His Jingling Ring
Friday morning he drove home feeling unusually invigorated after the madness of steady grave-yard at the factory produced the usual 40 hours for 168 hours of pain. His right wrist was swelled & the lump, a ganglion cyst under is puffed thumb-muscle, had gained more mass, a lump on a log, & it burned, burned. The nazism of the Company Doctor pissed him off.
"What you are doing is causing nerve damage. I know there are economic factors involved, but think about the principle: Quit."
Quit, sure, he cld quit, maybe even have a good case for worker's comp., a little less than he made working, but nothing was enough to pay the bills regardless, why not elect surgery? Because no nazi Doctor was gonna cut open his wrist. "Fuck that," was Sam's response, & the tall doc rose from his seat like the flee instinct sparked in him, & left the room. That was that.
He'd shower, blow a bowl, drink a pot of coffee, maybe go buy INDEPENDENCE DAY on video. Maybe he cld stay awake all day & sleep the night like regular people sleep. An oil-change on the 240 SX. Maybe a new short story at the word-processor. Sam thought about the non-response he got from the 3 places he sent his manuscript to, though he considered the writing to be spectacular & unique & jesus fuck was he actually writing insignificant bullshit? No reaction from publishers whatsoever surprised him, disappointed him, irritated him. He painted a bleak picture, but everything was real, & honest. The prose was his reality. How cld he write, or live, escapist visions? Then again, only a month had passed since mailing the first collection.
He had energy even though the job he ran was one of the more physically-demanding jobs, but Sam was happy the week was over. His union brothers & sisters began appearing very mule & donkey-like, their eyes an ugly whinny shine, the same shit of futility. He needed a weekend away from them.
He showered. He brushed his teeth since he chewed two mouthfuls of chewing-tobacco, spitting all over the bottom of the machine, spitting into the oil & oil oil-dry. He broke dusty green brittle buds of marijuana into a little gold metal pipe. He smoked it up. It was 8 a.m. & definitely November.
Norma & the kids were at work & school. He didn't think his young son was prepared enough for his spelling-test. Sam fixed a thick cup of sugary Columbian coffee. He went thru wrist-stretching exercises in the kitchen, like the cold therapist showed him. It looked like he was praying at one point, but his elbows were out like bony wings & he was humming Tom Waits' "Murder in the Red Barn."
He wanted to write.
He wanted to portray a certain Truth because there was something Real, & the best Art is the best mirror, & Exact to the story of his Life. He felt comfortable in that translucent niche of testimonial admission. His feelings & emotions were doubled by the reliving thru writing. He wrote about some of the oxymoronic horror of wasted hours.
He wanted to say it all.
He wanted to quote Norma's razor-like Hate.
He wanted to understand what was happening. He wondered how he cld discern relevancy & meaning in the overall Chaos & Sadness.
He smoked another bowl. Then another. He gulped down all the coffee. He felt a little nauseous, but distant enough from it high. He shook his right hand like a shivering pink jellyfish to alleviate the pain of an inflamed nerve, between sentences & thoughts & creation & recreation with a production-worker's numbed fingers on the keyboard.
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from September, 2000 issue