No sick leave for workers

Behind the rez hotel's very thin walls, my neighbors might think I have a wild sex life. It’s just me, though, alone and lying on my side, wriggling my spine up and down and sideways to limber my bones in the morning, that makes the bed squeak so.

♦ ♦ ♦

Today was your basic day at the office, but after work and dinner I went back, to use the copier to reprint some back issues.

Me and Stanley chatted, sometimes shouting across the room as he emptied trash buckets. He’s easy to like, easy to talk to, and a bit of a gold mine — ever since reading the zine he’s been leaving great stuff at my desk. It’s becoming a habit to check the top drawer of my filing cabinet in the morning, to see what else Stanley’s left.

So far I've gotten two books of short stories, tapes by Janis Joplin and the Beach Boys, and a very plush chair (more like a throne) which Stanley sorta swiped from Security, and which I’ve stashed in the break room until I can roll it home. Tonight there was a used copy of The Filmgoer’s Companion, a movie guide that would be my perfect Christmas present if I believed in Christmas.

Of course, I’m not nearly so nice to Stanley as he’s been to me, but it’s good to have someone willing to hang around. Maybe a friend, and a friend who’s a scavenger is even better.

♦ ♦ ♦

Sick call: Peter and Anne were out today, as were two execs, including the one Kallie deals with most often. She’s feeling better, she says, but the temp who sits nearest her is feeling worse. There’s a cacophony of coughing all day in the office, but I can’t see who’s coughing without being there and I prefer to keep my distance. 

If whoever’s in charge of this company could see what “no sick leave for workers” really costs, there might be sick leave. A day off with pay can’t be as expensive as all these people working at half-speed, zoning out at their desks, probably making mistakes, and spreading misery to everyone else, including executives who do have paid sick leave.

Nope. As with everything else, the people in charge only see how much sick leave might cost, never what it might save. It's looking at the bottom line through a blind eye, and that's life in America.

Now, ‘scuse me, I godda blow my node.

 From Pathetic Life #7
Wednesday, December 21, 1994

This is an entry retyped from an on-paper zine I wrote many years ago, called Pathetic Life. The opinions stated were my opinions then, but might not be my opinions now. Also, I said and did some disgusting things, so parental guidance is advised.

Pathetic Life 

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  1. I aslmost couldn't believe this was you until I saw the finger.


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