. "Sure. What's the funny part?"
"Now she won't stop riding it! It's like she doesn't have legs anymore. She tried to bring it in the living room last night!" Marvin laughs in that annoying half snort, half laugh manner.
What a god damn hilarious joke...
Five O'clock eventually rolls around and we all go our separate ways. I hop on the bus but get off at the fifth stop instead of the sixth. I have a stop to make. It's an urgent appointment with a good friend of mine named Jack Daniels. I walk into the small, dark building. They could turn out the lights in here and I think I could still make my way around. Without browsing or small talk, I grab my two small bottles of whiskey and make my way to the counter. I take the crumpled bills from my pocket and place them on the worn wooden countertop, sliding them to the elderly store owner. He looks like he could have some of the old blood in him, so on my way out I say "Vertu blessaður." He never says anything back so he either doesn't get it or he knows who I am.
