You're Gonna Have Trouble

By Kirk Alex

–– You're Gonna Have Trouble –– Volume #6 –– in the Chance "Cash" Register Working Stiff Series . . .

 

I fixed it so I'd get fired. Don't mean it didn't hurt any less. The crazy schedule they had me on driving the hotel van (picking up flight crews 6-days a week), left no time for the one thing that mattered: the writing. So I got pink-slipped; kicked to the curb, as thy say. One problem solved––that created another: how to earn money to buy groceries, put gas in the used bucket, pay bills.

So it starts: another series of blue-collar, back-breaking/soul-crushing gigs: at a plant nursery, meat-packing facility, warehouse, striping company as jackhammer operator and ditch-digger. We do what we gotta. It's like this for the average person. No biggie. Nothing to it but to do it. Folks in other countries might think we're all a bunch of millionaires here in the grand and prosperous US of A. Guess what, peeps? Here's the truth. We're toilers. Most of us.

Some of us working stiffs, like me, might even be into the arts:  appreciate the great painters, awesome writers and jazz & blues artists. What keeps us going. But yes, we're 9-to-5-ers. Do it to get by. My favorite books have always been Tom Kromer's Waiting for Nothing, Jack Black's Nobody Wins, Bukowski's Post Office, George Orwell's Down and Out in Paris and London, Jack London's Martin Eden; and of course Knut Hamsun's unforgettable Hunger. This is my way of honoring those great scribes who wrote tomes about stuff that actually matters. K.A.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tucumcari Press
• Release date: Jul 2, 2022
• ISBN: 9780939122790

Kirk Alex

Instead of boring you with a bunch of dull background info, how about if I mention a few films/singers/musicians and books/authors I have enjoyed over the years.Am an Elvis Presley fan from way back. Always liked James Brown, Motown, Carmen McRae, Eva Cassidy, Meat Loaf, Booker T. & the MGs, CCR. Doors are also a favorite.Some novels that rate high on my list: A Confederacy of Dunces by John Kennedy Toole; Hunger by Knut Hamsun; Street Players by Donald Goines (a street noir masterpiece, a work of art, & other novels by the late awesome Goines); If He Hollers Let Him Go by the incredible Chester Himes. (Note: Himes at his best was as good as Hemingway at his best. But of course, due to racism in the great US of A, he was given short-shrift. Had to move to France to be treated with respect. Kind of sad.Am white by the way, but injustice is injustice & I feel a need to point it out. There were so many geniuses of color who were mistreated and taken advantage of. Breaks your effing heart. I have done what I have been able to support talent (no matter what the artists skin color was/is) over the years by purchasing records & books by talented folks, be they white/black/Hispanic/Asian, whatever. Like I said: Talent is talent, is the way I have always felt. The arts (in all their forms) keep us as humans civilized, hopefully). Anyway, I need to get off the soap box.Most of the novels by Mark SaFranko (like Lounge Lizard and Hating Olivia; his God Bless America is one of the best memoirs I have ever read, up there with Ham on Rye by Buk);The Sun Also Rises by Ernest Hemingway; A Farewell to Arms also by Ernie; Mooch by Dan Fante (& other novels of his); Post Office by Charles Bukowski; The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath; the great plays of Eugene O., like Iceman Cometh, Long Days––this system has a problem with the apostrophe, so will leave it out––Journey Into Night, Touch of the Poet; Journey to the End of the Night by Ferdinand Celine (not to be confused by the Eugene O. play); Postman Only Rings Twice by James M. Cain; the factory crime novels of Derek Raymond (superior to the overrated Raymond Chandler & his tiresome similes & metaphors any day of the week; Jack Ketchum; Edgar Allan Poe; The Reader by Bernhard Schlink; Nobody/s Angel by Jack Clark; The Professor and the Madman by Simon Winchester, et al.Filmmakers: Akira Kurosawa (Ihiru; Yojimbo); John Ford (almost anything by him); horror flicks: Maniac by William Lustig and Joe Spinnell; original Night of the Living Dead; original Texas Chainsaw Massacre; original When a Stranger Calls; The 400 Blows by Francois T.; the thrillers of Claude Chabrol; A Man Escaped by Bresson; the Japanese Zatoichi films;Tokyo Story by Ozu . . . and many other books, films and jazz musicians like the amazing tenor sax player Gene Ammons; Sonny Rollins, Chet Baker, Jack Sheldon, Stan Getz, Paul Desmond; singers like the incomparable Sarah Vaughan, Shirley Horn, Dion Warwick; Al Green, Elmore James, Lightnin Hopkins . . . to give you some idea.However, these days though, tv does not exist at all for me, nor do I care for most movies, in that I would much rather pick up a well-written book. I get more of a kick from reading than I do watching some actor pretend to be something he is not.Having said that, I confess that as a young man I did my share of wasting time watching the idiot box and spent my share of money going to the flicks. But those days are long gone, in that there is no interest in movies (be they cranked out by the Hollywood machine, or elsewhere).Final conclusion when it comes to celluloid? Movies are nothing more than a big waste of time (no matter who makes them). Reading feeds the brain, while movies puts the brain to sleep. There it is.

Book preview

High Praise for Kirk Alex

Hush-Hush Holiday

Kept me guessing and on the edge of my seat.

—Hidden Gems

Throwback & Backlash:

Love, Lust & Murder Series

Kirk Alex gets right down to it. There’s not a wasted word. If you don’t know his work, you should.

—Mark SaFranko, author of Lounge Lizard

Starts out crazy, ends even crazier in the second book.

—Hidden Gems Review

Lustmord: Anatomy of a Serial Butcher

Great book. Dark—yes. Grotesque—certainly. Sexually explicit—without a doubt. And the writing is excellent. Character and dialogue, is as real as it gets. A terrifying, non-putdownable horror.

—Jeff Bennington, Kindle Book Review

Zook

"Zook was a zoo ride! All of the characters were well written and you find yourself unable to put the book down! You might even find it a little sad. ***** out of 5 stars."

—NetGalley

Ziggy Popper at Large:

14 Tales of General Degeneracy, of Mayhem

& Debauchery – for the Morally Conflicted

& Borderline Criminal

Gruesome, violent, awesome! I absolutely LOOOVEEE Kirk Alex. I am always ready for his next book!! Extremely entertaining. A whole lot of violent, and just what I was looking for. Private detective Felix Choo-Choo Buschitsky and Ziggy Popper are now my two favorite characters. ***** out of 5 stars.

—NetGalley

nonentity

–A Rant For Those Who Can’t–

Presented as a Novel

This is a quick read and engrossing. I found myself wanting to know what happened. Many of the situations were funny in the way they were presented. Fast, easy read.

—NetGalley

Kirk Alex’s prose is swiftly moving and terse and dark and angry and ugly. There is no wiggle room in what he writes and what he sees; bad is bad and good is rare. Apparently the writer has struggled a long time to get this book published, and it's a good thing he did. This will grab you by the heart and choke the breath out of you – and by book's end, you'll thank him for doing it.

—Steven Rosen, Curled Up With A Good Book

This is another well done, honest and heartfelt piece of writing from Kirk Alex. At one time or another, everyone can identify with Chance, being unemployed and very low on funds. It’s short, easy to read, and well worth the reader’s time.

—Paul Lappen, Dead Trees Review

Working the Hard Side of the Street –

Selected Stories / Poems / Screams

. . . this is a nicely put together piece of work.

—BookLore

BLOOD, SWEAT and CHUMP CHANGE

L.A. Taxi Tales & Vignettes

"After reading BLOOD, SWEAT AND CHUMP CHANGE — L.A. Taxi Tales & Vignettes by Kirk Alex you understand why the American Dream needs liposuction. It’s all here: Hate, poetry, sadness, hope and the ache of an aloneness that never goes away. Belly up!"

—Dan Fante, author of Spitting Off Tall Buildings

Love is the Coldest Whore of All

Selected Free Verse for Peeps Like Me

(Who Hate Poetry)

1976 — 1996

Reading Kirk Alex is like listening to your best friend, your oldest friend, confide in you after you haven’t seen him in a long, long time. It’s that honest; it’s that intimate. And from the Nam to Sunset Boulevard, he knows a lot about the world and life. All you have to do is sit back and take it all in.

—Mark SaFranko, author: Nowhere Near Hollywood

by Kirk Alex

Crime Fiction:

Throwback: Love, Lust & Murder – Book One

Backlash: Love, Lust & Murder – Book Two

Ziggy Popper at Large – 14 Tales of General Degeneracy, of Mayhem & Debauchery – for the Morally Conflicted & Borderline Criminal

Horror:

Lustmord: Anatomy of a Serial Butcher

Zook

Chance Cash Register Tucson Working Stiff Series:

Paycheck to Paycheck

Loopy Soupy’s Motley Crew

Journey to the End of the Week

A Confederacy of Mooks

nonentity

You’re Gonna Have Trouble

LA Cab Exploits:

Working the Hard Side of the Street – Selected Stories/Poems/Screams

Blood, Sweat & Chump Change – L.A. Taxi Tales & Vignettes

Eddie Doc Holiday Contemporary Mystery Series:

Hush-Hush Holiday #1

Hubba-Hubba Holiday #2

Hollow-Point Holiday #3

Hard Noir Holiday #4

Hammer-Slammer Holiday #5

Free Verse:

Ballad of the Red Bag Man

Love is the Coldest Whore of All

Overlapping Contradictions

You’re Gonna

Have Trouble

Cash Register Working Stiff Series

Book Six

Kirk Alex

Tucumcari Press

Image1

Tucson – 2022

Copyright © 2021 You’re Gonna Have Trouble by Kirk Alex

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this novel, or portions thereof, in any form. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical without the express written permission of the author. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this material via Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized editions, and do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials. For information address Tucumcari Press, PO Box 40998, Tucson, Arizona 85717-0998

You’re Gonna Have Trouble is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental.

ISBN: 978-0-939122-78-3 (6x9 Paperback)

ISBN: 978-0-939122-79-0 (ePUB)

For Hans Fallada for writing Every Man Dies Alone; for Tom Kromer for writing Waiting for Nothing; for Jörg Fauser for writing Raw Material; for Derek Raymond for writing I Was Dora Suarez; For Horace McCoy for writing They Shoot Horses, Don’t They?; for Louis-Ferdinand Céline for writing Journey to the End of the Night; for Jack Black for writing You Can’t Win; for Mark Sa Franko for writing God Bless America; for Knut Hamsun for writing Hunger; for Tove Ditlevsen for writing The Copenhagen Trilogy; for Jean-Paul Sartre for writing Nausea; for Sylvia Plath for writing The Bell Jar; for Dan Fante for writing Spitting off Tall Buildings; for Charles Bukowski for writing Post Office; for Chester Himes for writing If He Hollers Let Him Go; for Eugene O’Neill for writing Long Day’s Journey Into Night; for Donald Goines for writing Street Players; for Robert Beck for writing Pimp; for Nat West for writing Day of the Locust; for Elie Wiesel for writing Night; for Nelson Algren for writing The Man With the Golden Arm.

You’re born, you’re gonna have trouble, and you’re gonna die. That you know. There’s not much else you know.

—W.R. Burnett, author of Little Caesar

Chapter 1

I had the first crew in at 25 minutes after 11, while I waited outside the van. Offered cold bottles of water to those who were interested. It was hot out, over one-hundred easy. Temp hit the 116-mark middle of last week. Tucson International Airport. Across the drag from the main terminal. We’re parked in the area designated for hotel shuttle vans, limos and resort buses from spas like Canyon Ranch and Miraval. The main/vast public parking lot is directly in back of us. About two-thirds full.

Some peeps about on foot: travelers and/or those present to greet same. All very sane/civilized, unlike the chaos that is LAX, where I’d spent too many years dealing with passengers and traffic as a cabbie. So I point it out: love the sanity of this airport, extreme heat (this time of year) not withstanding. Have been in Tucson since ’96 and am still fine with it. Appreciate the desert and indigenous vegetation, and of course, the winter months; especially love the winters here. Just about perfect. But that’s months away, and we’re dealing with its opposite: broiling temp.

We’re waiting on the second crew; two pilots. I’m outside, in the sun and heat. Getting cooked. No choice. If I wait inside the van it makes it tougher to ignore the antsy requests that we start for the hotel. Flight crews are usually tired and want to check in/shower/nap/whatnot. Dinner and rest, their primary concern. Some, the fit ones, hit the gym, or go for a run, etc. All understandable. Their work day is over and they are entitled to unwind. I have nothing but empathy and tremendous respect for these good folks. And yet, having stated as much, there was no denying the gig was getting old. Almost two years of getting up at 2 in the morning to be at the hotel by 3:30 to take the first crew out to the port, being on call throughout the day, six days a week left no time for anything else: no life, and worst of all, no time for the one thing that mattered to me more than any other: writing.

The hotel paid for the runs, about it. Between runs I was not on company time and did not get paid for it. There might be anywhere from one-hour to two or three-hours between runs, and so I would usually head back to the cribby, sit around, surf the Net, lift weighs, read; no writing got done. I required long, uninterrupted stretches for that to take place. There was Sunday, my sole day off, but one day of leisure was not going to do it.

Tips? Yes. The hotel was tight with what they paid, but the tips (that the crews were generous with, as legal tender was made available to them by the airline) compensated for it. Still, it hardly made up for the fact I’d basically had it (as much as I loved my passengers: pilots and flight attendants, who were about the nicest people I’d ever had the pleasure of knowing).

I’d always have ice cold bottled water for these decent folks; would greet them with a smile and was eager to help with the luggage, or stop by a mini mart, should any of them have requested it. Runs up to Park Plaza? I did it. Down to Reid Park (for the occasional jogger), the golf course? Yep. To help out. Using my own vehicle, free of charge—since I, as the hotel driver, was not permitted to provide this courtesy.

You see, hotel management were some of the biggest, two-faced phonies I’d ever worked for. On the surface, it was all about the customer; service. When deep down, all the fat-ass fool in charge gave a damn about was the bottom line: Money; how much was taken in at the end of the day.

Fine. We get it: money makes the world-go-round. Only you wanted to believe other things mattered, just a little. These folks, flight crews, worked their butts off up there in the skies, on these planes, dealing with the public, which could not have been easy, and—I thought—deserved better treatment: as in genuine hospitality, as well as top-notch customer service at our end.

Really? Yes. Only the Jeckyl and Hyde jerk, who was the manager and my boss, hardly considered any of this. He did his bit, played by the rules (that the corporation had established and were written in stone). This was it. And I was one effing burnout-case.

You might say it was getting to me. All of it. Added up. I was desperate for a way out. Granted, I seemed to lack the balls to quit/take a walk, and was (subconsciously) searching for a way to be cut loose. Felt like it.

I get the assistant manager, Agata, on the cell at just about noon, to let her know I’ve decided to leave the airport. She wants me to wait for the pilots. I have seven people in the van (the first flight crew) who would like to get going. She tells me the second crew has been on the ground and pilots should be out shortly.

I’m leaving, I tell her, and disconnect.

I head east on Valencia, make a left on Palos Verde, heading north. My cell rings. It’s Agata. Pilots are out and she wants me to turn around. I tell her I can’t.

Why not?

It wouldn’t be fair to my passengers. Besides, it would take 15-minutes to drive back to the airport.

Then Remus comes on, the engineer, demanding I turn around. I tell him the same: Can’t do it. Wants to know where I’m at. I tell him and stress I can’t stay on the phone while driving, and hang up.

When I get in, sign the log, return van keys to the box on the wall, Agata says not to clock out, to stick around; she wants to talk. I wait ten-minutes for Remus to show. Am sitting on the sofa in the lobby while the two of them go in back in Agata’s office for 5 to 6 minutes. This can’t be good. I get the feeling my ass is about to be fried. Am finally summoned back there.

There is a chair facing her desk. She is in her seat. I get permission to sit. Remus is standing to my left by the open door.

Agata is pissed because I disobeyed her order. I explain why I did what I did. She doesn’t care for it and does not agree. This person hasn’t got much of an intellect, period. It’s her time of the month, and true to form, she’s in a nasty mood. U of A graduate, but not much upstairs in the brains department. She’s a Mexican national. Here illegally. Got in the U of A somehow. About to receive a degree in psychology. How do they do it? Where did the money come from? Am not jealous; do not envy. Am merely wondering. Trump is running for president, and she expressed enough fear of being shipped back south of the border.

I recalled, saying with a smile, that she had nothing to worry about. That he would do no such thing. I believed then, just as I believe presently: the American people were basically good-hearted souls and had nothing against the average, hard-working, law-abiding immigrant. Instead, their concerns had to do with the lawbreakers, the chronic criminal element who were destroying families by committing wanton murder and other atrocities. But, we’re not going to go into any of that at this time. Because, you see, my head is on the chopping block, because this pissed pissant of a female is on her period and wants to make me pay for disobeying her. And this has me thinking: Know what? I hope this bitch and others like her do get sent back. They broke the law, jumped the line, got ahead of people who waited years and are doing it by the book and rules. So fuck her and her ilk. What makes her so special that she can ignore said nation’s laws?

But I digress. Never mind that what I did/the way I handled it had been done countless times this same way since I first hired on for the job. There had been plenty of times when it was simply impossible to pick up every crew (very often two, at times three), and so a simple solution was to have some of them, the ones the hotel driver was not able to get to, take a cab to the hotel. No, the airline did not care for it (since they had to cover the tab), but it happened.

I explain am allowed to wait 20 minutes, no longer. She claims it’s 30 minutes. I tell her the GM, Ludlow, told me specifically it’s 20 minutes. She is confused about this. Her confusion is not my problem. She says Ludlow will investigate this and that I will have to see him at noon Monday; that there could be a possible suspension.

I don’t deserve this. Can’t get all the crews every time. I point out all the money I saved the hotel since starting the job 17-months ago.

That doesn’t matter. Her words.

None of the good I’ve done carries weight, only something like this.

These people are screwy. Their policy is wishy-washy. They stress customer service (forced us to sit through two classes of it last year), but when I practice customer service am threatened with dismissal.

Why not just cut me loose? is my comeback, because at this point I’ve had it.

The trial is over.

She says: Have a good day.

You, too.

After humiliating me for the second time in less than a month, she says: Have a good day. This was a Thursday, the next morning I get up at my usual 2 a.m., pick up the phone and tell the night auditor, who is a personable black lady and recent transplant from South Carolina, I don’t feel well and am not coming in.

Thought I’d give you enough of a heads-up to go to Plan-B.

I’ll get Agata to do the runs.

I phone early Saturday morning to see if I am scheduled to go in. Sophronia says I’m not. She tells me Agata is doing the runs this morning. I ask about Sunday.

Am I working? Do they have me down?

Sunday? Yes.

I rise early Sunday, before 2 a.m. Get into a starched white shirt/tie/black vest, etc. Leave at 3 a.m. Park in the hotel parking lot, walk over toward front entrance to see Sophronia standing outside smoking a cigarette. She says I’m not scheduled to work; that Agata is.

Huh?

You’re not scheduled. Agata is doing the runs. You’re not to return to work until you see Ludlow at noon on Monday.

I never knew that.

She said she told you.

She never did. Agata’s a liar.

That’s all I know, babe.

I turn and walk back to my car. These people, hotel management: Agata/Cherity/Ludlow, are some of the biggest fakes I have ever known.

Chapter 2

My cell rings today at 10:00 a.m. Agata letting me know that my suspension was pushed back to Wednesday noon, since Ludlow is out of town till then.

I said: Since you guys aren’t happy with me, why not just fire me?

I don’t have the authority to do that. Ludlow wanted to go over it with you.

Okay.

Have a good day.

You, too.

Bitch.

Chapter 3

Marmion Renaissance. I waited in the lobby for close to thirty-minutes. Read the paper. Finally he came out. He looked on edge. Ludlow Summerfruit, from Utah, the goofy doofus with the wide ass and uneven/reddish-blond goatee he’s been trying to grow since I started the job over a year and a half ago. We shook. His palm was clammy. Mine? Dry, as usual—even though it was another hot Tucson day.

I follow him past the front desk to his office in the back. Agata and Remus sitting there. Summerfruit lets me talk. I explain. When I state the arrival time, Agata snickers. I remembered the plane landing at 11:15, flight crew of 7 were out before 11:30. Rare, but it happens.

When I was hired I was told waiting time is 20 minutes. We waited 30. I called Agata to let her know we were leaving, driving back to the hotel. She wanted me to stay and wait for the two pilots. Sometimes pilots are out in ten minutes, or less—other times it can take them twice as long or longer. I pull out. As I’m nearing Drexel Road, my cell goes off. It’s Agata, asking where I’m at. I tell her. She wants me to go back. I say I can’t; it’s not fair to my passengers. She doesn’t care about that. It would take me 15-minutes to get back. Then Remus (the engineer, really a glorified custodian), gets on the phone, requesting I go back to the airport. I tell him the same. Can’t do it. It isn’t fair to the seven people in the van who just want to get to the hotel. These folks worked a shift, are done for the day and are entitled to check in.

Ludlow goes to the computer, looks up arrival times for Thursday. It says (for this particular flight) the plane landed at 11:25. I can’t believe it, because the crew was at the van by this time. Something is not right here.

I am fired. Seventeen-months of good service, never a complaint, means nothing. This is cold-blooded. I let Ludlow know it. He doesn’t care.

"It’s insubordination."

Wants me to turn in keys and uniform.

I don’t have any keys or uniform. Just that blazer I purchased with the funds you provided. You said I wouldn’t have to turn it in—but if you want, I’ll bring it in.

No, you don’t have to do that. We don’t want you on the premises for any reason.

All this disrespect and treated like crap over one thing that was done that they didn’t like. Are these people even human? Is this guy mentally ill? Is he twisted? Is this a Jekyll and Hyde personality type? Others have complained about this sadistic asshat. People/employees lived in fear of this cocksucker and his moody behavior.

He mentions my showing up Friday and calling Agata a liar. Sophronia must’ve passed it on to them.

I had no idea I was suspended. I thought that decision was to be rendered after my meeting with you.

It’s right here on the paper.

I didn’t read that part.

I ask if I can have my unemployment while I look for a job. He says he will tell them I got fired for insubordination.

That’s heartless.

"Yes, it is. You didn’t do what you were asked."

"What about the hundreds of times that I did what was asked of me?"

Doesn’t matter.

This guy Ludlow is red-faced/antagonistic—for no reason. I rise, say so-long to Remus, a guy I always liked.

I walked out to my car, a bit shaken. Getting fired is rejection and never easy to take. I sit there for a bit, not turning the AC on. It’s hot out, as well as in. Untie the necktie and whip it off. Sit there in this boiling hell.

When I get home I dial the airport number, ask them about flight ## for June—. Lady says to call Also-Ran Airlines, etc. Have to ask myself: Am I willing to bother with it and what good would it do me? Will need to file for unemployment tomorrow, not that I stand a slim chance in Cucamonga.

My original impression of Ludlow: Fake fool smiles like a snake. Three-dollar-bill. Nothing about this chubby mid-50s balding punk was real.

Chapter 4

Down to $1,100. Once I make the mortgage payment for the month on this one-bedroom condo, plus two credit cards, plus car insurance—it’s dwindling. Ran a few ads, but the books aren’t moving. Sixty-six years old. After 45-years of writing, not a pot to piss in. My social security is $613. Try and live on that, pal. Re-applied for food stamps. No choice.

So yesterday, am on CraigsList searching for work. Drive down to the Holiday Inn at the airport for the Job Fair. Today!! It says. Only when I get there "Today!!" was five days ago.

Spotted another ad: Warehouse workers needed. Looks like Van Winkle, the job placement agency I went to a few months back. Woman named Bronwen saw how old I was and her reaction had been: You don’t have recent warehouse experience.

I didn’t get that at all. I’ve done warehouse work/been a factory flunky, etc. Was a shipping clerk back in La La for two years in the 70s, then here in the Old Pueblo in the late 90s at the smut nuthouse for two more. So I had misgivings as I drove east on Broadway to the temp labor staffing agency. Only this time it’s different. Woman is pleasant. Says: We can put you to work starting tomorrow.

Today is Monday. Can’t believe it. A break. This is how easy and simple it used to be to land a job.

She takes some info down. Has me fill out a quick form. I’m thinking this is amazing. One form and I’m done! But nope. Shows me to a cubicle where a computer sits; in fact, a whole row of them against the far wall of this large room. And I start filling things out, one page after another. I don’t mind; it’s relatively easy going.

They do a drug test. Walks me to the john at the end of the hallway, in the back, on the right.

Urinate into this cup and leave it in the same spot where I put it.

I do that. Let her know. She enters the john, takes a look (without ever touching the plastic container), says: Fine. Pour it in the toilet and flush. Re-cap the cup and toss it in the waste basket.

That’s it?

That’s it.

They have me and a black dude watch a thirty-minute video on safety in one of the rooms. We walk back to her desk. She tells us what to wear, what not to do:

You do not ever—for any reason—during your 12-hour shift go to your car; you do not ever take your cell phone out except while on your break. Wear comfortable shoes, bring something to eat, or else cash—for the vending machines.

I start at seven. Work 7 p.m. to 7 a.m. Tuesday through Friday. I’ll need to get there by 6:30 p.m. to get my I.D. from the agency rep, etc.

I bought bread/peanut butter/jam/organic fig newtons, did laundry. I may have to work overtime to get myself out of this hole I’d got myself in. The job is for three-weeks. She did say once it’s over, they’ll try to place us elsewhere. We’ll see. This is where I’m at now.

Chapter 5

It’s mid-February. Two months since the Tangent warehouse job. Money was low. I’d been dropping off my resume at a few places, one of which was a plant nursery on the north side.

I was sitting in a coffee shop at El Con Mall going over anything with potential on my laptop screen, when the woman walked up. Out of the blue. Mid-40s, seemed like. A bit nervous. Average looker, not that I held it against her; I was average myself. Hell, we all were, when you came down to it (it’s just that some had a knack for putting on the look at me facade). Only it was so much bullshit, when you added it up.

I wondered what it was she wanted and I was polite enough. She indicated my laptop and had questions regarding computers. Evidently, so she claimed, she was getting ready to buy a computer and was interested in my laptop’s capacity.

Funny thing was, just about everyone in the place had their own laptop with them. So why me? Why come to me? What was so special about me and my computer? Of course, I knew. And her nervousness, plus the added inattentiveness to my responses, made it plain enough: the lady was not interested in the computer at all. It was so damned rare that it didn’t truly dawn on me until after the fact.

She stood at my left elbow, nodding to my responses and stammering nervously. Hell, I should have asked her to pull up a chair, invited her for a cup of tea, and we could’ve gotten acquainted like a couple of adults. But no, I was so damned weighted down by my lack of funds that it didn’t occur to me. The other reason why I didn’t ask her to have a seat and join me was the fact this sort of thing, women coming on, just didn’t happen, not at my age. I was a nobody, sitting there, staring at my computer screen, as I’d done often enough, not paying attention to my surroundings.

Am no techie, to be sure, but I spoke with her, addressed her concerns to the best of my ability. Let her know what a 13" laptop like this went for these days, all that. Even went inside the Mac to show her what it was about.

She readily nodded her head, faking interest, and seemed to be running out of things to say, as this was the extent of her planned approach. And just as I was realizing that the polite thing to do was to ask her to pull up a chair, my cell went off.

The young-sounding dude’s name was Tripp. He was calling from the Algernon Plant Nursery. They were interested in hiring me. Asked me a couple of things.

Can you start tomorrow?

Sure.

Bring a hat, work gloves. Wear long sleeves.

No problem.

Bring water to drink.

They liked the fact I have a CDL. Wanted me to be there by 8:30.

See a guy named Fitz.

Thank you, said I.

We disconnected. When I looked up, my admirer was gone. Just as well. This was my strongest talent: the ability to ruin any potential of having someone in my life.

It bothered me. It had obviously been tough enough for her to walk up to someone she did not know and start a conversation, and I should have made it easier on her by inviting her to sit in, but hadn’t. I’d wanted to, been planning on it, but it had happened so doggone fast, and thrown me, like I said: women did not come up to an over-the-hill dude like me, especially not at my age. Years before, yes, when I’d been younger and physically fit, now and then a babe would approach me; but, man, I was no Romeo, no Valentino, like some guys. I was nothing special and was fine with it.

But this, what had just taken place, did bother me. Sure, getting the call for the job was nice enough. . . . but I’d lost out on (possibly) having someone in my life.

Chapter 6

I was up by 7:00 a.m. Got Ready. Plant nursery was on Allen, off of River. Wanted me there by 8:30. See someone named Fitz, he’d said.

Prepared my lunch. Bringing three bottles of water with. It’s outdoor work. Liked the fact I have a CDL. About the only thing I have going.

Temperature has been in the 80s. Outdoor work this time of year is manageable, but come mid-May, ooh. It’s over one-hundred-degrees in Southern Arizona. We’ll see what happens, how it goes. Will do my best. Am 66 these days, too. Keep that in mind. Will be good to get away from the computer keyboard for a while and the writing.

Having two thriller novels formatted. Will put them out there. Proud of the work, although expectations not very high. Yes. You might feel good about the prose; yet that don’t mean squat. Don’t mean it will resonate with readers, as in: There ain’t no guarantee, pal—for anyone. Unless, of course, you write commercial/by-the-numbers dreck.

Chapter 7

Got in at about 5:30. Aching all over, especially feet. Sore, due to ill-fitting steel-toe work boots. $120 a few months back. Got wide feet. And I swear I tried them on before buying them—and they seemed fine. Now am stuck. No way to break them in, either. I’ll wear sneakers tomorrow, but eventually will have to go buy another pair of good work kicks.

The manager, Fitz—nice enough guy in his thirties (wears red ball cap; long/dull blond hair, wedding band, etc.), took me around. Place is huge. Thirteen-acres. Lots of greenhouses. And then had me pulling weeds in one of the green houses. Flowers in pots. Endless rows and rows up on wooden pallets—on cinderblocks.

Had my two peanut butter and jelly sandwiches in the car, then thirty-minutes later outside with Denton—a nice guy from Iowa. Farmer. Tall dude. Fit. Trim. Just about all the guys here are trim. Not all, but certainly most. Work is labor intensive and keeps peeps lean.

We were next to some greenhouse filling plastic pots with soil. They had a mountain of soil next to a stack of pallets. Fitz showed me how to fill the gallon pots. Then later transferred flowers from smaller pots into them. Work takes its toll physically. Sure enough. You’re squatting and the knees begin to not like it and let you know it. Your thighs don’t feel much better about it, either. This soil reeks of manure, because that’s what it is: loaded with fertilizer. Fitz leaves to go tend to something else.

It was Denton and myself. Hours of this. Met some of the other workers. Most are Mexican. The dude who drives the box truck is white, with a long red beard. Tall and wiry.

On or about 4:30 we cleaned up the area a bit, left pots in neat rows. Then I was shown by Denton how to water the newly-transferred plants: had the sprinkler over each pot for a couple of seconds, then moved on to the next. Got them all, a bunch; then repeated the process—and did it a third time.

Come 5 p.m., I was refilling my water bottle and one of the driver’s, Walford, and I walked back to the main shop, whereby he showed me how to write down my hours (until am entered into the system after a 30-day trial period).

I bid them adieu: the hot chick behind the counter, Walford, Fitz. Walked to my car. Bones screaming/stiff. I headed home.

Traffic heavy all along Alvernon. Rode it in and had to shower. Get all that dirt and dust and stench out of my hair and pores. For $10.50 an hour, or whatever minimum wage is in Arizona these days.

Well, I needed a job. So this, plus the social security—I should be able to get by, pay my bills. Keep the publishing going. Am in the process of having the two thriller novels formatted.

Chapter 8

I get to the plant nursery and it’s raining hard. I’ve got the other steel-toe boots on, yellow poncho. There’s puddles everywhere. Roads on the property are dirt. Not all greenhouses are solidly built. Some have nothing more than flimsy plastic sheets for a roof and sides. In many instances plastic up on top is sagging, full of rain and plenty of these sections have holes and torn/wide gaps and so rain is dripping everywhere. Floor is mud, literally. Some places quite deep.

First order of business is to unload a box truck full of citrus trees; all types: lemon/orange/grapefruit/cumquat. Some are dwarf trees. Some pots are gallon size, others five-gallon. Mind these pots are full of soil, plus you have the weight of the trees themselves. And it’s raining. In buckets. There’s about seven of us doing the manual labor.

The box truck is on the lot and the middle-aged gent/driver, is up inside, and one of our women is helping drag the pots toward the tailgate in back and we grab them and carry them over and place them in the dirt, in rows. Everything is labeled and kept together, etc.

This is back-breaking work. Even though I used to be a jogger and lifted weights for decades—this is kicking my butt. Am out of shape these days. Close to 200 pounds. I know. Overweight by forty effing pounds.

We get this done, then there’s the really heavy trees in crates. The truck is driven over to the rear and the forklift operator, Sancho, takes them and places them in their designated spot. At one point, the bottom of one of the wooden crates begins to fracture and soil begins to drop out. He jams, then drives the forks under anyway, and delivers it to where the others sit on the ground.

This done, it is up to me and Dane, blond kid, about six-foot, lean, to go back to where the smaller trees are and take them inside this huge greenhouse. He goes off to locate the battered/rusty flatbed golf cart with the mud-caked wheels. Pulls up. We load the flatbed and drive over to the greenhouse. Rain is pouring. Mud everywhere. My pants, from knee on down, soaking wet. Bottom of my yellow poncho covered in mud. Bending/kneeling/moving heavy, full of soil, square-shaped wooden pots, plus the tree, is toil. Have yet to fully recover from yesterday—but there is work to be done.

Everything has a plastic label w/photo on it (of what the tree is), plus a ribbon tied to a branch of each tree with some info, etc. My boots are water-resistant, only there is no way to keep all the water out. Insides of my work boots is wet. What can you do? Tasks need to be accomplished.

Dane is in his late 20s. Likable. Wet and mud-stained—like me. I’m doing what I can to help. Follow his lead. Ask questions when am uncertain where a pot should go, etc. Guy is helpful.

At about ten-minutes of eleven—Fitz, the foreman, comes up. We’re outside, Dane and I; anyway, I come to find out that Sancho, the Mexican who is above him and second in command (after Judith, the stern-faced, tall and wrinkled old broad who owns the place), doesn’t think there is enough work for me to do and am told I’m done for the day.

I grin. What else can you do? The whole time there I keep hearing what a great turnover the place is known for. People don’t stay. Work is hard. Really? Is that the sole reason? Am tempted, but don’t say anything.

Could it be some folks might stick around if the hours made it worth their while. As effing as physically demanding the job is, I was in there/hung right in with the young guys—and everyone there was younger than me, way younger, with the exception of the owner.

I limp to my car parked by the chainlink fence. Dane calls, as he drives past, hauling more citrus trees in back of the golf cart.

Coming back tomorrow? he asks.

I smile. Wave. Tell him yes. I will see him in the morning. And frankly, am not sure I’d want to come back. Not if it’s going to be like this. At minimum wage. And then later, after I have gone home, showered, driven to a coffee shop (with Wi-Fi access) to send my formatter money, and have stopped by my bank to check my checking account balance—to find zero $$ in it—and about three-hundred in my savings—I rethink my situation: Do I really have the luxury not to return to the plant nursery tomorrow?

Nope. Don’t think so.

Chapter 9

I went in today. Came real close to giving up. Rained all day. Hard. Pants and work boots covered in mud. Dane and I moved citrus trees. And some of those things weigh over a hundred pounds. Christ. They had to be transported from the dirt parking lot to inside one of the greenhouses: cumquat/orange/lemon, all types. Some are dwarfs, etc., as stated. Grow to about 15-feet.

Feet/legs/back killing me. Wore the poncho, but it kept getting caught on things: on other trees, or else under the pot I was either dragging, or lowering on to the ground from wheelbarrow or that golf cart type of vehicle with flatbed in back.

Dane is a real nice man: about 6ft, as mentioned; lean, but strong. He loves his job. Loves plants, all types. I’ve always had an interest in plants, but never made the effort to educate myself—for one reason or another. Well, so now the opportunity is there. Picking up info, getting an education.

Returned from my lunch. Could not see Dane, so went in search of the foreman, Fitz, and helped him relocate a bunch of potted flowers inside a large greenhouse with an actual glass roof. These pots were not exactly light, (as you picked up two at a time, etc.), still way lighter than the citrus trees.

Dane returned from his lunch break, and I helped him transport the citrus inside the greenhouse. Mud everywhere. Heavy. Real easy to lose your footing. Havta be careful. Use caution.

We finished up and Fitz gave me the option to leave at three, due to rain. I accepted the offer. Am off Saturday and Sunday, return Monday.

Take Ten, the Paul Desmond jazz CD is a favorite I keep in the car CD player that helps ease the pain of everything. That’s how soothing this man’s alto sax playing is for me and always has been. One of my jazz heroes: the late, great Mr. Paul Desmond. Love the tone, just as his Take Five is a favorite and has been for many years now. Take Five. Wish I had the means to Take Five for the rest of my years above the sod, Mr. Desmond.

I get home, shower, and am sitting at my desk here doing email, checking to see if the latest versions of my two thrillers are in from my awesome Aussie formatter and his lady.

Chapter 10

5:28 p.m. Got in. Aching. Especially the feet. Steel toes killing my big toes. Moved pallets and cinderblocks all day long. Hard work. Tables consist of pallets, supported by upright cinderblocks. Tables are two pallets wide and eleven pallets long. Thirty pallets all-told. Does not include the steel frames with wire-mesh. Rusty, heavy. Moved about thirty of those. Had to make room for trees we’re relocating to this area as soon as I’m done. Got about half the field cleared. Mind, I did this with a high fever. It’s either pneumonia or else the flu. Don’t know. What I do know it was caused by having worked in the rain.

Keep in mind, we only get one break—30 minute lunch—at noon. For minimum wage. What it’s like when you’re down/nearly out. My entire life’s been like this. Just sayin’.

My fellow Mexican brothers and sisters and poor whites are in the same boat. Struggle. From the cradle to the grave. Not moaning, not groaning; merely stating a simple fact: it’s toil. Manual labor. Blue-collar souls slowly/gradually being reduced to dust. What makes it worse, the fat cats with the billions are never satisfied with what they have, and cause so much of this grief and suffering for those who have nothing. This is what capitalism does; this is the downside (for so many) to capitalism.

Am I against democracy? Never. Because Communism is far worse. To all those who favor socialism/communism, I say, take ‘em and shove ‘em up right up your crapper. There is no way that oppression, enforced by a totalitarian regime is better than being free. And yes, as stated, being free, for so many, alas, comes with a price—and that price is this: poor peeps like us living/trying to exist the way we are.

And yet, I so love the Constitution, Abe Lincoln; the 2nd Amendment. The abuses we witness by the super rich, are not caused by the Constitution, but makes it possible for them to get away with a whole lot of cruel behavior—at the expense of the poor.

And yes, in addition, there is corruption; punks/warped guttersnipes in government, certain demented and heartless punks/worms, who in fact, are criminals, getting away with all types of vile moves, and are able to do so, by paying off those who can, should they choose to do so, throw them in a prison cage. Well, what did you expect? Perfection? No way. No system can be perfect. Am no pipe-dreamer. Am not naive, not at my age.

More on cinderblock removal: Had to be stacked on pallets, 90-cinderblocks per pallet.