Wednesday, February 23, 2011

Happy Trails

Today is a day of mixed emotions.

The Day Prison has seen fit to grant me my parole and just like that, I am cast out, a starving artist once again. It had been coming for some time now, my contacts had been getting jittery, whispers slipping between the cells after lights out... the threat of the coming “workplace reductions” gathered on the horizon like a wall of bloated black clouds. I could see it coming, I was just hoping I’d be able to find myself some shelter before the storm hit. Unfortunately, due to Day Prison over-crowding and a projected quarterly dearth of new orders down at the license plate stamping shop, and, in my oh so humble opinion, a not insignificant amount of jealousy over my kicking of so much ass at the daily trivia:


I have been cut loose, foot loose.

They have kicked off my Sunday shoes…

But like I said, mixed emotion. On one side, I breathe deeply of the rarefied free air once again. On the other…I am now on my own, out in the cold, as they say, off the reservation, in the dark bush, left to fend for myself, to hunt my own supper, forced to kill what I would eat.

But I digress...

I was still on furlough when I got the call, roused from a well deserved post-vacation slumber, just about to trudge back to the salt mines on the morrow, so I didn’t get the chance to clear out my cube-cell or to say adios to the down-homies on the block or to gift to them my collection of well-worn shanks or my unused left-over gift cards to the local eateries. Oh well, to the victor the spoils, eh?

And, today at least, the Day Prison is the victor.

So now, locked outside those heavy iron gates, my key card suddenly rendered a useless square of plastic adorned with my handsome visage and a retractable key-chain declaring the Day Prison as a “Great place to work!”, I guess the warden and his gate-keepers, with their rocket cars and their solid gold houses, their stone-faced grimaces, their folded arms and their shoo-shoo-shooings and their get-along-nows, can keep my headphones and my sandbag stacks of hot sauce and ketchup packets, the pile of dirty pennies rattling around in my rolling cabinet’s only used drawer. The unblown balloons, too, keep them; celebrate their ability to hold air with my blessing. I have no need for any of it anymore. I shall take my pilfered Bic pen, put up the threadbare collar of my 1970s era corduroy court suit, slowly turn away and shuffle off down the muddy gravel road of unemployment, to vanish into the misty gray rain.

So long, Amigos, IM laid off.

So what now? Where do I, yours truly, virtual warrior, ronin wordsmith, part-time jack-of-all-trades and full-time ne’er-do-well, go from here? What’s the plan, my man? Where ya’ heading? Where ya’ going? The people want to know.

Well… I need to snowblow my driveway again, as those dirty fuckers from the city have buried it… AGAIN! Then I’ll get some lunch and maybe watch a movie… the cats will certainly be glad to have the primary food-giver home more often. Later tonight I have my shift at Filmzilla-Wednesday is my double shift day no more.

I’ll probably sulk a bit.

After that, I shall apply to more cube farms and Day Prisons, full and part time, temporary and permanent. I’ll do the dance, with my “Why, yes, I am very interested in what you do here” mask firmly in place. I’ll find something. I shall eventually submit to servitude once more, but for now…

I have more time to write.

Yes, yes, yes, I am definitely going to be on the hunt for a new opportunity to break my back for the Man with little to no recognition or fair compensation or even job security, despite over three years of time, and I shall find something... but until that day, I have an opportunity, one that I would be remiss to not take advantage of.

So, I’ll get to work.

I’ll get shit done.

Wish me luck.

Kisses and hugs,


Qlaudie said...

Oh noes! I am sorry to hear that, Jon... although I remember well the tiny Mel Gibson in my head, yelling "FREEEEEDOOOMMMM" at the moment of my dismissal.
Yay writing time! Go Jon!

cocovm said...

Congratulations! Celebrate your 9 to 5-er-less-ness! Stick it to the man! You're a writer first, last and always. No sulking!!