Swinging back around again come my days off, my workday flung from my soul like an overworn shirt to the floor. Lie right down here, Mr. bibles, says the bed. And I submit as much as I can, keeping some sort of constant contact with my girl, who you bet your ass if wasn’t here, I’d be up further crooking my neck around the projected Destiny of my Ps4.
And then the phone rings.
“Hi, bibles.” she says.
And I’m like, “Hi.”
She’s like, “Where are you?”
I’m like, “At home, buck naked with a candy bar between my teeth. Where are you?”
“I’m at work – where you’re supposed to be.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You’re supposed to be here.”
“Not according to my schedule.”
“According to mine.”
And that’s really all that matters. I tell her that I had no idea that I was supposed to be there. She has a hard time believing me.
“I have a piece of paper here with my schedule written on it. Nobody told me otherwise.”
She straight tells me that Kristen, another of my managers told me.
“You had to take last Thursday off because of your anniversary, remember?” she says.
“Well – you have to make up the day somehow, don’t you?”
I don’t understand this at all.
“What do you want me to do?” I ask.
She tells me to come in tomorrow.
What choice do I have?
Musette is not happy.
“What choice do I have?” I say.