Debbie Downer

 

(Mental illness runs in my family.)

Yesterday, I had coffee with one of my co-workers. Her name is Sabrina, and she’s been working at the school for nearly twenty years. However, she’s always been a bit of a downer, and it’s affected her popularity amongst the staff.

She said, “I’m fifty-nine years old now, and the leadership is going to force me to retire in three years.”

“Why?”

“Because those are the rules at our workplace. Once you turn sixty-two, you are out the fucking door.”

“Are you sure? There’s always been a ton of oldsters in the past.”

She shook her head glumly. “Not anymore. The policy has changed. There’s no room at the inn for the elderly.”

This brought me down emotionally because I’m a geezer, too. My mind immediately turned toward the Waffle House. I thought of myself bringing pancakes and bacon to surly customers. And do you motherfuckers want to know something? This grim notion didn’t bother me a bit. The good thing about working for tips is that I won’t have to declare them on my taxes, which will allow me to qualify for Medicare and food stamps. 

Later in the day, I spoke briefly to my buddy Richard Hurtz. He’s a giant of a man who stands seven-feet tall.

I said, “Sabrina says she’s out the door in a few years.”

He smiled at me. “She’s finally had enough, huh?”

“No, it’s her age. She claims that the school doesn’t like old people.”

“That’s not true. They only get rid of you if you start acting old. This gives them some leeway to toss out the deadwood.”

“How do you mean?”

“Do you remember Beatrice?”

“Sure. We all have fond memories of her.”

“Well, she got canned at sixty-five because she used to take naps during the day. No employer wants to retain a sleeping old maid. So her age gave the leadership an excuse to give her the heave-ho. Don’t worry. You’ll be fine as long as you can handle the load.”

His words made me feel a lot better. I enjoy living in Korea. Plus I have permanent residence in this nation. The only way I can get kicked out is if I go on a horrendous crime spree.

I eventually got home at 6 p.m. and cooked a shitload of sausage in my miniature oven. I also served biscuits with the meal. Rice-Boy Larry ate his vittles in no-time flat. Then I vacuumed the floors and did a load of laundry. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again. A woman’s work is never done.

I finally walked to my bedroom at 9 p.m. and enjoyed a quick wank. After that, I slept like the dead until five. There was no change in the morning ritual. I smoked, took a dump, and followed it up with a shower.

I dried my filthy body with a tiny towel before calling my mother using Facebook Messenger. There was a grim expression on her face.

I said, “What’s wrong with you?”

“It’s the fucking sprinkler system. The damn thing shit the bed.”

“I wouldn’t let it haunt you.”

“Without water, all my damn grass will get burnt to a crisp.”

“It’s only grass, so who gives a flying fuck? It’ll grow back.”

“Plus I’m all alone in the world. Nobody is here to help me.”

“That’s crazy. You live with your husband and your grandson. And Sis is there all the time with her kids.”

“I feel like I’m the only person on the planet.”

“Have you been taking your anti-depressants?”

“No. I’ve been off of them for the last couple of weeks.”

“You can’t do that, Mom. It’s like talking to a black hole.”

Mental illness runs on both sides of my family. My father’s people suffer from intense OCD and mania, and my mother’s side is eaten up with lingering melancholia. I’m the only sane motherfucker in the entire clan.