late night janitorial
Well I did it. I survived another week of late nights. As if there was any doubt. The nights go quick. I look forward to the end of the night and Chet Baker or Charlie Parker playing low while I drink beer and tap the machine. It isn’t much to aspire to, but it gets me through.
The nights all blend. It’s not a day to day job but a week to week one. I work alone and only see a few workers that hang in there late. They don’t say much and most of the time I can get away with saying nothing.
Somebody mentioned the other day that retirement age is now seventy. To think I have another twenty years to try and get the job right. That is, if I last that long. This period of steady drinking but not to excess may be adding years to my illustrious career. I’ll do anything to avoid the eventual five years driving back and forth to the hospital for tests, and then the final visit dying with strangers standing around.
We should have more control over our destiny than that. I still can see plenty of days ahead cleaning toilets and drinking beer, but what if they were numbered, (and they are) maybe I’d cherish them more. I know I’ll be hanging tight to the last few. I’ve seen it before. Why would I be any different.
That Charlie Parker sure could play. I only listen to him after a shift, when I need to know, no matter how many shitty toilets lie ahead life is still pretty fucking good. Especially considering the alternative. Then again, everything is better on a Friday night.