I’ve got a little booklet in my bag as well as a pen. I can log my times. The booklet was given to me by my dad. It has my initials on the cover. The cover is calf-skin leather. I don’t know where he got it, but he says that he didn’t make it. He didn’t seem too emotionally attached to it, but that could have been artifice.
There is an event at the store tomorrow, and I’m working the early shift. I’ve got to pick up fifty chairs and put them in the back of my boss’ truck. The pick up location is halfway between here and the valley. My left eye has popped another vessel. I’ve got to get to bed. I will probably fall out of the machine soon. Hopefully I can get through the rest of this book without making a smear of myself. I’d like to keep it together for as long as possible. I’ve got a job to do, and I’m a career man.
Look, I don’t know. Maybe this is what I do know. Maybe this is who I am and what I’m known for. We’ve all come a long way. The ground around the sleeping giant is quaking. Don’t talk about the president like you know him.
Holding my little journal like a tomahawk, rocking it back and forth in my grip, trying to envision you in the crosshair.
The accountant doesn’t write anymore. Keep that in the back of your mind, bibles. One who doesn’t write makes for one more who isn’t better than you. It gives me something to stand on, a leg up in this world.