- Top Features:
- War Room
- Glenn Greenwald
- Broadsheet
- Joan Walsh
- Camille Paglia
- Since You Asked
- Follow Salon:
Read other letters about this article
I'm a service technician, repairing equipment used by other businesses. I called in this morning, and was told it's going to be another day off. There were no calls on Monday, but yesterday, I worked 7 hours, and was sure this was the turn around, the day when things got back to normal, 40+ hours, like they've been for over 30 years without fail.
The sun climbs into the clear blue sky, mid 80's again today I'm told. I haven't had 40 hours in over 8 months now, and old timers said they've never seen it this bad. I've cut back on everything, and it seems there isn't much left to cut.
I pick up my fishing rod and gear bag, and head a couple blocks to the bridge, one of three onto my little island home in the Gulf. I'm glad my kids are grown, I couldn't feed and clothe them now. Young families must be frantic.
The bait hardly makes a splash as it enters the clear, blue water. Pelicans cheer me on from their perch nearby, dreaming of scraps and small fry.
I scan the area under the bridge, looking for any inviting crevices, wondering if I'll soon be calling it home.
