Whistling Past the Graveyard

With John back home in Chicago, I settled into a lonely routine working six and seven-day weeks at Continental Can. Because I had no seniority, this work-life imbalance was made all the more delightful being bounced from swing shifts to days and back again. Mostly I was swinging with the party boys. Once or twice I got the graveyard shift which really fucked with my biorhythms and caused me to yell at my parents for not waking me up in time to make the four in the afternoon whistle when it was actually four in the morning, and showing up for work on rare days when the factory was closed.

As I gradually lost my grip on sanity, my father’s basement took on a Kafkaesque quality and I vowed to find my own apartment so I could continue this grim existence without having to blow pot smoke up the chimney.