Working hours like this I could have been an ibanker. I could have been they smirking guy, caustically indifferent to my role in having caused the breakdown of the global economy. "If it ain't broke, break it." I mean, I haven't seen Finn all week. The first years are so formative. Whiskey. Bed. No time to think about it. Back to the fridge in the morning.
I see Common playing basketball with a pizza. Steve-O is shopping for cheese with his grandparents. Olivia Newton John wants kombucha, chicken, to get physical?
This can't be ...
I put on my hoodie and roll up the sleeves. Don't need to cover them with avocado again. That shit stains like a Pollock. I put on my uni, the dumb as shit hat, the still dirty apron. I should ask the Hammer where it was we get clean ones.
K is standing in the oven, rubbing his hands together, looking guilty/satisfied: "It's just so cold."
The room is wet. The air is wet. K has turned on the sinks, full hot, full blast. He just can't take the cold. It brings the temp up a few degrees, sure. But it makes the room into a humid mess. The cooling unit drips on my head. I hate being the new guy.
The Hammer comes in swearing about something not being where he thought he left it. Racial epithets in southern drawl spanglish ensue. Something about the genitals. I laughs weakly. K tells him to shut up. His brother is off today otherwise there would have been another fight. The Colombian never breaks stride: "I do my job."