eight o'clock isn't so bad.
we usually start at eight
on saturdays anyway.
a.j. (the other seasonal guy) stumbled
in a few (eleven) minutes late still drunk,
not even hung-over yet.
the kid was miserable. i almost
felt bad.
...(almost).
three or four hours in
we all went outside the
warehouse and sat around
a few small grills while stevie cooked
brats and a large can of bush's baked beans
right there on the grill. they tasted smokey
and i liked that.
we looked like some scene out of a
modern-day norman rockwell painting, sitting around in our
ripped jeans and ratty wolf t-shirts or old flannel
button-ups with blue collars, company jackets and carhartt hooded
sweatshirts draped over the dry old wood picnic tables. dirty leather gloves
scattered around the table tops.
we sat for a while passing the ketchup or plastic forks and
enjoying freedom, the outdoors, charcoal-readied cuisine
of the lower middle to middle middle to upper middle class,
and the breeze.
we finished early-ish, around six.
a.j. was still hurting being that he was now
hung-over
but the food from the grills helped i think.
we all left and some of us went to fireworks while
some of us just went home. some of us went away
and some of us passed out. some of us stayed up all night and
some of us threw up. some of us danced the night away
and some of us did not.
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