Frankly Mrs. Shankly

Wednesday's are the worst days. They are work days. If nothing i understand my job description and part of that entails what i must do every Wednesday. Of course sometimes it could be Tuesday or Friday but usually it's Wednesday. The Breadwinner's day off. The day i am called upon to drive from place to place and wander among the human cattle as they graze among the rolling plains of consumerism. You see the BW loves to shop, which is funny because all she'll ever say is how she hates to shop yet every Wednesday there i am pushing the cart like the dutiful indentured servant that i am. I know better than to complain or roll my eyes, no there will be none of that, my job is to nod and offer the occasional comment, listen to diatribes on all the things i haven't done and all the things that need done and all the things that i'm not very good at doing. I could lip sync along like John Bender to Mr. Vernon. Mainly i try to find that purgatory where i can calmly remember that all things will balance out and that there will be equal amounts light and dark and all the shades in between as we shift from one to the other. It's the one day a week where i can guarantee you that i get stoned before 9am.

As i am prone to ponder and think too much about things i often chuckle to myself while shuffling the aisles of my own personal hell, you see the BW has what i call her family shopping gene. No one can waste away the day like the Posa as he roams from store to store looking at all sorts of non-sense, generally being a pain in the ass to every employee while talking to and annoying random strangers. Her brothers will visit any discount warehouse box store no matter what the occasion. I find it almost sad that the most enjoyment these people get is from the accumulation of crap they acquire and what sort of deal they got on said crap. I've watched as the BW has dropped hundreds in an afternoon on decorative towels, shoe racks, fake plants, useless bits of furniture, and then turn around and piss and moan about how we'll pay for the boyos to play basketball or soccer. These days i just shrug and say Pops has it covered and move on. I'd like to say, hmm, maybe we could stop buying a bunch of useless shit, that might save some dosh now wouldn't it? But of course i'm smarter than that as because as i've often been told it's her money. So yes this position i hold, it pays my way and it corrodes my soul.

But don't think i don't hear the guffaws, the exclamations of disbelief, the thoughts of hypocrite on the tip of tongues. One can't completely distance themselves from the consumer culture and it's true i'm a bit guilty of acquiring books and music and the jury will laugh at my contention that these things are art and used to fuel and feed my mind just as the food i eat fuels and feeds my body. The recurring daydream is that someday, when the boyos are grown, i'll be just like my old man, living in a small apartment somewhere with a bedroom, a kitchen, and a room with a desk where i'll be like Henry Darger and leave stacks of typed pages and child-like drawings for some poor soul to find. Of course by that point it won't matter to me but what will matter is the enjoyment and days spent doing such things, of course though i don't like to think about the future much because as we all know there is only the here and the now and then it's gone.

Oddly enough on that fateful day in May i was dutifully following the BW as she grazed her way through a Target, early afternoon, when my sister called and we had a brief conversation about Pops, she said he seemed happy but tired and that if i was going to call him i should wait until later because he was going to take a nap. A few hours later my father was gone and though i don't blame the BW for having me wander through a Target looking at decorative bath furnishings and heeding my sister's advice i wouldn't have called Pops just then but there is something about that afternoon that leaves a shit taste in my mouth. It could be my own useless subconscious guilt or any number of things for not calling and i do my best on a daily basis to work my way through it and in those wee hours of the night when it's just me and the cat staring at each other i say that's the best i can do. The fact Pops left this planet on a Wednesday i'm sure contributes to this feeling of dread and malaise that creeps in when i hear the birds begin to sing in the pre-dawn dark but in truth it was there long before that. So yes quite possibly i'm that sickening wreck with the 21st Century breathing down my neck...

And so it is that each Wednesday i rise and put on my best happy face, usually after a wank and a shower, then a toke, a few nods of acquiescence as to the plans, then i take my place behind the wheel and begin my work day. I wander and load the car, i unload the car, i put things away, i eat lunch and agree with all the ideas and directives of the BW, i clandestinely peak at my phone to see the time knowing that soon enough i'll be driving home so the BW can have an afternoon nap while i quietly go about the business of tidying up the house while making sure not to disturb the boss. Yes i know why that caged bird sings, i even know the song, i just prefer to change the lyrics a bit because someday that little wire door will be left ajar, my sentence up, i'll be shown the door and thanked, blamed, and chastised for my service... and that little apartment will no longer be the dream, it will be a beautiful reality.