“When I was young, I didn’t know what I wanted to do.”
Is that a quote from someone wise? Absolutely. It’s a snippet of conversation overheard, from the guy stocking Bisquick at Grocery Outlet. Stocking Bisquick is what he decided he wanted to do, or more likely the choice wasn’t his.
I’d be delighted to stock Bisquick, but it’s not my decision. Someone else will decide, same as someone else decides on all my job applications, and the decisions keep going unanimously nope.
Another job interview awaits me on Monday morning, for office work. It’s exactly the job I’ve done off and on for 40 years, so it’s hard to imagine anyone more qualified than me, but I’m old, which seems to be what matters. My prediction is, I’m not going to get the job.
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My monthly pension from Acme Amalgamated is $345, and usually arrives on the 28th. If it’s on time, coupled with the last remains of my bank account, I’ll have the rent on May 1.
After that, there’ll be about $50 left, plus $30 in quarters purchased long ago for laundry. I’ll be poorer than I’ve been in many years, maybe ever, but this room will be mine through the end of May. After that, I’m not sure what the future holds, but then, nobody is.
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It’s my own fault, almost entirely. I should’ve been looking for work long ago, instead of watching old movies. Should’ve kept one of the brief jobs I’ve had, instead of quitting them all. Life is a collection of mistakes, I’ve made plenty, and there’s no stopping now.
Today’s mistake is, I should be scratching desperately for work, worried about my looming lack of funds. And I am worried, but worries get treated same as bad news — stored on a back shelf in my brain, where things aren’t thought about much.
I’m watching old movies instead, musicals mostly. I’ll probably die watching Singin’ in the Rain.
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My brother Dick was scheduled for surgery of some consequence and risk, and I know how awful hospitals can be — my wife went through many surgeries and emergencies — so I wanted to be there for him.
Two things were nutty about it. First, Dick’s surgery was scheduled for 10:30 in the morning, and he was supposed to be there and being prepped by 9:15, so we agreed to meet in the waiting room at 9:00 for hugs and best wishes and all. My mom and my other brother Clay would be there, too, and we were all on time … except for Dick. He came from his home, but overslept, and showed up at 10:45. He passed through the waiting room just long enough for a hug from each of us, and then they wheeled him away.
Jeez, who shows up late for their own surgery? If it’s me, I want the guy with the scalpel to be in a good mood, not annoyed as he starts slicing into me.
What freaked me more was something routine — Christ on a cross over the hospital’s reception desk, and a statue of some saint in the waiting room.
Religion gives most people the warm and fuzzies, but it baffles me. I’m the opposite of ‘reassured’ at the notion of doctors and nurses looking skyward and offering a prayer before surgery.
It went fine, though, and my brother’s prognosis is good.
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My sister Hazel spent last week in a hospital, too, but it was someplace that could not be reached by bus, and I guess I don’t love her enough to walk a mile and a half each way. So I didn’t visit. Who ever heard of a metropolitan hospital with no bus service!
Anyway, she’s OK now, and back at the nursing home, where the bus stops just a few blocks away, so I visited her today.
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My mom texted a few barbs — first the old reliable “You disappeared for 17 years,” and then a new one, “You didn’t even visit your sister when she might be dying.”
I didn’t snap back, though. I need to be on Mom’s good side, since I might be borrowing money from her soon. Hope I don’t have to ask, hope she doesn’t make me beg when I do, but I’m running low on such hopes. Wish I had a job. Probably I should pray.
4/27/2024
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