Getting ready to go to work, which is to say I am sitting on the sofa after standing outside for not one but two cigarettes in the grey, dreary morning. I have twenty or so minutes before I need to shower and dress and catch the bus downtown where, even though I have told myself I don’t need one, I will smoke another cigarette in order to calm my nerves before walking through those double doors to the darkened restaurant, where the owner will be sitting, waiting to pounce. No doubt he will have found something to piss him off, something about which to be suspicious, and the calm I have spent this morning cultivating will be replaced with anger and frustration that if I stick up for myself and tell this tiny Albanian immigrant what he really needs to be told, I will be fired. Even worse is the possibility of being kept on, and treated with even more suspicion and hostility.
Money is a bitch. And I think I’m working for her son.
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