The mind numbing, that is American labor. They have us by the balls, hands, feet, neck, and soul. Devoured by corporations, small businesses, and all that is under the sun. Sweeping and mopping floors, assembly lines, brushing shit stains out of toilets, washing windows, all of this, and more, waiting for you; the uneducated,  the poor, immigrants,  blacks, coal minors in West Virginia, auto factory workers in Detroit, meat packers in Chicago, and day laborers sweating it out till the day is done; working just enough to make ends meet, or not.

I thought I’d said goodbye to work when I left for Chicago that night on the Greyhound,  but I soon realized after coming down from my manic high that simply wasn’t the case. You have to work in America. Very few have the luxury of pursuing creative and artistic lives. We are worker bees that keep this nation going. God have mercy on us.

As I stood in line waiting for my daily bread, I overheard men comparing diseases they acquired from whores in Chicago. A black guy named Charlie explained that he had the clap so bad his cock was falling off. Of  course, this was overstated. I decided it best to keep my mouth shut and not offer any medical advice. It’s not good to come off as a know-it-all around these guys. Keep a low profile. The less they know about you, the better.

I pretended I was a spy. My arrogance lead me to believe I was better than the rest in line. But, there I was.  Wanting my daily bread.