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My life is hard. No one would rob me of that. The clothes I am wearing came out of a knotted up black plastic trash bag from a resale shop downtown. And not the downtown where shiny cars wink at you in the sunlight. If a car winks at you in this area it’s being driven by a person you would be best to avoid.
My side of downtown is crumbling and skirted by chain link fences.
Kevin’s out of work again. Staying sober for eight hours out of the day was too much for him.
It always is.
So I work here, at Dobson’s Market, fifteen hours a week during the school year. That’s my Friday, Saturday, Sunday job.
Since Dobson doesn’t want to get in trouble for overworking a minor we worked it out with his younger brother that I would work the rest of the week at the family restaurant. Fifteen hours here. Fifteen hours there. No benefits anywhere and crap pay everywhere.
But for now, it’s holding us. We’ve been in the same place for three months now. I’ve opened my own bank account, that Kevin knows nothing about, and I’m paying the bills as they roll in.
And we’re finally making it.
Eventually, though, he’ll come out of his stupor and realize things are getting comfortable and he’ll want to know where the money is.
But maybe by then I’ll be gone.
(c) 2010 by Gwenn Wright
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