Floating Superglue

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I’m only on the schedule for Monday. Fine by me. I lead a hermit’s life. Frugality is my superpower. But then Huggs calls at six o’clock this morning. Can I come in? Donny’s in the hospital. On the way to work, he crashed his bike into an open car door. Huggs needs a “superglue.” She knows it’s my favorite “role.” (You’re not stuck in the same spot doing the same thing for four or six or eight hours, and you can avoid dealing directly with the customers.) More importantly, Huggs knows that I live half a block away from the coffee shop. She calls two more times after that. Sure, I could pick up the phone, sure I could come in and work a few hours—but I gotta WRITE. Yes, I feel guilt, but FUCK, DAMN, I GOTTA WRITE IF I’M GONNA GET OUTTA THIS CRAP WAY OF LIVING. That was eloquent. I’m listening to Miles Davis’s Milestones. The world would be a better place if most of it appreciated jazz. 

11 April 2001

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