30 September 2006
Before I headed for my Friday shift in the sawmill this morning I asked Sonja, "Would you mind throwing a couple fucking beers in the fridge to cool before you head into work today?" Sonja said, "Sure Beer. Just don't go thinking about those beers so much today you hurt yourself at the mill."
I agreed that safety always comes first, beer a close second, gave her and the Hammer a kiss and headed into the job, dodging my demented fellow commuters along the way with Dope City deftness. Any day now there is going to be a traffic accident involving 50 different people yacking into their cell phones at the same time.
Everybody down at the mill is on edge because of the closure rumours circulating like Marcus Naslund trade rumours. A few guys are putting a little extra effort into the job - the fear in their eyes would have their banker drawing up foreclosure papers if he could see it. Most of the fearful look about ready to have a heart attack. The rest of the guys were going through the motions today. Their real efforts saved for working the phone with old contacts and new looking for a job in the last sawmill in town.
As the heat of the day set in I began thinking about the cans of welfare beer in the fridge Sonja had placed there. The cold beers danced around my head like sweaty Flamingo strippers on methamphetamine. The dancing beers were just about to sit on my face with their smooth bottoms when the last whistle blew and I headed back home with a smile on my face, puzzling over whether my imagination could use a little fine tuning.
When I got home I dumped my lunch box on the kitchen counter and swung open the fridge door. I blinked my eyes painfully as they searched the electric ice box for my 5% medicine. Sonja had forgot all about them. I had to throw a few in the freezer to cool and settle for some big face licks from the dog until the beer was ready.
The beer should be cold right about now.
Let's rock this town motherfuckers.