working for satan has its price
 I work for Bob. Bob is Satan. Working for Satan has its price.
Bob knows I'm an edgy driver. One more accident and he knows my license is toast. Bob can feel the tension as I struggle through tense driving situations, and there's a thousand of them everyday that tie my stomach in knots.
Anyway, I was almost done driving Bob for the day. I was taking him back to his hummer. We had sold our day, the hard part was over.
There was one last little test, though. When I turned onto this one street I could see there was barely a carswidth left between this moving truck and an SUV. I thought about turning around and going a different route, but I knew Bob would bust my balls for bieng a timid driver. So I steered straight through the narrow passage, getting slower as I got between the trucks. There probably wasn't 4" inches on either side of me as I passed the big truck's tommy gate. The knot in my stomach was tightening as I rolled through, keeping straight and steady as humanly possible. Bob and Joe were watching me, they both could feel my nerves. There was only a few more feet to go. I was almost clear. The tension was at a cresendo. The snapping of a twig would have made me scream. And then he did it.
"TOMMY GATE!!!" Bob screamed six inches from my ear. His voice was like a cannon that blasted my head and went right through my body. I convulsed. I almost hit the ceiling. Bob and Joe burst out laughing. It was laughter that just rolled and rolled.
My brain didn't know what to do. I wanted to play it off like it didn't bother me, but my reaction was obvious. I wanted to pummel Bob. Bash his face in. Slam him in the gut. Make him pay. But the logic of my brain kept me catatonic. My brain said thais: I make a lot of money with Bob. If I hit Bob, he will fire me. If he fires me, I don't know where I could get a job that makes a fraction as much. But the thoughts of revenge consumed me, even afted the laughter dwindled into chuckles, and the chuckles turned to silence. There was silence for quite a while I continued to drive. Bob and Joe knew they'd hit a button inside of me. This was stinging. The thoughts of revenge continued. I imagined myself slamming into Bob's precious Hummer, his head hitting the dashboard. I thought about slamming Bob on the pavement, grinding his face into the gravel and kicking the living shit out of him. I thought about shooting him in the chest, the face. Pumping him full of lead. But I didn't do anything. I just drove.
Joe made a stupid attempt to change the mood.
"Hey, Mark, have you ever seen that movie, Finding Nemo? I saw that last night. It was really funny."
"Yeah, I saw it Joe," I said. And that was the end of the conversation.
Bob got a call from some friend or Bimbo, and then he was talking and laughing about his big plans for the day. I wrestled with my psychotic thoughts, trying to wrestle them back in their cage with logic. Your life will definitely suck a lot worse if you do something stupid. Suck it up. You will have your day.
Pretty soon, we were at our meeting spot. Bob got out still laughing on his cell. Joe lingered for a second.
"You gonna go get some lunch?" Joe inquired in a chummy way.
"Just get out of my truck, Joe."
"You're mad at me?" Joe said Incredulous.
the rest of my day
I drove back home across the bay. I didn't know whether I was quitting or just clearing my head. Let Joe take care of everything. Let him laugh about that.
Before I got home I bought some camels. When I got home I took a crap. Then I picked at some zits. I turned on CNN. Durst was "not guilty". He admitted that he shot the lady and cut up her up and hid her body parts, but he was "not guilty."
I went out to get some lunch. I rode my bike. It was a lovely day and it felt like the weekend or something. I went to the mexican place. I looked in the window. The line went around the room. Then I thought of China City. I knew it would be dingy and the food not very good, but I went to China City. I locked my bike to a pole that was 8 feet high. If someone lifted my bike 8 feet it would be theirs. Oh well.
I went inside. It was dingy. My table was sticky. There was a cute girl that came in just before me. I looked at her quite a bit. There was an old couple that looked in bad shape. I got sweet and sour chicken. I looked at the cute girl. She knew the young guy that seemed to be running the restaurant now. I tried to decide if she was his girlfriend. Why was she just sitting there eating free noodles? I wished she would just fuck me.
The chicken wasn't that bad. I only threw one unchewable piece of meat beneath the table. Then I was ready to go. There was just one frazzled chinese waitress. I started to get impatient. I had to get back to my abusive job. Finally she brought the check. I left her a dollar tip.
I went out to my bike. It looked like brown grease was splattered on it. Gross. I whizzed by a guy pushing a baby stroller in the alley.
I went back to Tampa. I got some leads. Not very good ones. Joe called and I didn't answer. A few minutes later I called him. He didn't answer. I got another crappy lead. Joe called again. "Everybody's gone home," he said.
"Okay, I'll see you tomorrow."
I drove home. I beat off. I fell asleep. I woke feeling a little better. I wanted do something productive. Write something great for the blog. But I didn't have any ideas. Maybe I would paint my kitchen table. My phone rang and there was a knock at the door at the same instant. I didn't answer my phone. At my door a black man wanted to mow my lawn for ten dollars. Okay, I said. The phone rang again. It was Peyton. Peyton wanted to see if he could come over to paint. I guess so, I said. I felt funny because I knew that Peyton was addicted to heroin and crack.
Then Matt called. I was thinking, maybe we should go into the tree business, he said. I mean, does Bob realy make that much money? Yes, I said. I said maybe we could get rich with some website business. People don't really make money on the net anymore, Matt said. Then the line went dead.
I started to work out. Then Matt called again. I had to stop working out. Maybe we could put an inflatable gorilla on a water tower, I said. I like that idea, he said.
Peyton came over with his paint supplies. He set stuff up in my studio. He asked me if he could smoke some crack. Why do you want to smoke crack? I asked. It's just one hit, he said. I'll be working out, I said.
I felt out of balance and distracted. I wouldn't be able to write with Peyton in the same room painting on crack. I turned on the computer and checked my blog. 'I am eating my husband's soul' was getting hits like crazy. I wasn't getting many hits at all. I put a picture on my site and wrote about what happened with Bob. Peyton got a phone call. Then he suddenly had to leave. Thanks Mark he said.
Okay, seeya, I said.
7:12:16 PM 
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