Wednesday at work I had to proof read a menu. It was a gourmet menu too, so it had strange words I’ve never heard before, like “compote” and “chutney.” When I finally got to a misspelled word I didn’t even know it. They had misspelled “spinach,” and I was honestly sitting there going, “What the hell is a “Spiach?”

Catch you later, Spi-ach-es!

"Dames and Bullets"
A Jack Marlowe Adventure I Started Writing Because it Was a Slow Day at Work
(working title)

Chapter 1:

Jack looked up from his newspaper when he heard the sound outside his door.  It was the unmistakable click of a woman in heels.  But, something wasn’t right, it was out of place somehow.  Then it hit him; this was the men’s room, wasn’t it?

Panic raced through him like wildfire.  Had he absentmindedly walked into the wrong restroom?  It wouldn’t be the first time.  Hell, it wouldn’t be the first time this month.  But he was almost certain he was in the right room.  Wasn’t he?
               
“Mr. Marlowe,” came a sultry voice from the outside the stall. “I have a job for you.”
               
 Jack shifted uncomfortably on the seat.  “Um… I’m a little busy.  Can’t this wait?”
               
“I’m afraid I don’t have any more time.” She responded.  “You have to meet me at the warehouse by the pier tonight at 8 o’clock.  Please don’t be late.”
               
Jack was stunned to silence.  There was a slight pause, and then the click of heels again.  The ancient restroom door squealed open and moaned as it slowly closed behind her.
               
Silence filled the room again.

“Wait!” yelled Jack from the crapper.  “Which pier?”

I’m glad the temp job ended when it did, I was starting to exhibit that strange behavior that I’m prone to when I have a basic office job.

For example, I had become a kind of paperclip elitist. It was one of those things when you deal with paper clips all day and you wind up with a drawer full of them and you think, “Gee, I should really thin out these paper clips.” I would spend occasional moments sifting through my growing mountain of paperclips, weeding out the small ones, the ones that were bent out of shape, or those crappy plastic ones I didn’t like. Those who didn’t make the cut were dumped into the massive box of paperclips in the utility closet. Those who stayed served me well.

Soon, I was an evil paperclip dictator, ruling with an iron fist over my hand picked super-army of paperclips. It wasn’t long before the ranks had swelled to sufficient numbers and we were ready to siege the adjacent desk (uninhabited by anyone, but still a worthy conquest).

At that moment, before my paperclips and I laid claim to the land given to us by destiny, I looked over my empire and thought, “Shit, I really need to get out of this job.”

Fortunately, that was my last day. The adjacent desk would be left unconquered; it remained the sole property of the staple remover and rubber finger thingy that sat proudly in the left hand drawer.

I would live to fight another day.

Last week I got a new job and Lyme Disease. I don’t think one had anything to do with the other, but now I’m being extra cautious.

I was actually a bit reluctant to give up my temp job for this new graphic design gig. I know how crazy that sounds. But, the temp people had given me a desk and everything. I’ve never had a real desk. It was kind of sweet.

Of course, after two seconds of thinking like this, my brain kicked in. Even though the pay was the same, the new job was better in every other way. I would have a desk. I would also have medical and dental benefits. Paid vacation. Sick days. This was a better job. Simple as that. Rock beats scissors.

That struck me as kind of funny, getting the same pay. We’re talking about a professional design job that pays the same salary as a temp job that could be done by a trained ferret. I must be at some weird crossroad between a low paying professional job and a high paying temp job. I can’t complain though.

And as for Lyme Disease; my mother, the nurse, was very interested in a suspicious rash on my arm that wasn’t going away. She did a little research and suggested that it could be, among other things, Lyme Disease. That really made my day.

Rather than wait it out, we decided that I should show the doctor. But on the holiday weekend, that would have been impossible. Rather than make an appointment during the week and miss more work, I decided to go to the ER.

I had the impression that I would be rushed through the ER while doctors and nurses circled around me yelling things like “STAT!” and “50cc’s!” In actuality, it was a slow and boring process. I signed in and waited. I filled out the insurance form and waited. I saw one nurse and waited. I saw another nurse and waited, and waited, and waited. Apparently after seeing that last nurse, they had to retrieve the tools for a blood test from the same place where they get my car parts.

When it was all said and done I was given some antibiotics and told to call in on Friday for the results of my test. So, no, I’m not actually certain I have Lyme Disease. But everyone, even the ER nurses, seem to think it’s a strong possibility. It’s just not the kind of thing you ignore, even if it’s only a possibility.

It’s little funny moments that make me love my mom even more.

The other night, for example. While driving with my mom and my dad down route 3 in Merrimack, we passed a certain gentleman’s club. My mom pointed to the sign and said, “Look, Jon, that’s a comedy place, it says they have amateur night every Wednesday! You could do your act there!”

“Um… mom… it’s not that kind of amateur…”

I think if she had read the whole thing, she would have wondered why stand-up comedians would do “Shower Shows.”

The first thing I felt as I walked into the funeral parlor was not sadness or regret, but bitter familiarity. How many wakes and funerals had I been to in the past few years? It seemed like we were in a constant state of losing someone dear to us. My uncle two years ago, my grandfather the year before that, my grandmother the year before that.

It was my uncle this time, my mother’s other brother. Like his brother Tom before him, Uncle Bill was stricken with cancer. It was an arduous and painful descent and, in a way, I’m glad it’s over. I’m glad that he’s not suffering any more.

We were close, but not as close as I wish we were. I wish I could have done more for him, especially as his health deteriorated. He was such a strong, proud man. I felt helpless, and always at a loss for words. I could barely talk to him near the end. I just didn't know what to say.

Now all I can do is remember him, and keep him in my heart. That's something I know I can do.

My Uncle Bill; the artist, the craftsman, the sharpshooter, the husband, father, and brother.

May the Road rise up to meet you,
May the wind always be at your back.
May the sun shine warm upon your face,
And the rain fall soft upon your fields.
Until we meet again,
May you be held
In the hollow of God’s Hand!