Friday, February 19, 2016

The Seventh Day

Sunday was great, but Monday is murder. Damned delivery showed up late and nearly got me fired. My boss has never met a problem he couldn’t blame on somebody else. That jackass has been freeloading since his daddy died and left him this repair shop. Spends most of his time in the big office upstairs, flirting with Sheri and making promises he can’t keep. Same ones I used to make when she was still my girl.

Tuesday is terrible. Got served a warrant on my lunch break. Ex-wife number two wants more of the money I don’t have. Says they’re gonna garnish my wages, make me pay what I owe her and more. She just wants her pound of flesh for what I did with Sheri. I wouldn’t change a thing if I had it to do over again. You only get a shot at a fine woman like that once in a lifetime.

Wednesday is worse. I was too drunk to hear my alarm howling at me. Half the shift was over by the time I rolled in. Boss says he’s docking my pay. Told me I’m out on my ass if it happens again. He’s probably just mad because he couldn’t get it up last night. Asshole’s lucky I didn’t break his jaw. Remind Sheri what a real man looks like, even if it does cost me my job. Might just do it too, if my oldest son wasn’t going to be needing braces soon.

Thanks for nothing, Thursday. Came in to find out they’re cutting my hours. Said my productivity was down, or some bullshit like that. Told me I’m taking too many cigarette breaks, and drinking too much at lunch. Like I work any slower when I’ve got a good buzz on. It’s just a lame excuse to take my benefits away. Make sure I’m too poor to get back on my feet.

It’s finally Friday, but I’m too damned broke to do anything about it. All I’ve got is the twenty I took from Sheri’s purse. I’m saving that until Sunday. She won’t miss it now that the boss gave her that God-awful ring. It’s amazing what some women will put up with for a little gold and a couple of diamonds. You should have seen them parading around here like two lovesick teenagers. Took everything in me not to puke up my lunch. Probably the last meal I’ll eat all weekend unless my neighbor comes through for me again.

I usually wake up sick on Saturday. Used to be my morning to visit with the kids, back before the restraining order. Most weekends I get up and polish off whatever whisky’s left in last night’s bottle. The rest of the day’s pretty much a crapshoot after that. Heard my neighbors packing up their mini van earlier, so I’ll probably break in over there once the coast is clear. They’ve got a refrigerator full of beer and frozen burritos out in their garage, and a couple of power tools I can hock for some blow.

I’m still soaring when Sunday rolls around. Feels like the shower’s piercing my skin as I try to sober up. Same with the teeth on my comb. One last beer before I rinse with mouthwash. The weekly dance over at the senior center starts at three and I want to be on time.

I’m probably the worst dancer here every weekend, even though most of the crowd is my parent’s age. Reminds me of watching the two of them carry on in the living room when I was a kid. I’d sneak out of bed and spy from the top of the stairs while they laughed and kissed. Those were the good old days.

The first lady I waltz with is about the age my mom would have been, if she’d survived my dad’s beatings. I stick with her for a couple of songs before I decide to mix it up. There’s a woman over there that really knows how to jitterbug. She kind of looks like Sheri.

Almost makes me forget that tomorrow is Monday.