www.nashautelegraph.com
I DIDN’T MIND
my shift at the pizzeria
began at 9 a.m.
I had all that prep...
cutting the vegetables
mixing the sauce
filling up the make table and the buffet
for the lunch rush
but I was sick
like, dying sick
run-over-by-a-truck sick
so I called...
and he answered
him, the boss
the owner of the joint
6’5” and he liked to get close
and look down on you
while he talked
he never answered the phone
yet here he was
“I’m really sick”
I said
“I’m not gonna make it”
he exhaled loudly in my ear
“We’re pretty busy...
couldn’t you just come anyway?”
I paused
“No” I said
“Fine” he said
then hung up
when I saw him next
a few days later
he was in the kitchen
chatting with one of the managers
he smiled and said “there he is!”
he nudged the other guy and said
“I gave this guy a pretty hard time
the other day....”
they both stood there
looking at me and smiling
I knew what they expected
the same old shtick
from across the room
I stared at them
didn’t smile
didn’t say anything
I raised my chin an inch
in acknowledgement
then I turned
and walked off
I punched the clock
went to the back of the kitchen
and started dicing the onions...
everyone hated the onions
HIS LAUGHTER WAS A MIRACLE
The way through is never
easy, but he had the creed—
a man goes to work and
supports his family. Maybe
that makes it...if not easier, then
simpler. You brave the freeway,
the clogged arteries to the factory.
Work the overtime and then home.
Get caught in jams half the
time, breathing exhaust fumes,
your ears filled with horns like the
barking of mad dogs. You arrive home
14 hours after leaving it that morning.
You do this day after day, through
sickness, hangovers, chronic pain.
You don't skip out. On the weekends
you work on the cars, mow the grass,
teach the kid to throw a baseball.
Maybe catch a game on TV. One
week a year you go to Florida and
spend the entire time fixing stuff at
Mom’s house. Clean the gutters and
do yard work. Another week
you go camping at the lake. Go
fishing with your son. Swim.
Relax a bit before it's back to the
grind. You do this for 20 years,
with a few months off for a hand
mangled by a faulty machine.
They fix you up, send you back.
You do it until sometime in the
1980s, when the owners run the
plant into the ground, declare bankruptcy,
and your pension evaporates. You
wad your anger and depression up
inside your last paycheck and stuff
it deep in your pocket. Stare at
yourself hard in the mirror, then
start looking for something else.
easy, but he had the creed—
a man goes to work and
supports his family. Maybe
that makes it...if not easier, then
simpler. You brave the freeway,
the clogged arteries to the factory.
Work the overtime and then home.
Get caught in jams half the
time, breathing exhaust fumes,
your ears filled with horns like the
barking of mad dogs. You arrive home
14 hours after leaving it that morning.
You do this day after day, through
sickness, hangovers, chronic pain.
You don't skip out. On the weekends
you work on the cars, mow the grass,
teach the kid to throw a baseball.
Maybe catch a game on TV. One
week a year you go to Florida and
spend the entire time fixing stuff at
Mom’s house. Clean the gutters and
do yard work. Another week
you go camping at the lake. Go
fishing with your son. Swim.
Relax a bit before it's back to the
grind. You do this for 20 years,
with a few months off for a hand
mangled by a faulty machine.
They fix you up, send you back.
You do it until sometime in the
1980s, when the owners run the
plant into the ground, declare bankruptcy,
and your pension evaporates. You
wad your anger and depression up
inside your last paycheck and stuff
it deep in your pocket. Stare at
yourself hard in the mirror, then
start looking for something else.
The house…the kid…the bills.
A man goes to work, supports his family.
Brian Rihlmann is a widely published and highly respected American poet writing in Reno, Nevada, where Arthur Miller set 'The Misfits'. Whether Brian has wrestled wild horses out in the desert with Marilyn Monroe is a question only he can answer.
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