Post by Chris Hedges on Dec 17, 2011 12:32:38 GMT -6
WORK DAY
By Mark Allan Gunnells
By Mark Allan Gunnells
“Get your ass up,” my wife said, grabbing me by the shoulder and shaking. “The alarm has been going off for the past fifteen minutes.”
“I’m not deaf, I can hear it.”
“Then why are you still lying around like a lump?”
“Because I’m exhausted.”
“That’s all well and good, but if you don’t get up and start getting ready, you’re going to be late for work.”
“So the hell what?”
“What do you mean, so what?”
“It’s Christmas, I shouldn’t have to work.”
“Hey, you knew when you took this job that it mean working the Christmas holiday. It’s not like it was sprung on you.”
“I know, I know, but I haven’t had a Christmas off in forever, and I’m just tired of it.”
“Well, what’s the alternative? Unemployment?”
I grumbled under my breath, tried to muster the strength to stand, but instead I rolled over so that my back was to my wife and pulled the covers up over my head.
“What are you doing?” she said, her voice shrill like a buzz-saw in my ears.
“If you’d shut your yap, I’d be going back to sleep.”
“But what about work?”
“I’m not going.”
“You can’t not go.”
“Watch me.”
“Oh my goodness, you can’t be serious.”
“Don’t get hysterical, dear. I never play hooky, I’m due for this.”
“But if you don’t go in, who’s going to do your job?”
“I can’t bring myself to care, I must say.”
My wife went into histrionics then, babbling so fast and in such a high-pitched tone that I wasn’t even sure what she was saying; didn’t sound like English anymore. Finally she ran off to tell the elves that I had lost my mind.
But like I told the Mrs., I couldn’t make myself care. Let one of those tiny little men run around the entire world in one night, delivering gifts to children who rarely ever sent me a thank you card after. Oh, they were all about writing me with their wants and desires, but seldom was their ever any gratitude shown after. So let someone else do the job this year.
Or let no one do it. It’s not like it would kill the brats to go one year without presents.
