The weekends are slow, like the calm before the zombies start gnawing on your leg a la Shawn of the Dead. It's as barren as the Dallas streets when the Cowboys are playing; more people were outside after Fat Man (an atomic bomb, not an actual Fat Man) dropped on Nagasaki. If tumbleweeds still existed in this part of Texas, I'd be ducking and diving to avoid them. Slow. S...L...O...W...
But I like my work like I enjoy some of my music: chopped and screwed, i.e. repetitive and slow. So weekend nights are oh so nice when my eyes are paid to remain open.
During weeknights, the job is hellish up until about 11PM, so I glance at my digital Casio ($20 at Walmart 4 years ago) every 5 minutes to see how much time I have left until I see some respite. I have contemplated trying to get a prescription that reads 'Xanax 2 mg #6 (six), i at 8PM on M,T,W every other wk PRN idiocy.'
Thursdays and Fridays treat me well, and Saturday and Sunday nights are paved with lollipops and generic Zoloft (which is coincidentally the preferred SSRI on my prescription coverage).
It was on a Saturday night when the Cowboys were playing the Eagles that I pimped my Movado, the one I nickname the Time-Has-No-Meaning watch. But the pharmacy greeted me with 4 waiters (people who want to wait on their prescriptions) and a couple of insurance problems. It was as if the world had sensed my assumption and arrogance and went out of it's way to punish me.
But at 9PM, even the world (or at least the 50 mile radius around Dallas-Ft Worth) took a break to watch the 'Boys skeet shoot some endangered birds from the air. And the only reason I knew the time is because 9PM is one of the few things I can look at the Movado and be certain of the time.
Elegant simplicity, for when time has no meaning except as a status symbol of how much money you make.
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