'shorty was my supervisor. we all called him shorty because he was kinda short.'

i can't do this justice. i should stop now.

'...well, he hadn't been around for three days. so i went to see his supervisor. i go into his office and tell him i haven't seen shorty for three days. he looks at me and tells me that shorty's passed away.'

'i told him i wasn't surprised.'

'he was an alcoholic?'

'i caught him drinking once too.'

'was he a mean guy, a nice guy? what sort of guy was he?'

'he was sort of shifty fella.' '...why didn't you say something? he says.' i say. 'i says i didn't want to be a squealer.' i nod. so he just did his job for him. every day without a word. not a sqeauler. until shorty didn't show up because he was dead. what's honour?

'he asks me if shorty had been drinking on the job. i says yes. i knew he'd been drinking on the job because i went into the backroom once and found all the bottles.'

'how long was shorty drinking for?'

'oh, since about when I started i guess.'

'oh.'

'..can you do his job? he asks me. and i says i've been doing his jobs for years. so they give me a desk job.'

but i just can't do it justice. you can't write this. some stories have to be told.

or lived.

- posted by Sigurd8/01/2004 09:25:00 PM