Work

I suppose the most important thing in life to me is that which I have titled this story. Not some washed up definition of work, but a busted knuckles dirt under the fingernails challenged to do better than you are capable of version of work.

I live in my truck. My children are nearly grown. Bathing is a rare occasion. I work enough hours a week to keep me going and put in beautiful tile installations. The labor struggle is real. I work with poor kids who know nothing. Desperation for survival keeps them showing up. The abuse and tribulation is something they have to deal with. On a Monday morning I say "mother fucker get my shit set up" I mean every word of it. I'm lucky. I have people in my life who love me and I love them rite back.

I was blessed enough to be born in Santa Cruz California. Most of my siblings and cousins were too. My father was a union man. A butcher, the toughest son of a bitch you've ever met.

I read some Kerouac and Ernest Hemingway so I guess I'm pretty enlightened. If I had not met so many ignorant motherfuckers in my life I guess I would be the same way. Is this enough? I'm trailing off. Another beer or a shot of whiskey is where I'm going.