28 May 2011
Work, Beer and the Racetrack (In That Order)
The union said we should vote for it so we did. I voted against it. Always do. After working without a contract for a year we are signed up until 2014 or until the mill closes, whichever comes first.
That is a long fucking time. The unions and the companies like long deals. Now they can sit back and watch the money pour in. Used to be the union would not sign for more than a year or two. Now there is just as long between our deals with the fucking companies as there is between Olympics, elections or new wars for my country to fight in.
I know, I know. Better than not having a union at all.
Solidarity for fucking ever.
Like the end of every work week yesterday could not have ended fast enough. I had planned on heading straight to the racetrack's bar but my uncle, who lives in Dope City, phoned me. "Come by before you go to the track," he told me. "I have a surprise for you."
I did as I was told. Beer loves surprises.
When I got to my uncle's house he led me to his garage. Made me close my eyes before we went into it. When I opened my eyes I could not believe it.
"They're from one of the guys on my hockey team," he explained. "He used to work for one of the small breweries in town. You could say this was part of his severance package."
It was one of the biggest stacks of beer I have ever seen. More than my old car could hold. Good thing my uncle is the only member of the family who does not drink beer like a crack lipped vampire drinks blood.
We loaded up my car until the front wheels were barely touching the driveway and I headed to the track. Hit four of the six bets I made; skipped the 3 1/2 furlong races. No big prices - just a tidy profit.
There is no bad week beer cannot make better.