On changing clothes

and delivering the goods

Mornings these days have not been the easiest.

When I was working as a tour guide, I’d bounce up from bed and sprint to work on my bicycle.

Lately, as a driver’s helper for a big global logistics company, I need a crowbar and paint remover to get up.

They aren’t there to pry me from the sheets. They’re there as a promise: if I have to keep doing this terrible work, I can drink the paint remover and smash myself in the face with the crowbar.

In reality it’s not the work that’s driving me nuts. I like hanging out with Ricky and booting around the countryside.

It’s the irrational rules made by petty, mental midget managers that grind me down.

We could have been finished an hour earlier today, but we were told:

If you finish your work early and you’re trying to get off the roads because they’re icy, don’t think we’ll give you “special privileges.” You’ll have to go help the other drivers in town.

Ricky spat the words from his mouth.

Lech Walesa and his Solidarity Movement is not something deliver…