Rippers

Summer restlessness.

Working at Value Village, subservient to balding lifers and former dancers at the local peelers. No shit. Manual labour for $7.75 an hour and an ex-girlfriend has already moved in with an investment banker she barely knows. Which is the right way? Even my arms ache tonight, trying to type after a 9 hour shift dominated by lifting and bending and pushing and pulling and garbage-bin-replacing and hanger-replenishing and baler-filling. This is your life now. Michael Lista: this is your life! Like a TV show from the 80’s syndicated through time into the unabashed present. This is your life. Wake up and feel the abhorrent inertia of your flailing. This is your life, man.

Pulling shifts at a Value Village run by ex-strippers.

Pushing and replenishing.

Finger-breaking, watching the clock.

At night, drinking Coronas and red wine thanks to the generosity of friends.

Silly music.

Cigarettes even.

And angry e-mails about Fed-Ex.